The Mask Wears Power Now

The office buzzed with awkward silence. After Celeste had demonstrated the pose with almost insulting ease, the original model fumbled around the set, trying to salvage the moment, but it was clear—everyone had seen the difference. It wasn't just about looks. It was presence.

Damien leaned slightly to the side, whispering something into his secretary's ear. The man nodded, pulling out his tablet. Within seconds, a decision was made.

"Celeste," Damien's voice rang out, even and composed, yet something in the way he said her name made her spine straighten. "You'll take over the shoot."

A beat of silence. Her brows arched slightly—not in disbelief, but calculation. She could hear a few gasps from the staff nearby. The original model stiffened, rage and embarrassment flooding her face before she stormed off set.

Celeste took a moment.

This was it—the very thing she used to fantasize about on nights she counted coins for grocery. Recognition. Being seen.

Still, she forced her lips into a small, unreadable smile. "Is that an order, Mr. Leclair?"

Damien cocked a brow, sensing her restraint. "It's an opportunity."

She stepped closer, her heels clicking against the tile. "And what's in it for me?"

He didn't expect that.

A flicker of something—approval? Amusement?—lit behind his eyes. "Exposure. Influence. Possibly a permanent position in marketing for the next campaign if this goes well."

"Exposure doesn't pay rent," she replied coolly.

The corners of his mouth twitched. She was bold. Sharp. Dangerous in a different way than most women he met in boardrooms or five-star charity dinners.

"You'll be compensated," he said, his voice lowering slightly. "Fairly."

Celeste gave a small nod. "Then I accept."

The team moved fast. Makeup, wardrobe, lighting—all shifted as the shoot restarted. Celeste was given a tailored navy pantsuit that screamed dominance. Her hair was swept into a sleek bun, highlighting her bone structure, and minimal makeup accentuated her piercing eyes.

She looked like someone who owned the damn company, not just worked under its roof.

As the camera clicked, she didn't just pose—she performed. Each look she threw at the lens said something: ambition, control, poise. It was like watching a flame take shape. The crew stared, some murmuring in awe. She wasn't playing a role—she was becoming it.

Damien stood a few feet back, watching silently. His arms folded across his chest, face unreadable. But his gaze never left her.

Halfway through, during a short break, Maya ran over from her department, eyes wide. "Girl. What the hell just happened?"

Celeste sipped from a bottle of water, still composed. "Apparently, I'm their new face."

"You? You said you were here for finance—"

"I am." She glanced toward where Damien was speaking to a photographer. "But I suppose I'm also… versatile."

Maya's jaw dropped, then turned into a grin. "You're scary when you're like this."

Celeste turned back to the mirror. "I'm surviving, May. That's all."

When the shoot wrapped, Damien walked over himself.

"Impressive," he said simply.

She didn't thank him. "I delivered what you asked."

"More than that," he replied. "You're a natural."

She shrugged. "I've just always known how to make something out of nothing."

He handed her a black envelope, embossed with the company's logo. "Consider this your bonus."

She took it, fingers brushing his as she did. Neither flinched—but both felt the pull.

"Anything else?" she asked.

He held her gaze. "I'm curious, Ms. Moreau. Is this the real you? Or just the mask you wear?"

Her lips curled into something dangerous. "Why not both?"

She turned and walked away without waiting for a response, her heels echoing through the studio like punctuation.

Later that evening, Celeste stood by the window of her apartment, the envelope untouched beside her. The sun dipped below the skyline, and her reflection looked back at her from the glass. Same eyes. Same lips.

But different now.

Not broken. Not desperate.

The girl inside her who once cried over spilled milk and missed chances? She wasn't gone. She was just waiting—for the world to see her as more than just "the poor girl who got lucky."

She ran her fingers down the sleek suit's lapel and whispered to herself, "You don't wait for power, you take it."

And this time, she wasn't going to let anyone tell her what she deserved.

Celeste stood in front of the mirror in the locker room, brushing invisible lint off her sleeves. The adrenaline from the shoot still thrummed through her blood. She had just walked out of a whirlwind, and for the first time in forever, she didn't feel like she was drowning.

"You're glowing," Maya said from behind her, grinning like she'd just seen her friend ascend to goddess status. "Seriously, you looked like you ran the whole damn company back there."

Celeste turned slightly, raising a brow. "Maybe I should."

Maya laughed, looping an arm through hers. "Okay, CEO energy, now that you're done turning the office upside down with your mysterious powers of allure and dominance, what do you say we celebrate?"

Celeste tilted her head. "I was going to take you out to eat, remember? That diner you like near the plaza."

Maya wrinkled her nose, playful. "Ugh, boring. We can do that when we're old and bitter. I want to go to a pub. Loud music. Neon lights. Hot boys."

Celeste blinked. "Hot boys? That's your selling point?"

"Absolutely," Maya said with zero shame. "You need to see what you're missing."

