I didn't expect her to say anything about the kiss. I thought she'd keep it folded somewhere private like she did most of her emotions—crisp, measured, almost clinical.
But Celine Carter-Aldridge surprised me again.
"That kiss... it wasn't a mistake."
Those words echoed in my mind even as the elevator doors closed behind us. I didn't speak right away. I just let the silence hum with the weight of her confession. I was used to calculating silence, weaponized silence. But this one? It was thick with promise.
The moment our hands touched and she didn't pull away, something inside me shifted.
We weren't pretending anymore.
As we walked into the penthouse, I watched her disappear into her bedroom with the smallest of glances over her shoulder. She didn't say anything else. She didn't have to.
I went to my room and stood by the window, the skyline of Velmora glowing in the dark like a circuit board—our empire, our battlefield, our home.
I didn't sleep much that night.
For once, it wasn't stress or spreadsheets or board politics. It was her. The soft scent of her shampoo lingering in the hallway, the echo of her laugh during lunch, the warmth of her hand in mine. It wasn't just attraction anymore. It was gravity. And I was squarely in her orbit.
Morning came too soon, but it didn't matter. I was wired. Alive. I dressed slower than usual, choosing a charcoal gray suit and a slate-blue tie because I knew she liked subtle colors on me.
I stepped into the kitchen to find her already there. Celine, in a light green blouse, her hair pulled back in a braid, sipping coffee like she owned the world—and me.
"You wore green," I said, more of an observation than a compliment.
She looked up, a soft smile playing on her lips. "You made it sound like a challenge."
"It was," I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee.
Sarah entered a few minutes later, gave us both a quick look, then busied herself with her tablet. She didn't comment on the tension in the room, but I saw the way her eyes darted between us. If she was gossiping internally, she was doing a damn good job of hiding it.
Celine and I rode together to the office. Normally we went in separate cars, but not today. There was no announcement, no agreement—just a mutual decision sealed with a glance. We barely spoke during the ride, but the silence wasn't strained.
When we arrived at the Aldridge Tower for a tech partnership meeting, we stepped into the boardroom side by side. Heads turned. I knew the whispers would follow.
But I didn't care.
I wanted them to see it—whatever this was becoming.
The meeting ran smoothly. Celine made sharp, insightful comments that had two of my board members nodding in admiration. I watched her, not just with professional pride, but with personal awe. She didn't just hold her ground—she redefined the terrain.
After the meeting, I cornered Oliver in the hallway.
"Push the product summit back a day," I said. "And have the Las Veritas team draft a new itinerary for the winter expansion. I want Celine looped into it too."
He arched a brow. "Joint oversight?"
"Joint everything."
His mouth quirked, but he nodded. "Understood."
By noon, I found myself back at my desk, scrolling through emails, half-focused. I reread one thread about supply chain logistics three times before realizing I was just picturing her face.
I rubbed my eyes and leaned back.
I was falling for her. I'd tried to resist it for months, clinging to the belief that this was all a business transaction—marriage of convenience, alliance of legacy. But it wasn't just that anymore.
She made me laugh. She made me listen. She made me want to be better.
A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.
"Come in," I said.
Celine stepped inside, holding a leather folder. "Your mother sent this over. Wedding registry review. Apparently, we have to pick china patterns and bath towels."
I chuckled. "She's relentless."
"She also said we should take a weekend to ourselves. To 'strengthen the foundation of the union.' Her words."
I tilted my head. "What do you think about that?"
She hesitated. "I think I wouldn't mind it."
I stood, slowly crossing to where she stood. "Then let's do it. Just you and me. No cameras. No boardroom. No expectations."
Celine blinked, caught off guard. "Really?"
"Really."
For a second, we just stood there. Her fingers tightened slightly on the folder. Then she handed it to me.
"You pick the towels," she said, turning on her heel.
"Deal."
I watched her go, a smile stretching across my face.
Later that night, she found me in the kitchen again. This time I was the one cooking—seared salmon, roasted vegetables, a light salad. Evelyn had dropped off fresh ingredients earlier that day. I suspected she knew exactly what she was encouraging.
Celine leaned against the counter. "You're cooking again?"
"Not every day. But I figured you'd come to expect culinary standards by now."
She smirked. "High expectations keep you sharp."
We ate quietly, occasionally commenting on the day. She asked about my father—something she hadn't done before.
"He loved old music," I told her. "Played the same Elton John vinyl every Saturday morning. Said it made the bacon crispier."
She laughed. "I like that."
And I liked her laugh. I liked everything about her, even the parts she tried to keep guarded.
After dinner, we cleaned up together, our elbows bumping occasionally. No grand gestures. No fireworks.
Just simplicity. And I craved it.
We said goodnight in the hallway. But neither of us moved right away.
"You meant it?" she asked. "The weekend?"
"I don't say things I don't mean, Celine."
She nodded slowly. "Okay."
Then she did something unexpected.
She stepped closer and kissed me—just a brush of lips, light and fleeting.
But it was hers to give.
And it undid me.