Bound for Las Veritas

The morning we left for Las Veritas, Velmora's skyline was still shrouded in pre-dawn mist. I stood at the edge of the penthouse living room, sipping black coffee while Oliver finalized our travel details on a tablet. The private jet was prepped, the press releases ready, the security detail briefed. Everything was in motion.

Except me.

I glanced at the hallway that led to Celine's room. Her door was closed. No surprise there. We hadn't said much since the boardroom meeting where we finalized the trip. Just cool professionalism peppered with the occasional glance that lasted a beat too long.

But something had shifted. There was a softness in her silence lately. A space where hostility used to live. And I found myself wanting more of it—more of her, honestly.

"She'll be ready?" Oliver asked quietly, as if reading my mind.

"She's never not ready," I replied.

By six-thirty, we were both in the elevator. She was in a deep green trench coat, hair swept into a sleek low bun, her face calm but unreadable. She greeted Oliver with a nod, ignored the warmth in my smile, and slid into the backseat of the waiting car with practiced elegance.

We didn't talk much on the ride to the airstrip. But silence with her had become strangely companionable. Or maybe I was just getting used to wanting things I couldn't name yet.

The flight was smooth. We both reviewed the itinerary again, exchanging brief thoughts on talking points for the press conference and logistics for the plant inspection. It was all very efficient. Very safe.

But I noticed things.

The way her fingers tapped gently on her knee when she was thinking. The way she always read each schedule twice. The small crease between her brows when something didn't sit right with her.

And when the flight attendant brought her tea, she smiled politely—but took the cup without drinking. Probably too focused. Probably too cautious.

We landed just before ten a.m. Las Veritas was warmer than Velmora, the sun already climbing high above the hills that ringed the industrial district. A sleek black SUV waited at the tarmac. Oliver took the lead car; Celine and I were in the second.

As we drove toward the resort, I caught her looking out the window. Not at the city. At the vineyards that rolled along the southern edge of the valley.

"You've been here before?" I asked.

She nodded. "Once. Years ago. With my mother."

It was the first personal detail she'd volunteered in days.

"Do you remember it well?"

She shrugged. "Just the light. It's softer here. The kind of place where people breathe a little easier."

We arrived at Bellview Resort just after ten-thirty. Our suites were in opposite wings as promised. As we exited the car, I turned to her. "They've scheduled press at two. Inspection at four. Dinner with investors at seven."

She nodded. "I'll be ready."

I paused. "No need to pretend here, Celine. We're not on camera until the lobby interview."

She gave me a sharp look, but it faded quickly. "I'm not pretending."

Before I could ask what that meant, she turned and followed the concierge to her suite.

In my room, I tried not to think about her. I failed.

I changed into lighter clothes, reviewed our notes again, and checked in with Charles, who asked about the optics and made a sarcastic remark about me not screwing this up.

"Making friends, are you?" he joked.

"Slowly," I muttered.

By one-thirty, we regrouped in the resort's private conference center. Celine was already there, impeccably dressed in a cream blouse and tailored navy trousers, her posture straight but not stiff.

She handed me a water bottle without speaking. I took it, confused.

"You didn't hydrate during the flight," she said, glancing at her tablet. "You get tense during long meetings when dehydrated."

I blinked. "You noticed?"

"I notice everything," she replied.

And for the first time, I didn't feel like a business asset being dissected. I felt seen.

The press conference went smoothly. We fielded questions like clockwork, stepping in for each other when needed. To the cameras, we looked like a power couple—the merger's golden figures.

But when the cameras clicked off, she stepped just a little closer than she used to. Not touching. Just... nearby.

After the inspection, we had two hours before dinner. I headed to the terrace to call my mother. Evelyn gushed over how poised Celine looked on the livestream.

"I saw the way she smiled at you," she said.

"It was for the cameras," I replied, but part of me wasn't so sure.

"Don't underestimate a woman who chooses to smile," Evelyn said. "Sometimes, it's the beginning of a decision."

As evening fell, we prepared for dinner. I watched her from across the table at the investor banquet. She listened carefully, answered with precision, and excused herself gracefully when needed. No missteps. No hesitations.

We didn't speak much between courses. But every time I caught her eye, she didn't look away.

When the night ended and we walked back to our separate wings, she stopped halfway down the hall.

"Tomorrow's a longer day," she said quietly.

"Are you regretting coming?"

She looked at me then—really looked.

"No," she said. "Not yet."

And she disappeared behind her door.