Celeste didn't sleep. Not because she couldn't — but because she wouldn't waste the momentum.
By dawn, the folder Damien had given her was spread across the glass coffee table, but now it looked different. She'd rearranged the names, cross‑linked the photographs, and scribbled notes in a looping hand that wasn't hers. She'd even left a few deliberate mistakes — bait for a man who prided himself on catching them.
When Damien emerged from his room, immaculate as ever, she was already dressed, hair pinned back, eyes sharp.
"You're up early," he said, echoing her words from the day before.
"I have work," she replied, sliding the folder toward him.
He opened it, scanning the pages. "You've… reorganized."
"I've reframed," she corrected. "And I've added something."
He paused at a page that hadn't been there before — a name he hadn't given her, a photograph he hadn't supplied.
"Where did you get this?" His voice was calm, but his grip on the folder tightened.
"You left a trail," she said. "Not for me — for someone else. I just followed it backwards."
He closed the folder slowly, studying her as though seeing her for the first time. "You think you've trapped me."
"I don't think," she said, stepping closer. "I know."
For a long moment, neither moved. The city hummed beyond the glass, but in the penthouse, the air was still.
Then Damien smiled — not the amused, superior curve she'd come to expect, but something sharper. "Good. Now the game's worth playing."