Morning Light

The morning after the gala arrived not with a blare of alarm clocks or city noise, but with quiet sunlight filtering through the tall windows of the penthouse. I stood by the kitchen island in a T-shirt and joggers, nursing a cup of strong coffee. The silence was golden. Heavy with thought.

But my mind wasn't silent.

It was filled with her.

Celine.

The kiss on the terrace hadn't just been memorable—it had changed something in me. In us. I felt it in the way she had looked at me afterward. Not with hostility. Not with hesitation. With something warmer, more fragile. Something real.

We hadn't spoken again after she'd said goodnight, but I had watched her walk away and knew things had shifted between us. It wasn't just about the merger anymore, or our carefully curated appearances. That kiss had been raw. Vulnerable. Honest.

And I wanted more.

I stirred my coffee absently as the events of the night replayed. The scent of her perfume. The way she had trembled slightly when my hand found hers. The pressure of her lips against mine—confident, but laced with surprise.

I didn't want to push her. But I also couldn't pretend I didn't care.

"Blake?" Evelyn's voice floated in as she entered the kitchen, fully dressed and polished for the day, a file tucked under one arm.

"Morning," I said, trying to look casual.

She gave me a pointed glance. "You're humming."

"I am not."

"You absolutely are," she said with a sly grin. "Which tells me one thing—last night went well."

I let out a quiet laugh. "Define 'well.'"

She sat across from me, eyes warm. "You know, when I first encouraged this marriage, I hoped it wouldn't be just a strategy. I hoped you'd let someone in. That you'd let yourself be seen. And from the look on your face… you might've finally started."

I took a long sip from my mug.

"I don't want to rush her," I admitted. "She's not someone you push. She's someone you wait for."

Evelyn nodded slowly. "You understand her better than I expected."

I gave her a small smile. "She's not hard to understand. She's brilliant, driven, and guarded as hell. But she listens. And when she lets you in—it's real."

"Then be patient. But don't disappear. She needs to know you're there."

I didn't need to be told twice.

After breakfast, I went back to my office upstairs and opened my laptop. There was already an email from Oliver—he'd confirmed our flight and itinerary for the Paris expansion pitch next month. The merger had opened doors, and the world was watching. But for once, business wasn't my primary focus.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at my phone.

No messages from her.

No calls.

And yet, I wasn't worried. I knew Celine well enough now to understand that she needed time to process her feelings. Last night had taken both of us by surprise. Her silence didn't feel cold—it felt careful.

Just as I began drafting a message, the doorbell chimed.

I descended the stairs and opened the door to find a delivery man holding a bouquet of deep pink peonies.

"Mr. Aldridge?"

"That's me."

"These are for Mrs. Aldridge. Signature, please?"

I signed the digital pad and took the bouquet, inhaling the soft floral scent. The card read:

_"To my favorite mystery: Thank you for the moment we shared. – B."

I carried the flowers to the living room and set them on the marble console table outside her room. I didn't knock. I didn't want to force anything. But I wanted her to know I was thinking about her.

Half an hour later, my phone buzzed.

[Celine]: The flowers were beautiful. Thank you.

I stared at the screen longer than necessary before replying.

[Blake]: I meant every word.

Another pause.

[Celine]: I'm going in to work for a few hours. Board prep.

[Blake]: Want company?

[Celine]: Not yet. But... maybe dinner?

I smiled.

[Blake]: It's a date. 7?

[Celine]: 7.

She didn't send an emoji. She didn't elaborate. But the fact that she asked? That was everything.

I stood there for a moment, just smiling at the bouquet, before heading back upstairs to finish my work.

The day passed in a blur. Calls, paperwork, a meeting with PR about the foundation's next gala. But through it all, I was half in another world—replaying the kiss, reading her short messages like they were chapters in a new book.

When 6:30 came around, I put on a crisp navy dress shirt and left the top button open. No tie. Just enough to say, this is dinner with someone important.

I ordered from her favorite fusion restaurant downtown—Korean with a twist of French, something I remembered from a conversation two months ago when she'd ranted about how few people "understood flavor balance."

By 7 p.m., the penthouse smelled like ginger, scallions, and something roasted and rich. The table was set for two. Nothing extravagant. Just enough to feel intentional.

She emerged from her room at 7:05, hair pulled back, simple black blouse tucked into cream trousers. Casual, yet somehow arresting.

Her eyes swept the room. "You remembered my favorite."

"Of course," I said. "I have an excellent memory when properly motivated."

She smiled faintly and took her seat.

Dinner began quietly. We talked about the board meeting. About the quarterly numbers. But somewhere between the second bite and the second glass of wine, things shifted.

She asked me about my childhood.

I asked her what her favorite city was.

She said, "I haven't found it yet. Maybe I'm waiting for the right memory to attach to one."

We didn't touch. We didn't kiss again. But every glance across the table felt like something sacred.

By the time the plates were cleared, she leaned back in her chair, watching me.

"I'm scared," she said simply.

"I know," I replied. "Me too."

She nodded slowly. "But I don't want to run anymore."

"Then don't. Walk. I'll match your pace."

The candle between us flickered gently.

I didn't reach for her hand. But I didn't need to. We were already walking forward.

Together.