The morning sun filtered through the penthouse windows, warming the sleek marble floor beneath my feet as I stood by the coffee machine, arms folded and heart still not settled. I hadn't slept much. After texting Celine—after nearly returning to her room—I'd stayed up, pacing, restless with thoughts I couldn't shake.
I'd meant every word I sent. But I didn't knock.
Because fear still had its claws in me.
Fear of ruining it by moving too fast. Fear of her pushing me away. Fear that if I let myself fall, there wouldn't be a way back.
Yet the silence that followed my final message stung more than I'd admit.
So, this morning, I tried to make up for it in the way I knew how: action. My phone buzzed on the counter. A message from the florist confirming delivery.
Delivered to Ms. Cater, 8:03 AM.
I exhaled slowly. Then waited.
No response from her.
Not yet.
But I imagined her expression. She'd be surprised—maybe even a little suspicious. Celine wasn't the kind of woman who was easily wooed. That was one of the first things I learned about her.
But it didn't mean she couldn't be surprised. Or appreciated.
I tapped out a short message to Oliver, telling him to push back my first meeting by an hour. I wasn't going into the office yet. I needed time to think. Time to let the dust settle from last night and the bouquet I'd just sent.
The kitchen smelled faintly of fresh coffee and lemon—Celine's favorite scent for candles, I'd come to realize. A small detail, but one I'd remembered.
Last night had left my chest tight with something unfamiliar. Regret? Hope? I wasn't sure. I just knew that I wanted more of her. Her fire, her wit, the quiet vulnerability she tried to hide. And after everything—the tension, the walls—we were finally inching closer to something real.
I wandered to the living room, picking up the throw pillow she always fluffed before sitting. We were still technically strangers beneath the surface of this marriage, but slowly, we were shifting. Unraveling. Becoming… something else.
The hallway was quiet. I knew she was up. She always rose early, even on slow days. I almost went to knock again.
Almost.
But I didn't want to ruin the morning.
Instead, I sent a second delivery request to the florist. Tomorrow's bouquet would be peonies—soft, elegant, complex. Like her. The card I typed read: "Still trying. Still hoping. – B."
Maybe this would become a tradition.
Later in the day, after several hours of back-to-back meetings, I sat in my office downtown, barely hearing what my CFO was saying. Numbers, projections, quarterly expectations—none of it landed. My focus was still back in the penthouse, with the woman who hadn't texted me since last night.
And yet, I didn't feel panic. Just anticipation.
"Blake," Oliver said from the doorway, "there's a note from the Cater office. Celine's assistant called."
I straightened. "Is everything okay?"
"She asked if you'd be available this weekend for a second dinner. With her. No staff. No press."
I blinked. "Seriously?"
Oliver grinned. "She wants to 'talk like normal people,' her words."
Something in my chest loosened. It wasn't a date. But it was… something. A step forward. A second chance to show her this marriage didn't have to be an arrangement.
I stood, grabbing my suit jacket. "Reschedule the quarterly prep. I've got something more important to plan."
Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Dinner plans more important than investors?"
"Yes," I said simply, "because this one might actually change my life."
I spent the rest of the afternoon pacing through the office, distracted even as I worked. It wasn't like me to let emotions get in the way of business. I'd spent most of my life building up walls to protect myself from exactly that. But this was different.
Celine was different.
I'd watched her command boardrooms, challenge CEOs twice her age, and win over stakeholders with little more than her clarity and conviction. And now, here she was, opening the door—even just a little—to something personal. Something meaningful.
Back at the penthouse that evening, I arrived before she did. I could hear her footsteps coming down the hallway when she finally entered, heels tapping against the hardwood, her voice soft as she greeted Sarah.
She passed the living room and paused, seeing me by the windows.
"Hi," she said simply.
"Hi," I replied, the smile tugging at my lips too easily.
She crossed the room and set down her bag. "The flowers were beautiful."
I shrugged, trying to play it cool, but the way her eyes sparkled told me she saw right through me.
"I meant what I wrote," I said.
Her expression softened. "I know."
We stood in silence for a beat too long. The air between us shifted again, thick with possibility.
"You busy Saturday night?" she asked, casual but hopeful.
"For you? Always free."
"Good. Because I booked a private chef. We're having dinner. Here. Just us."
I nodded, heart thudding. "Sounds perfect."
She turned and walked away, but not before giving me a small, knowing smile over her shoulder. And for the first time in a long time, I felt something I hadn't dared believe in:
Hope.