45: A DAWN OF ASHES

**ELIJAH** 

I was already five minutes behind schedule, and the sour taste that curled around my tongue had nothing to do with the black coffee in my hand. No, it had everything to do with her.

Celeste.

That stubborn, disobedient, infuriating woman who clearly had a death wish for every rule I’d laid out.

I had sent her instructions—clear, precise, not open to interpretation: Be ready in the parking lot at 8 AM sharp. Dressed for work. Prepared to shadow me. No excuses.

And yet, the clock in my head ticked past 8:00.

The guards who flanked the entrance to the maids’ quarters tensed as I approached, clearly recognizing the storm cloud in my expression. I didn’t stop to explain myself. I had no reason to explain myself.

I marched to her door, jaw tight, breath shallow, my knuckles curling into a fist as I raised it to knock—though knocking was far too generous for what I intended to do.

One more second of disobedience and I would kick the door down.

But just as I shifted my weight, the door creaked open slightly, revealing a sliver of the room beyond—and I stilled.

There, in the dim light of morning, Celeste sat in the corner of the room. Not at her vanity. Not near the bed. In the corner.

Curled like a ghost of herself.

A thick blanket wrapped around her small frame like armor. Her legs were drawn tightly to her chest. Her eyes didn’t blink as they stared forward at the wall, dull and colorless—devoid of their usual spark, that infuriating spark I’d grown so used to resisting.

She didn’t even acknowledge me.

She looked like a painting that had been left in the rain. All the fight bled from her.

Something twisted uncomfortably in my chest.

But I crushed it.

“I said be ready by eight,” I said coldly, stepping inside without invitation. “The parking lot is not your bedroom.”

She didn’t startle. Didn’t snark back. No sarcastic retort. No dramatic sigh of protest.

She just—moved.

Wordlessly, she uncurled herself and let the blanket fall from her shoulders. She stood slowly, her motions unsteady, like she’d forgotten how to use her body altogether.

“I lost track of time,” she murmured, her voice a rasp of something once sharp.

Only then did I notice: she was dressed. Neatly. Professionally. Like she had been ready… and then had given up.

I stepped aside as she brushed past me, her head lowered, her steps uncharacteristically careful. No eye contact. No muttered insult under her breath.

Just quiet.

I followed her out, jaw tightening even more than before.

What the hell had happened to her?

I hated the knot forming in my stomach. Hated that I even cared. She was manipulative, defiant, reckless—but she was also flame. Fire. A contained explosion that refused to be silenced.

Now she looked like a shadow of the woman I’d been ready to throttle the night before.

By the time we reached the car, she was seated silently in the passenger side, fingers idly toying with something on her wrist.

I stole a glance.

A bracelet.

New. Thorned. Strange.

She traced it slowly, like it hurt, like it whispered things only she could hear. Her brow was slightly furrowed, eyes distant, lips pressed into a tight line.

Magic.

It had to be.

I’d seen her reach for it before. Seen it in her stance, the weight of something wild and unruly beneath her skin. And now… nothing.

The bracelet had taken it from her. Or sealed it. Or worse.

Good, I thought bitterly. Maybe she’ll learn some humility now.

But it didn’t feel like victory.

It felt like silence.

Uncomfortable, stifling silence.

I hated it.

I missed the bickering, the insults, the way she challenged me with her eyes even when her lips were sealed. This… fragile version of her? It was unsettling. It made something in me bristle with unease I didn’t know how to name.

“Stop playing with that,” I snapped.

She flinched—flinched—and pulled her hands into her lap like a scolded child.

I gritted my teeth. I didn’t like this. I wasn’t supposed to like this. And yet…

When we arrived at the office complex, I didn’t even wait for the valet to open the door. I stepped out and slammed the car shut behind me, waiting for her to join me on the curb. She followed quietly, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes still far off.

“Come,” I ordered. “There’s a meeting. You’ll take notes. Try not to embarrass yourself.”

She gave the slightest nod. No snark. No eye roll. Just obedience.

And yet, as we walked into the building, I noticed it almost immediately.

The way the men turned.

The way their eyes lingered.

Her dress wasn’t provocative—but she didn’t need it to be. There was something about her presence that commanded attention, even now in this muted state. She was delicate today, yes—but no less beautiful.

Too beautiful.

I narrowed my eyes, stepping slightly closer to her as we waited for the elevator. Her eyes never left the floor, still trapped in whatever ghost haunted her wrist.

I wanted to ask what had happened.

I wanted to yell at her until she snapped again, until the spark returned and she called me an arrogant bastard to my face.

I wanted her back.

Not this… shell.

The elevator doors opened, and we stepped inside, side by side, the distance between us more suffocating than if we’d been across a battlefield.

And for the first time in a very long time, I realized something far more dangerous than hate was beginning to bloom in its place.

I wanted to care.

And I couldn’t afford that.

We stepped into the conference room and every head turned. It burned my skin, threatened to rip me apart. 

My teeth clenched as one of the junior associates let his gaze drop to her legs with open appreciation. That jealousy. That hot feeling came into my heart. I was hit by it, strongly and I hated it, despised it with every fiber of my being. I wanted it gone. I wanted all of them gone for even looking at her.