Chapter 2: Celeste's World Crumbling 

Celeste Monroe was in the middle of her once-thriving design studio, now eerily silent. The garment racks, once filled to the brim with vibrant colors and intricate patterns, were half-empty. The scent of fabric dye and desperation hung in the air. Her hands trembled as she smoothed out a crumpled drawing on the ground—a piece she had poured her heart into, now discarded like trash. 

The scandal had come like a tsunami, leveling everything in its path. Just weeks earlier, she was the belle of the fashion world, her Monroe Couture label famous for its bold, edgy designs. But then there was the accusation: Celeste had allegedly ripped off a design from a rival designer, a young upcoming designer named Vanessa Cross. The evidence had been damning—a leaked email, a sketch with Celeste's initials scribbled in the corner. The media pounced on it, and in a matter of days, her career was demolished. 

Celeste slumped into a chair, her head reeling back to the moment she first laid eyes on the headline: 

"Celeste Monroe: Fashion Thief?" 

She had been blindsided. The signature in question was not her own, but no one trusted her. Vanessa had played victim to perfection, tearful interviews depicting Celeste as a calculating opportunist. 

Her phone buzzed, shattering her trance. It was another letter from her lawyer. She opened it, her heart sinking as she read the lines: "Investors are backing out. We must discuss damage control." 

Damage control. The words cut like a slap. There was no way to stop this. Her reputation was crumbling, and she couldn't do anything about it. 

The Last Hope 

That evening, Celeste was in a small, dimly lit café, her fingers wrapped around a warm cup of tea that had been sitting there for some time. Across from her, her best friend Isla sat up straight, her face furrowed with concern. 

"You can't quit, Celeste," Isla told her firmly. "You've gone too far to let this defeat you." 

Celeste shook her head, hair spilling over her face. "With what, Isla? I can't even afford a lawyer. My accounts are empty. The bank won't lend me anymore. I'm done." 

Isla stretched out over the table, gripping Celeste's hand. "There has to be something else. What about Damien Hale? He's always had a thing for you. Maybe he can help you.".

Celeste's lips curled in disgust. Damien Hale, a wealthy businessman with a reputation for using his money to get whatever—or whoever—he wanted. He had been pursuing her for months, his advances growing increasingly persistent. The thought of turning to him made her skin crawl.

"I'm not trading my body for business," Celeste said, her voice sharp. "I'd rather lose everything."

Isla sighed, leaning back in her chair. "I get it. But you're running out of options." 

As if on cue, Celeste's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, her brow furrowing. It was an invitation—an exclusive gala hosted by one of the city's most elite social clubs. The kind of event she would have killed to attend just a few months ago. 

"What is it?" Isla asked, noticing her expression. 

Celeste handed it to her. "I have no clue who this is from, but it has to be a mistake. I'm not exactly at the top of anyone's list these days." 

Isla's eyes twinkled. "Or maybe it's a sign. Go, Celeste. You never know who you'll meet." 

Celeste hesitated, her instincts urging her to say no. But she thought of her empty studio, her dwindling account balance, the toxic tidal wave of debt crushing her. She had nothing to lose. 

A Dangerous Offer 

The ball was everything Celeste had expected—ostentatious, snobbish, and crawling with people who wouldn't deign to acknowledge her. She felt out of place in her simple black dress, a contrast to the designer garments she used to wear. She clung to the edges of the party, sipping a glass of champagne and trying to ignore the sidelong glances that followed her.

"Well, well. Look who's here."

Celeste spun around to see Damien Hale approaching her, his hair slicked back and his suit crisply pressed, giving him the look of a predator. He smiled, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. 

"Damien," she said, unwillingly forcing a polite smile. "Surprise." 

"Not as surprising as seeing you here," he replied, his gaze sweeping over her. "I heard about your problems. Shame, really. You were so full of promise." 

Celeste's grip on her glass grew tighter. "I'm sure you didn't drop by to gloat." 

Damien chuckled, moving in closer. "Actually, I dropped by to make you an offer. I'll buy your company—lock, stock, and barrel. You get paid enough to start over. And for that," his gaze dropped to her lips, "You take a risk." 

Celeste's stomach writhed. She took a step back, her tone icy. "I'm not on the market, Damien." 

His smile faded, to be succeeded by a cold, calculating look. "Consider carefully, Celeste. You don't have many options now." 

He wheeled on his heel and marched away before she could say a word, leaving her shaking with anger and fury. 

A Dangerous Offer 

That night, Celeste sat alone in her apartment, the ball already a faded memory. She stared into the mirror, the color drained from her face, leaving it a wan and palish hue. She was but a ghost of her former self, a specter of a woman she was no longer. 

Her phone rang, causing her to flinch. She picked it up, her heart skipping a beat as she scanned the caller ID: Unknown Number. She hesitated before answering. 

"Hello?"

 Silence, and then a low voice without affection filled the line. "How much would it take for you to marry me?"

Celeste blinked; certain she had misheard. "Excuse me?"

The voice repeated itself, measured and calm. "How much would it take for you to marry me?"

She laughed nervously, her hands gripping the phone. "Is this a joke? Who is this?"

The voice didn't shake. "Elliot Sloane."

Celeste's breath stuck in her throat. Elliot Sloane. The billionaire CEO of Sloane Industries. The man whose name was synonymous with power, wealth, and ruthlessness. She had never met him, but she knew his reputation. Cold. Calculating. Untouchable. 

"You're serious?" she said, her voice barely above a whisper. 

"Deadly serious," Elliot replied. "I'll explain everything in person. Tomorrow, 8 a.m., at my office. Don't be late." 

The phone died before she could pick it up. Celeste sat there, paralyzed, her head spinning. This was a mistake. Or a trick. But sitting there, the weight of her desperation crushing her, she knew that she had no choice. 

She would go. And she would listen. 

While placing the phone on the desk, there crept a shivering sensation over Celeste. She had no idea as yet that her life was never going to be the same anymore. And Elliot Sloane, whose proposition she was set to accept, was to be the key figure in it.