Caspian had heavy eyes when he walked into the boardroom, and he dared not betray how little sleep he’d had. Floor-to-ceiling windows poured daylight over gleaming conference tables, where directors in immaculate suits preened their cuffs and murmured behind thin tablets. He had on a well-fitted jacket that delineated his lean, athletic body, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the effort.
When the meeting began, he attempted to be his usual self-assured self. But the words on the screen blurred, and his vision swam. Oh, no concern flickered through the room. Celeste was sitting by the door and saw him hesitate. An alarm shot through her. She jumped to her feet, ignoring the surprised expressions, and rushed to where he was. Her hand steadied his elbow just as he swayed on unsteady feet.
A hush fell. Even the buzz of air conditioning seemed to have hushed. The very moment Celeste steadied him, he was clicking from cameras in the hands of staff assigned to internal publicity. Her eyes flitted around while heat crept into her cheeks. She had meant to help him quietly, but the die was cast. The directors saw Caspian steady himself; his thin jawline bloomed with furious mortification. He muttered a brief thanks, then waved for the meeting to go on. But the atmosphere was charged, and every person in attendance knew the dapper Hayes heir was on tenuous footing.
Over the next morning, tabloids and social media sites were full of images of Celeste holding Caspian’s arm: “A Stalwart Wife Saves the Day.” The media was gushing with admiration for their relationship, commending Celeste’s therapeutic touch. But alone in his office, Caspian’s countenance hardened at any mention of it. He was provoked by rumours of weakness. He barked at an aide who expressed sympathy as if pity were the last thing he needed.
That evening, Celeste walked past his bedroom, worried about him. Moonlight streamed across the corridor’s plush carpet as she hesitated, overhearing his voice from the other side of the door. I could hear muffled bits from her: a pained murmur of her name, raw and pleading. Her heart raced, and she froze, torn about going in or turning back. The intimacy of his tone frayed her defences. Unfinished memories cascaded through her mind, remembered days long gone when he trusted her implicitly. She lingered in the doorway, torn between entering to comfort him or allowing him the solitude of his vigil. Her indecision pulsed in the silence, heavy with all they hadn’t said.
By morning, Sterling Price was pacing in his private suite, phone to his ear. He projected a steely menace, lean frame in fitted charcoal, greying hair plastered back. Lines in his face hinted at a lifetime of shrewd scheming. He spoke with casual authority, each syllable slicing through the silence like a knife. On the other end of the line, a corporate rival listened intently, seduced by Sterling’s whispered vows.
“Caspian’s health is at risk,” Sterling said, glancing at the sumptuous furnishings around him. The walls were decorated with priceless art, and a large window overlooked a manicured lawn glistening in the early light. “He can hardly hold himself upright. If you time your share acquisitions just right, it’s possible you’ll establish a powerful foothold before Hayes Enterprises is even aware of it.” A satisfied smile formed on his lips. The challenger’s response elicited a low chuckle from him.
Talia walked through the foyer in the downstairs, feeling a whiff of wrongness. She looked back at the baroque staircase that wound up to her father’s domain. She’d overheard snippets of his calls here and there, enough to know he was the kind of trouble she’d stirred. And while Talia admired Sterling’s resourcefulness, she felt a twinge of disapproval coil in her stomach. She remembered Caspian’s pale face in the boardroom and Celeste’s obvious concern. This jab was one of conflicted loyalty.
Soren, who usually never rests in plotting the Hayes course, seemed uncharacteristically at ease in the face of these rumours. She’d seen him earlier, in the mansion’s main salon, sipping tea in a manner that suggested he was conducting a symphony of quiet chaos. She felt unnerved by his cryptic confidence. She wondered to what extent father and son were in cahoots or if they were on opposite sides of a brutal agenda.
Sterling concluded his call, walking down the stairs deliberately. He hesitated when he saw Talia’s anxious look. “Something on your mind?” he said, his voice a smooth silk thread. Her mind raced, and she hesitated. “Is it true?” she finally ventured. “You’re feeding Caspian’s enemies for kicks to see him fall?” Sterling’s eyes glinted. “It’s a business decision, darling. He’ll adapt or fail. Either outcome could serve a higher purpose.”
Talia felt her pulse quicken, and she felt a bitter taste in her tongue. She remembered Celeste’s fear, the silent tension in every corridor. Sterling, heels clicking crisply on marble, walked off to his waiting car. She stayed behind, rattled by the casual way he planned ruination. The day had an ominous tone, a sense that Caspian was on the precipice of more than corporate danger.
In one of the rarely-used guest rooms, Celeste rummaged through a dusty trunk, motivated by a nagging hunch she couldn’t entirely explain. Its wallpaper weathered, its air redolent of lavender sachets and old memories, when the mansion, at least, had adopted a sunnier disposition. She pushed aside moth-eaten blankets until her hand touched a small wooden box. Inside, she discovered a packet of unopened letters tied together with a frayed ribbon. Her breath caught in her throat as she recognized her own handwriting on all of the envelopes.
Bright sparks of ancient agony flared in her head. On it, five years before, she had bared herself in every line; she’d been desperate to justify herself to Caspian after she’d been forced to leave. Every letter laid out regrets, apologies, and declarations of love. She now understood they had never been delivered, sealed words in a vault closed off with a gloved hand. Her fingers jittered, her stomach dropping as she realized who’d probably intercepted them.
She remembered Soren’s glittering eyes and domineering tendencies, the shaper of force that had once driven her from Caspian’s life. A pulse of anger went through her as she imagined him drawing forth these confessions of devotion. At that moment, the enormity of the older man’s manipulation hit her. She pressed the letters to her chest, outrage mixing with grief for all those lost years. Her vision was blurred with tears, and the sharp pain of betrayal pierced through her.
Questions swarmed in her mind. Had Caspian read even one letter, would the outcome have manifested differently? Might they have shared a future that was free of suspicion? She pictured his relief, his anger, his heartbreak. And outside, clouds rolled in, mirroring hers.
The tap of footsteps in the hall, quick and purposeful. She stiffened, pushing the box away as Caspian stepped into the doorway, his tall frame dimly silhouetted in pale light. His expression darkened at the sight of her huddled over a battered trunk. His gaze landed on the letters she was holding, and then snapped back to her face. The tension hummed between them; unspoken histories crashed together like distant thunder.
His jaw tightened, confusion sweeping across his face. She held the letters close with a pounding heart. Every nerve screamed in her body with the need to explain, to shout that they had been stolen. But the intensity of his gaze, the naked vulnerability beneath it, stopped her cold. The silence felt stretched, and her heart thundered, waiting for whatever would come next.