The Space Between Us

The morning after dinner, I woke before the sun had fully risen, the first light brushing over Velmora's skyline. The scent of roasted garlic and lemon still lingered faintly in the air. Who knew the smell of shared space and sautéed herbs could feel so intimate?

Celine's laugh had been the real meal. Rare. Bright. Unfiltered. I hadn't expected to hear it—certainly not because of my half-decent cooking—but once it had surfaced, it echoed in my mind like a favorite song on replay.

I dressed quickly and moved through the penthouse. Her door was closed. Typical. We still kept to our own rooms—an unspoken boundary neither of us dared to test just yet. But last night… last night had been something new.

I grabbed a mug, filled it with strong coffee, and stepped onto the balcony. The city yawned beneath me, alive with ambition and motion. It reminded me of her—determined, sharp-edged, hiding softness behind sleek armor.

I took a long sip and smiled to myself. She'd said she'd cook next time.

Brave woman.

By ten, I was deep in meetings, but part of my mind was elsewhere. Alina, my assistant, caught me staring at the campaign board and passed me a note like we were kids in school.

Celine confirmed the joint press campaign meeting at 3 p.m. PS: You were smiling.

I looked up. She grinned and walked away without explanation.

I wasn't going to deny it.

At lunch, I took a break on the executive terrace. The usual river view rolled by—calm water, iron bridges, glinting sunlight—and I found myself thinking about last night. About how Celine had paused before tasting the first bite, then let out the softest, most reluctant "Hmm" of approval. It had almost made me laugh.

Then there was that moment when she told me she used to play cello in high school. And she'd looked away, brushing off the memory like it didn't matter, but I could see it did.

The truth? She fascinated me. Had from the beginning. But lately, the edges of our rivalry had softened, replaced by something else—still sharp, but with curiosity instead of anger.

At three, I walked into the campaign room. She was already there, sipping from a sleek, reusable bottle. Green blazer. Glossy hair. That look she always wore when she was ready to conquer. When our eyes met, she gave me the faintest smirk.

"Ready to sell our perfect love story to the world?"

"Sure," I said. "After all, we're experts at pretending."

She chuckled, low and amused. "Speak for yourself. I'm actually warming up to your sarcastic charm."

I placed a hand over my chest, mock-wounded. "That sounds dangerously close to a compliment."

"It's not. Don't let it go to your head."

The meeting kicked off and was surprisingly smooth. We batted ideas back and forth, disagreeing but building instead of breaking. She pushed for strategic angles; I emphasized emotional engagement. For once, the team didn't look like they were bracing for a battlefield.

When someone suggested adding a behind-the-scenes video of us cooking together for the brand campaign, I nearly choked on my water.

Celine gave me a sly glance. "Only if you wear an apron that says 'Kiss the CEO.'"

"I'll have one custom-made," I shot back.

Laughter rippled through the room. Even the interns looked stunned.

Afterward, when everyone had cleared out, she lingered.

"Thanks for... not being difficult today," she said, a little too sincerely.

"Who says I'm not difficult every other day?"

She tilted her head. "Oh, you are. But today, you were tolerably charming."

We walked out together, not touching, not talking about what any of this meant—but not needing to. It was progress. And it felt... good.

Later that evening, I returned to the penthouse. Celine had left a note on the fridge in neat handwriting:

Don't think this means you're off the hook. I still expect you to help clean when I cook.

She'd even drawn a tiny fire extinguisher next to it.

I laughed aloud. A real laugh. Alone, in the kitchen, like a lunatic.

I poured a drink and went to the balcony again, watching Velmora twinkle in the dark.

This wasn't what I'd expected when I agreed to this marriage. And I still wasn't sure what I wanted it to become. But I knew this much:

I was starting to enjoy the space between us. The possibility of something more.

Not romance.

Not yet.

But maybe something just as rare—respect.

And maybe, eventually, friendship.