Celeste gave her a long, amused look before a smirk tugged at her lips. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. The smirk said it all—sure, let's play your silly game.

What neither of them noticed was that Damien Leclair and his assistant had just entered the break area at the same time, lingering by the water dispenser to finish a discussion.

"Oh no, don't give me that look," Maya said, poking Celeste's cheek. "You don't get to smirk like that when you're still a virgin."

Celeste froze.

The silence was immediate.

Maya only noticed after a solid three seconds when Celeste's face turned an alarming shade of red. "What? What did I—"

She turned to follow Celeste's gaze and—yep.

Damien.

His assistant.

Both standing less than ten feet away. The assistant's eyes were comically wide. Damien… Damien was unreadable. Stoic, calm, but there was a faint twitch in his jaw.

"Oh. My. God," Maya whispered. "I am going to evaporate into mist."

Celeste wanted the earth to open up and swallow her. She had endured public humiliation, academic sabotage, and endless nights of self-doubt, but nothing prepared her for the sheer level of embarrassment coiling in her stomach right now.

"We should go," she muttered, not even daring to meet Damien's gaze.

Maya, for once in her life, was silent.

The assistant looked like he wanted to laugh but wisely decided to chew on the inside of his cheek instead. Damien merely nodded, giving them space to pass.

As they exited, Celeste clenched her fists, every step a march of quiet mortification. The smirk? Gone. Her confidence? Wounded. Her soul? Probably outside somewhere, curled up in fetal position.

Once outside the building, Maya finally exhaled. "Okay. I… I know that was bad. Like, apocalyptic level bad. But in my defense, I thought we were alone."

Celeste glared. "You just told my boss I'm a virgin."

"I didn't say your boss. I just said a boss might be around!"

"Maya."

"Okay, okay! I'm sorry. Really. But come on, it's not the end of the world. He probably doesn't even care."

Celeste covered her face. "He absolutely cares. Or he'll never look at me the same again."

Maya tugged her arm. "Pub. Now. You need to drink this out of your system."

And as mortifying as it had been, Celeste knew Maya was right. She needed to drown the fire in her cheeks, let loose even if just for a few hours.

What she didn't realize then, though, was how that single slip-up had embedded itself in Damien's mind like a splinter—one he couldn't quite remove no matter how hard he tried to stay professional.

The buzz of the office had calmed as the day crawled toward its end. People filtered out slowly, a few at a time, lost in their own post-work plans. Celeste returned to her desk, humming softly under her breath, her fingers flying over her keyboard to send the final mail of the day. The glow in her eyes hadn't dimmed since the shoot.

Damien Leclair had chosen her. Not for a project. Not for data crunching. For representation. To be the face of the new campaign. She was still reeling from that subtle shift in her place—no, in her power.

Maya waved a cheerful goodbye from her division, promising she'd text the pub location later. Celeste nodded, a small smile curving her lips. Once Maya was gone, the smile stretched. And deepened. It wasn't arrogance—it was satisfaction.

Back home, Celeste kicked off her heels and stepped into her small but now slightly better-organized apartment. She moved automatically—draping her blazer, dropping her bag, turning on the light—but her mind wasn't on the routine. It was spinning.

Her reflection caught her attention. She stopped in front of the mirror, tilting her head. This woman—hair styled perfectly, lips still faintly glossy, her posture straight like steel—was someone she loved.

She reached up, fingers brushing the collarbone Damien's hand had almost grazed. It wasn't just the shoot. It was how effortlessly she fit into that moment beside him. The proximity had lit something in her, and oddly enough, she didn't feel guilt.

She had felt safe. She had felt wanted.

Her fingers tightened around the hem of her top as she remembered the heat of his gaze, the softness in his voice when he said, "Perfect."

God. That word alone had undone her.

She drew in a slow breath, grounding herself. This wasn't some fantasy from a silly romance. It had happened. And she wasn't going to let it shake her. She'd hold onto the feeling—not because she had fallen for him, but because it reminded her she deserved to be admired.

Still, her lips parted in a breathless smile as she sat on the edge of her bed, curling her legs up beneath her. Her phone buzzed. Maya.

Maya: [7:42 PM] Pub at 9. Wear something lethal.

Celeste stared at the message, laughed, and flopped backward. Something lethal? Well, she did have one red dress that still had the tag on. Maybe tonight she'd let her new self fully stretch her wings.

And deep down, she couldn't deny it—this version of her? She was starting to adore her.

Celeste stared at her reflection, almost not recognizing the woman staring back. The sleek black dress hugged her curves like a second skin, the heels added power to her posture, and the subtle smokey eyes sharpened her already intense gaze. For once, she didn't just feel pretty—she felt hot. Dangerous. Desired. Like someone who turned heads without even trying. Her lips curled into a small, confident smirk as she ran her fingers through her newly styled hair. This wasn't a mask tonight—this was her. And if anyone doubted that, they'd learn the hard way just how wrong they were.