Celeste didn't sleep that night.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the rooftop in her mind — the way Damien's mouth had claimed hers, the way her body had betrayed her with its hunger. She hated that she could still feel the ghost of his touch on her skin.
By morning, she had convinced herself it was a mistake. A lapse in judgment. She would see him again only when necessary, and when she did, she would be as cold as ice. Untouchable.
But Damien Voss didn't believe in distance.
The first message came at 8:03 a.m. — a single photograph. Her, on the rooftop, taken from somewhere above. She hadn't seen anyone else there. The image was grainy, but her face was unmistakable. Lips swollen from his kiss. Eyes half-lidded. Vulnerable.
No words. Just the picture.
The second message followed minutes later:
You hide your fire well. I prefer it when you burn.
Her pulse spiked. She typed a reply, deleted it, typed again, and deleted. Finally, she threw her phone onto the bed and went to shower, letting the water scald her skin as if it could wash away the memory.
That evening, she found herself at the Moreau Foundation offices, reviewing contracts she'd already read twice. She told herself she was working late because of deadlines. The truth was simpler: she didn't want to go home.
At 9:17 p.m., the elevator doors slid open.
Damien stepped out as if he owned the building. No appointment. No warning. Just him — tall, composed, eyes locked on her like she was the only thing in the room worth noticing.
"You shouldn't be here," she said, rising from her desk.
"Neither should you," he replied, glancing at the untouched dinner on the corner of her desk. "But here we are."
She crossed her arms. "What do you want, Damien?"
He moved closer, slow and deliberate, until the desk was the only barrier between them. "I want to know why you're pretending last night didn't happen."
"Because it didn't mean anything."
His smile was sharp. "Then why are you shaking?"
She realized, with a jolt, that she was.
Damien leaned forward, bracing his hands on the desk. "You can lie to yourself, Celeste. But don't lie to me."
Her breath caught. "And if I do?"
"Then I'll make you tell the truth."
The air between them was thick, electric. She should have told him to leave. She should have called security. Instead, she found herself leaning forward, drawn into the gravity of him.
And that was when she realized — the first crack in her armor had already formed.