The rooftop lounge buzzed with laughter, glasses clinking, and soft jazz drifting through the speakers like a steady pulse. Celine sat at the head of the long reserved table, her posture composed but noticeably softer than usual. A glass of vintage rosé rested in her hand, untouched for a moment as she watched her team celebrate.
They had earned this.
The Chanel deal had gone through.
And for once, the pressure that usually clung to her like a second skin had eased.
Around her, the atmosphere was alive, loosened ties, laughter spilling over conversations, even the usually reserved intern looked overwhelmed with joy as he clutched his bonus envelope like it was something unreal.
"Looks like someone is in a good mood," Stacy said, sliding into the seat beside her with a slightly flushed smile.
Celine glanced at her. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Stacy raised her glass. "To Chanel."
Their glasses clinked softly.
"And to the woman who made it happen," Stacy added.
Celine gave a faint smirk. "Careful. Compliments from you usually come with requests."
"Oh, they do," Stacy grinned. "But not tonight."
Celine leaned back slightly, letting the sound of celebration wash over her. For a rare moment, she allowed herself to exist without strategy, without pressure, without Nolan's shadow pressing at the back of her mind.
Just peace.
"You did good," Stacy said more quietly.
Celine looked at her, slightly surprised by the sincerity.
"I mean it," Stacy continued. "You make it look effortless, but I know what it costs you."
A pause.
Then Celine nodded once. "Thank you."
It wasn't emotional.
But it was real.
When the night finally wound down, Celine stood, adjusting her coat as she prepared to leave.
The city air outside was cool, brushing against her skin as she stepped out of the lounge. She pulled out her phone and ordered a cab, just like always.
She didn't drive.
She never did.
Not after the accident years ago.
And not after she realized control was safer when it came from distance.
The taxi arrived within minutes.
She slid into the back seat. "North Terrace, Royal Crest Towers."
The driver nodded and pulled into traffic.
Celine leaned her head back against the seat, eyes half-lidded as the city lights blurred past the window. The faint hum of celebration still lingered in her chest.
For once… things were still.
Too still, maybe.
The cab stopped.
"Ma'am, we're here."
Celine paid, stepped out, and made her way into the building. The elevator ride up was quiet, reflective. She even hummed faintly under her breath, still carrying the remnants of the evening.
Then she reached her floor.
And stopped.
Something felt wrong.
The air was colder than usual. Unlocking her front door,
She froze.
The lights were off, but the hallway was lit enough from the city glow outside to show the chaos waiting inside. A cold draft greeted her like a slap. Her coffee table was shattered, shards glinting. The mirror by the hallway,smashed. Her art pieces? Ripped from their frames.
Panic crawled up her spine.
"Hello?" she called, voice barely steady.
No answer.
She reached for her phone. Then stopped.
There,on the kitchen counter, untouched in the madness, sat one of her old wedding photos.
Nolan.
Her blood went ice cold.
A red marker circled her face on the photo.
And written across the glass in thick, angry strokes:
"You always walk away. But not this time."
She backed away slowly, heart racing, hands shaking.
This wasn't random.
This was personal.
Her hands trembled as she stared at the shattered remains of her living room. Rage burned through the panic. She snatched her phone off the console, thumb jabbing Nolan's number.
He answered on the third ring, smooth, unbothered.
"Celine. To what do I owe the pleasure?" His voice was too casual. Too calm.
"You don't scare me," she spat, pacing through the wreckage. "Whatever this is, whatever message you think you're sending, it won't work."
There was a pause. Then a faint chuckle. "I'm not sure what you're talking about."
"Oh, cut the act," she snapped. "You broke into my home. You trashed it. Left a picture, circled my face like some psycho. You think this is going to make me cave?"
"Celine," Nolan said smoothly, "do you have proof? Cameras? Witnesses? Fingerprints?"
"You bastard."
"Careful," he murmured, "that could be slander."
"I'm calling the police."
He laughed now. "And what are you going to tell them? That your ex-husband hurt your fragile little feelings?"
Her jaw clenched.
"You've always been dramatic," Nolan continued. "Maybe you broke it yourself. Wouldn't be the first time you spiraled."
She was silent. Breathing heavily.
"You don't get to play the victim now, Celine. You left me."
Her voice was low and steady. "If you come near me again, I'll make sure you regret it."
"Goodnight, Celine," he said simply, and hung up.
Her fingers were white around the phone. She stood still, her chest rising and falling as the silence closed in.
Then her eyes drifted to the circled photo again.
Enough was enough.
She was done being cornered.
Her fingers moved quickly this time, not to the police, but to building management.
The phone rang once. Twice.
"Good evening, Ms. Celine," came the concierge's voice, polite and clipped.
"I need the locks changed," she said sharply. "Tonight."
A beat of hesitation. "Is everything alright, ma'am?"
"Don't ask me that," she cut in, seething. "Why do I pay security fees if my property isn't secure? I came home to a wrecked penthouse. I want new locks installed tonight."
"Yes, ma'am. We'll dispatch maintenance right away—"
She didn't wait for a reply before hanging up. With a tight exhale, she began picking her way through the mess, broken glass, overturned chairs, framed photos ripped off the wall. Her sanctuary violated.