The Shift

I didn't expect to feel nervous.

Not when I'd negotiated billion-dollar mergers, faced boardroom titans, and smoothed over public relations disasters with a smile and a calculated tilt of my head. But that evening, standing outside the penthouse with a bottle of wine and a breath I couldn't quite steady, I was undeniably, unmistakably nervous.

She had invited me. Celine Cater—my wife on paper, my rival in legacy, and the woman who'd once looked at me like I was a storm barreling through her well-ordered life—had invited me to dinner. Not as a show. Not for the press. Just… us.

I'd received the calendar alert through her assistant earlier that week. Saturday, 7 PM. Private chef. No press, no guests.

I stared at the polished steel doors of the elevator as they slid open and stepped into the soft light of our shared home. The scent of lemon verbena drifted in the air, mingled with something rich and buttery from the kitchen. Candles flickered on the table, arranged with precision but softness. I saw her then—Celine—standing by the dining table in a cream satin dress, her hair swept up, her eyes unreadable and arresting.

"You look stunning," I said honestly.

She turned with that familiar mix of grace and calculation, the kind of gaze that had made grown men squirm during negotiations. But tonight, there was a softness too.

"I almost canceled," she said, her voice light.

I smirked. "You knew I'd come anyway."

She took the wine from me, inspecting the label. "Apology gift?"

"For not knocking on your door that night," I admitted.

Celine didn't flinch. "You don't owe me an apology for respecting space."

I paused, then said carefully, "Still—I wanted to. I just didn't know if I was allowed to want that."

A beat passed between us—tense, full of unspoken things. Then she turned, gesturing to the table. The chef gave us a polite nod from the kitchen and disappeared into the background.

Dinner unfolded like a well-written play—measured scenes, deliberate pauses, unexpected laughter. We talked. Actually talked. Not just about numbers or press releases or corporate strategy, but about music and old hobbies, childhood dreams, and embarrassments that made us both laugh until our ribs hurt.

She told me she once entered a science fair with a water-powered clock that soaked her entire project board two minutes before judging. I admitted I'd broken my grandfather's vintage record player trying to impress a high school crush by pretending I knew how to DJ.

It was ridiculous. And honest. And real.

Halfway through dessert—chocolate ganache with berries—she leaned back in her chair and said, "This is the first time I've felt like we weren't trying so hard."

I watched her, memorizing the line of her neck, the way candlelight danced in her eyes.

"That's because we stopped pretending," I said.

Celine smiled, small and quiet. "I'm tired of pretending."

So was I.

After the dishes were cleared and the chef had left, the music played low, some kind of slow French jazz that made the world feel slowed down. Neither of us rushed to move. We simply sat there, the night stretching open with possibility.

I didn't want it to end.

But I didn't push either. This wasn't about taking—this was about showing her I'd wait. That I could.

She walked me to the door like it was the end of a real date. The irony wasn't lost on me—husband and wife, still dancing around each other like teenagers.

"I had a good time," I said softly.

Celine tilted her head. "So did I."

We stood close—too close for it to be casual. Her eyes dropped to my lips, just for a second. My hands twitched at my sides.

But then she stepped back.

"Goodnight, Blake."

"Goodnight, Celine."

She closed the door gently, and I stood outside it for a moment longer than I should have. Then I turned and left.

Later that night, I stared at the ceiling in my room, the memory of her laugh echoing louder than anything else. I didn't know exactly when the shift had started, only that it was growing harder to ignore.

I wanted her. Not just physically—though, God, that too—but all of her. Her stubbornness, her brilliance, her loyalty, her quiet hope. I wanted to earn a place in her world, not just her home.

And for the first time, I thought maybe… just maybe… we could make something of this. Something real.