The storm had passed, but the air in the penthouse still felt charged, as if lightning had been trapped inside the walls. Damien stood by the fireplace, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass he hadn't touched. His gaze tracked Celeste as she moved through the room — not like a guest, but like someone who had already claimed the space.
"You've been busy," he said finally.
She didn't look up from the book she was pretending to read. "So have you."
He crossed the room in three slow steps, stopping just close enough for her to feel the heat of him. "You think you can play my game. But you don't know the cost."
Celeste closed the book, meeting his eyes. "I know exactly what it costs. I just don't intend to be the one paying."
A faint smile touched his lips — not amusement, but recognition. "You're not afraid anymore."
"Oh, I am," she said softly. "I'm just not letting it make my decisions for me."
He studied her for a long moment, then reached out and took the book from her hands. "You're dangerous when you're like this."
"Good," she replied. "So am I."
Damien's phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen, and for the briefest moment, his expression shifted — a crack in the armor. Celeste caught it, filed it away.
"Business?" she asked.
"Nothing you need to worry about."
She tilted her head. "If it's nothing, why are you worried?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Careful, Celeste. You're walking a line you can't uncross."
She smiled — slow, deliberate. "Then I guess we'll see who falls first."
And as he turned away to take the call, she slipped her hand into her pocket, feeling the small flash drive, she'd taken from his desk earlier that day. The game wasn't just his anymore.