Morning light poured in in narrow stripes across Caspian’s penthouse office, each blade of sun cutting through the stillness. He was already behind his desk, back straight, hair brushed into perfection, and shadows of rest omitted under his eyes. A chalice of unconsumed coffee cooled next to him, its vapours giving up the ghost unacknowledged. It gnawed at his nerves again, but he would not appear anything less than in control.
He flipped through a pile of business contracts, his mind half in the process. A nagging tug, with each turn of a page, encouraged him to check his phone again. At long last, a light beep penetrated the silence, and he glanced down to find Celeste’s name lit up on the screen. Two lines saying, hey, can we meet? His stomach tightened. The memory of her sudden leave-taking years back flooded in unbidden — he remembered the sound of her warm laughter, the way her eyes sparkled when she took it for granted he believed in their future. Then she was gone, with one final blow, leaving him to face tragedy alone.
He pushed those thoughts to the side. He got up and walked to the glass wall that looked out over the city. Little cars glittered below like insects, and the low drone of traffic in the distance felt as if it mirrored his roiling heart. It astounded him how one little message from her could wake up all those dormant emotions, and none of them were nice. He sucked in a deep breath, repeating to himself the reason that he had suggested this arrangement. He could find a wife before his thirty-third birthday, and if Celeste was back in the picture, then maybe this was fate’s solution. Whether it healed old wounds or opened new ones wasn’t his concern, he assured himself.
An aide knocked lightly, reminding him of a midday investor lunch. Caspian waved him off, tension tightening like a spring. It was a simple plan if one that could be disastrous. He’d already made the offer; she would either sign the contract or walk away. Still, an echo of bitterness surged — she had walked away once. Pride battled longing deep in his chest, a tempest he wouldn’t name.
His reply to her was short: “Meet me at noon. Bring the contract.” Tapping it felt like inching to a ledge over a sheer cliff, not knowing whether he’d soar or plummet. But he clicked send, knowing that by choosing Celeste — at least for now — he risked creating echoes of the painful past that never completely went away.
At Caspian’s sprawling estate, Valentina Harrington sank into a velvet sofa in a sunlit lounge. The house itself was a reflection of old wealth — marble floors, soaring ceilings, sweeping windows framing immaculate gardens. She discovered her son pacing the floor-to-ceiling windows with his hands clasped behind his back. His tailored shirt sagged just a bit too much, a sign of sleepless nights and skipped meals.
She made a quiet throat-clearing sound. “And you’re still not sleeping, huh? she asked, a flickering of maternal concern in her eyes. Without turning, Caspian sighed heavily. Morning light caressed the angles of his face, showing fatigue. Valentina remembered a moment when he came alive with optimism when Celeste breathed colour into his life. A pang of guilt stabbed at her heart. She recalled her own small part in pushing Celeste away, Soren’s incessant ambitions pushing her toward that end, and her fear that a girl who wasn’t polished would destroy Caspian’s future.
He turned, looking at her mildly impatient. “I’m managing,” he said curtly, but the bags under his eyes said otherwise. Valentina glanced toward the kitchen doorway, through which servants passed discreetly, keeping their heads down out of respect for the tension. She paused, weighing her words.
“I hear a lot of rumours — rumours that you’re going to get married soon.” She could see his jaw ripple with tension at the mention. “Caspian, know what you’re doing. This might”
“Mother,” he interrupted, his tone firm but infused with slow-burning frustration, “I know exactly what I’m doing.” He wouldn’t look her in the eye as if to acknowledge her worry would bring him undone. “It’s just business.”
Valentina wanted to press, to try and explain that love and business had little in common in the best case and a disastrous history in the vast majority of real life, but the angle of his shoulders discouraged argument. Instead, she ventured a soft question, “Is it really just business?”
He shut his eyes, running a hand through his dark hair. It was a brief glimpse of raw heartbreak, the old scar Celeste’s absence had left behind. Then the mask slipped back, and he turned his head. “I have no choice,” he said softly as he turned away.
Valentina got up, a discontented sigh escaping her. She understood that he was, in a way, traversing a perilous course, one that ended in hubris and regret. Yet she left softly, each step ringing in her head. Sunlight out the mansion doors was harsh, agreeable to the nervousness she’d brought with her. His resolute outward shell could crack under the burden of regrets he could not efface.
Soren Montague surveyed the city below through reinforced glass, on the top floor of Hayes Enterprises. In the background, an immaculate office stretched out behind him, his own neat and ruthless brand—no clutter, but stark efficiency. Desks sparkled, and walls were neatly adorned with tasteful art, and the hush felt just a little bit too perfect, the man’s ironclad sense of control reflected in every detail. He interlaced his fingers on his back, eyes far and heavy.
A soft knock broke the silence. Talia Rowe, lanky and assertive, walked in with an artificial smile. She was just a little unsteady in front of the man who had forged much of what was to come for Caspian. Soren turned slowly, his brow arching in impatience. “Speak,” he said, his voice even. Talia sighed, saying Celeste was having pom pom but considering the marriage proposal. A tension rippled through Soren’s features. The look in his expression was one of disapproval. He disdained Celeste’s humble origins and felt she was not enough for his family’s name.
He moved around the carved oak desk, shuffling a handful of papers with troubling calm. “I’m not gonna have no nobody linking arms with my son,” he said. The words dripped with scorn. Talia, familiar with her uncle’s authoritarian streak, stifled a shiver. She thought of Caspian’s tenuous health, of insomnia, weighing him down. Talia’s loyalty to Caspian was a painful tug, but she was afraid of Soren more.
“You want her gone?” Talia asked, voice subdued. Soren gave her a frigid stare. “Yes, if it comes to that. Celeste’s presence complicates things. She’s a disgrace to our pedigree.” He slapped a crisp folder on the table, probably with information about Celeste’s background. “She’s just a nuisance.”
Talia stiffened, suppressing her uneasiness. “I’m able to affect her, steer her away,” she said, but her gut twisted at the idea. Soren nodded, an approving look in his eye. “Do so carefully. Discretion is paramount. If you do not succeed, I have other use.” His tone chilled the air.
Nerves kindled in Talia as she noticed a heavy pile of papers stamped with Celeste’s name. A sense of foreboding clutched at her conscience. Even so, she forced her voice steady and nodded resolutely at Soren. “I understand.”
His only response was to send her away. She left, heart pounding. In Soren’s domain, a storm was brewing, and with each step of his plans, he was drawing the noose ever closer to Celeste. Talia understood Soren’s nature: once he zeroed in on an enemy, he wouldn’t stop until they’d ruin their lives.