When Silence Speaks

I wasn't sure what compelled me to bring the pastries. Maybe it was the memory of her pausing—just for a moment—at that café near Lennox Square, saying how the smell reminded her of Paris. Or maybe I was just losing my mind, slowly but willingly, to the way Celine's laughter lingered like music in a quiet room.

The pastry bag was warm when I entered the penthouse, and the sight of her sitting cross-legged on the couch, fully absorbed in her tablet, was oddly comforting. No stiff CEO armor, no biting remarks—just Celine. Real, unfiltered.

"Making executive decisions on the couch again?" I teased.

She didn't even look up. "Better than corporate espionage in the boardroom."

God, I liked this version of her.

I set the bag down and slid into the space beside her, not quite touching but close enough to breathe in the faint scent of her perfume—light, fresh, and maddeningly distracting.

When she saw the label on the bag, her brow lifted. "You brought pastries?"

"Ceasefire. Thought you'd earned one."

She took a bite, chewed, and closed her eyes for a second. The smallest smile touched her lips.

Cinnamon and almond.

She remembered. And so did I.

It was easy to joke. Even easier to sit beside her like we'd done this a hundred times. But under it all, I was watching. Reading the tilt of her shoulder, the quiet shifts in her tone. She was... easing into this. Into us. And that terrified me more than it should've.

"So... are you really going to cook next time, or was that a bluff?" I asked, mostly to keep things light.

She raised an eyebrow. "You doubting my skills?"

"I'm doubting your survival instincts."

She chuckled. "Wow. So much faith."

We both laughed.

It was weird, this new rhythm. No claws. No cold glances. Just two people figuring out how to coexist without combusting. And somehow, I didn't mind it.

Then I asked the question I probably shouldn't have. "Was it always this hard for you to trust people?"

She froze, just slightly. Then, voice quieter, said, "It's not about trust. It's about control. I've always needed to steer the ship myself. If I don't, someone else will crash it."

That hit closer to home than she realized.

"I get that," I replied. And I did. Too well.

Because even though I looked like someone who had everything handled—perfect suits, perfect headlines, perfect posture—I was just as afraid of losing control as she was. Maybe more.

We sat in silence. Comfortable, for once.

Until she murmured, "Maybe we'll never be that perfect couple they all want us to be. But if we can stop making each other miserable... maybe that's enough to start with."

My chest tightened.

"Maybe it is."

We didn't make any promises. But something unspoken settled between us. A fragile truce, born not out of obligation, but out of shared exhaustion from the war.

Later, when she disappeared into her room, I stayed on the couch, sipping my coffee cold. I stared out the window, watching the city move beneath us like a machine. Constant. Tireless. Predictable.

Celine wasn't predictable. She was a firecracker with a crown. But tonight, for the first time, I didn't want to extinguish her flame.

I just wanted to stand close enough to feel its warmth.

—

The next morning came fast. Too fast.

I was already suited up when Celine stepped into the foyer, dressed in a deep red coat over a tailored black jumpsuit. Her hair was swept up in a style that made her cheekbones look lethal. She looked like she belonged on the cover of every business magazine—and maybe a fashion one, too.

"You ready?" she asked, grabbing a folder from the entry table.

"I was born ready," I replied. "Nice choice of color, by the way. You're clearly aiming to intimidate the cameras."

"Only slightly."

Our driver took us to the shoot location—a converted art loft on the east end of Velmora. The creative team was already buzzing, lights and backdrops and garment racks forming a makeshift battlefield of silk and flash.

"Celine! Blake!" the campaign director greeted us. "So glad you're both here. Let's get you through wardrobe first. We'll start with the rooftop shots—it's golden hour perfection today."

We were ushered into adjoining dressing rooms, and I emerged to find her already waiting in a floor-length cream dress that clung to her like it was made just for her. Her hair had been curled into soft waves, lips painted the color of crushed berries.

I froze.

"Don't say anything," she warned.

"I wasn't going to." I lied.

She narrowed her eyes but said nothing. We followed the crew upstairs.

The rooftop scene was set for a classic romance—soft lights, a small table with champagne glasses, cityscape behind us. Everything about it screamed intimacy.

We posed. We smiled. We gazed.

But somewhere between the third shot and the fifth, the air around us changed.

She laughed at something the photographer said, and the sound did something to me—flipped a switch I'd kept carefully turned off. I looked down at her, really looked, and saw not the business partner or the stranger I once resented.

I saw Celine.

And I was dangerously close to wanting more than truce.

We held hands in a shot. Her fingers were cold, and I warmed them without thinking. She didn't pull away.

"Cut!" someone called.

She stepped back. I did, too.

We didn't say anything. We didn't have to.

But something was brewing, silent and fierce beneath the polished frames the world would see.

And I wasn't sure I was ready for it.

End of Chapter Thirty-Eight