Stirring Waters

I barely slept that night. Not because of stress or nightmares. But because my mind replayed every moment of the dinner with Blake in vivid, frustrating clarity. The way he looked at me. The way he listened when I spoke, not just hearing, but absorbing. And when he smiled—really smiled—my chest felt tight.

We'd crossed a line, but not one I regretted.

The dinner had been my idea. I'd invited him. Me. Celine Cater. The woman who once plotted how to dissolve our arrangement the minute the ink on the contract dried. The woman who had cried in her office the day the merger was announced. That woman had invited her husband to dinner.

And had a wonderful time.

It was terrifying.

By morning, I had managed to convince myself it had just been a pleasant evening. Nothing more. I could move forward without letting it mean too much. Right?

Wrong.

When I stepped into the kitchen, half-expecting the penthouse to be empty, I was surprised to find fresh coffee already brewed. A small note rested beside the machine.

You take yours black. I remembered. – B.

I stared at it longer than I should have.

Something fluttered in my stomach, and I hated how soft that made me feel. Still, I folded the note carefully and slipped it into the drawer by the sink. I couldn't throw it away.

I took the coffee to the living room and sat by the window, watching the city of Velmora stretch and blink into its weekday rhythm. Sarah would be arriving in an hour. Meetings filled the calendar. Another joint campaign was coming up, and the press hadn't let up since the board announcement. But all I could think about was Blake's quiet smile over dessert.

And the fact that I had wanted him to kiss me.

Not for the cameras. Not for appearances.

For me.

I shook the thought away, but it clung to me all morning. When Sarah arrived, she eyed me curiously.

"Everything okay?" she asked as she set down her tablet.

"Fine," I said too quickly.

She raised a brow but didn't push.

Meetings helped. A little. I buried myself in strategy discussions and quarterly projections. Sarah ran interference on unnecessary calls. The Cater side of the business was holding steady, but I knew Blake's influence was beginning to bleed into operations—and, annoyingly, it was making some departments more efficient.

I should have resented it.

Instead, I admired it.

Ugh. Dangerous territory.

By lunchtime, I still hadn't seen him. We were both swamped, but I couldn't ignore the way my thoughts drifted back to him with alarming frequency. Was he thinking about last night too?

Then came the flowers.

Not delivered. Not dramatic. Just… waiting in a small crystal vase on the corner of my office desk when I returned from a meeting. Deep red tulips this time, bold and unapologetic. No card. No note.

Just the flowers.

The meaning was obvious: I remember. I see you.

I sat in my chair and stared at them like they might whisper the answers I was too scared to ask.

Sarah peeked her head in later and said casually, "Nice flowers."

I didn't comment. Just smiled. A small, private thing.

In the afternoon, we had a joint video call scheduled with two European partners. Blake joined from his office down the hall. He looked professional as ever—crisp shirt, tie slightly loosened. But when our eyes met through the screen, something passed between us. A silent acknowledgment of everything left unsaid.

When the call ended, I didn't expect to see him.

But ten minutes later, he knocked softly on my office door.

"Busy?"

"A little." I gestured for him to come in anyway.

He looked around briefly, eyes landing on the tulips. His lips quirked.

"You liked them?"

I nodded. "They're not peonies."

"I thought I'd change it up."

Silence stretched between us again, but it wasn't the cold kind anymore. It was warm, uncertain, even shy.

"I was thinking," he said finally, "maybe we should try again."

"Try what?" I asked, even though I already knew.

"Another dinner. This time, outside the house."

A slow smile tugged at my lips. "A real date?"

He shrugged. "Or as real as it can get between two CEOs forced into matrimony."

"Not exactly a fairytale."

"No," he agreed. "But maybe a new story altogether."

I wanted to say yes immediately. But the cautious part of me—the one that had built walls to keep her heart protected—whispered: be careful.

Still, I didn't shut him down.

"Let me check my schedule," I said softly.

His smile was brief, but real. "I'll wait."

He left the office without another word, and I found myself exhaling only after the door clicked shut. Sarah entered moments later, her expression unreadable.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

"No," I said. Then, after a pause: "Yes. But not yet."

She nodded. "When you're ready."

That night, I returned to the penthouse and found Blake already home. He was in the kitchen again, this time pouring wine. He handed me a glass without speaking, and I took it with a quiet thank-you.

We didn't say much as we stood by the windows, sipping and watching the city. But it wasn't uncomfortable. Just… peaceful.

Eventually, he turned to me.

"Celine," he said, and my name in his voice made something in me soften.

"Hmm?"

"I meant it. I want this to work. Not just for the press or the shareholders."

I looked at him fully. "I know."

He hesitated, then added, "I don't expect you to feel the same yet. But I'm not going to stop trying."

Something in me cracked. And for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel the need to pretend.

"Then I won't stop letting you try."

And that, somehow, felt like a beginning.