Shifting Gears

I stood in the kitchen with a second glass of wine, watching the door Celine had just closed behind her. Her final words echoed in my head.

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

That was more than I could have hoped for.

The woman I'd married out of necessity and pride was letting me in, inch by careful inch. And if I'd learned anything from our last few months of tension, proximity, and forced civility, it was that slow progress with Celine Cater meant it was real. Anything too easy with her would've been a trap—or worse, a performance.

And this didn't feel like a performance anymore.

I cleaned up our glasses and set the bottle aside, still savoring the slight smile she'd given me. A real one. Not the polite corporate curve of her lips, but something warm and vulnerable. It lingered with me long after she disappeared into her side of the penthouse.

This place was starting to feel less like a holding cell and more like a home.

I walked to the window and looked out at the twinkling skyline of Velmora. For so long, the city had been a game to conquer—a beast to tame, bend, and brand with the Aldridge name. Now, with Celine by my side, it felt less like a prize and more like a shared canvas.

I let out a long breath and leaned against the cool glass.

There had been a moment at dinner—right after she laughed at my awful imitation of her French tutor—that I wanted to reach across the table and touch her hand. Just to see if the electricity was real.

But I hadn't.

Not yet.

Because I knew one wrong move would send her retreating into her fortress again.

And I didn't want a fortress. I wanted her. All of her. The sharp brilliance, the quiet vulnerability, the stubborn resolve that reminded me far too much of myself.

The next morning, I woke earlier than usual, my mind buzzing with the need to channel all this clarity into something tangible. Business helped me process emotion—it always had. I showered, dressed, and made my way to the office with a renewed sense of purpose.

Oliver was already waiting by the car downstairs.

"You're early," he said, eyeing my suit with a knowing smirk.

"I had clarity last night," I said simply.

He chuckled. "Let me guess. Dinner with Mrs. Aldridge went well?"

I didn't answer, but the small grin on my face gave me away.

At the office, I called an impromptu meeting with the PR team to revisit our messaging for the merger's second-quarter update. Not because I needed to control the narrative, but because I finally believed in it.

When I stepped into the boardroom and greeted the team, I saw it in their eyes—they noticed the shift.

Less steel. More direction.

We wrapped in under an hour, and I headed back to my office with a quiet sense of momentum. Celine hadn't responded to my calendar request for dinner yet, but I wasn't going to rush her.

Instead, I had something else in mind.

At lunchtime, I sent a quick message to her assistant:

To: Sarah Smith Please let Mrs. Aldridge know that a surprise delivery will be arriving around 2 PM. No action needed. Just a smile.

It wasn't flowers this time. I was switching gears.

At 2 PM sharp, the catering team arrived at Cater Innovations HQ with her favorite pastries from that bakery she mentioned during our last dinner—the one she used to walk past in college but rarely indulged in.

A note tucked in read:

"You once said success made you forget the little things. This is me reminding you of them. – B."

I waited an hour. No reply.

Then, a message came through.

[Celine]: I didn't forget. I just never had time. Thank you, Blake. Truly.

I stared at that message for a full minute.

No sarcasm. No reservation.

Just... gratitude.

I sent one back.

[Blake]: Dinner, Friday night. I'll pick the place. You bring the sarcasm. Deal?

Her reply came back instantly.

[Celine]: You're on probation. But deal.

I laughed aloud in my office. My assistant outside looked in, surprised.

Progress.

That night, we crossed paths again in the penthouse. She was barefoot in the living room, flipping through some documents. I was on my second espresso, fighting jet lag from the earlier investor call.

"Thanks for lunch," she said without looking up.

"You needed something sweet. You're too sharp otherwise."

She shot me a look. "I'm always sweet. Just... spiced."

"Like cinnamon," I offered.

She rolled her eyes but smiled. "More like chili chocolate."

We talked. Light stuff. She asked about my grandfather, and I told her Charles had already planned out our next family dinner.

"I think he wants you to join his Friday poker game."

"I'd rather run barefoot through traffic."

I grinned. "I'll let him down gently."

We parted ways at the hallway—her room on the left, mine on the right. She lingered for a second.

"Goodnight, Blake."

"Sleep well, Celine."

I watched her door close, then leaned against mine, unsure of what to do with the warmth spreading in my chest.

She wasn't mine. Not yet.

But she wasn't completely closed off either.

And as long as she kept opening that door—even slightly—I'd keep walking through.