The Tipping Point

I hadn't expected the evening to shift.

Not like that.

I walked into the penthouse with dinner on my mind—cooking something decent, maybe getting a smile from her if I was lucky. The way things had been going, even a sarcastic comment from Celine counted as a win. But I wasn't prepared for the way the night unraveled, or how easily she slipped under my skin.

She was at the kitchen island, laptop open, glasses on, hair pinned in a way that looked effortless but definitely wasn't. Celine Cater didn't do anything without intent—even the way she ignored me when I walked in was calculated.

Still, I saw the flicker in her eyes when I asked if she'd had a long day. She was tired, yes—but there was something else underneath. Something unspoken. That spark we'd been dancing around for months now, flaring to life again.

I needed a reason to stay close. So I offered to cook.

She looked up like I'd suggested flying to the moon.

"You'll cook?" she repeated.

"Watch and learn," I said, pulling out the ingredients I'd already picked up that afternoon.

She was suspicious, of course. Probably thought it was another ploy to win her over.

And maybe it was. But not out of strategy.

Out of want.

The kind of want that had nothing to do with headlines or press releases and everything to do with the woman sitting across from me, watching me crack eggs and stir pasta like I was rewriting the rules of the universe.

Dinner went better than I expected.

She laughed—actually laughed—when I told her about my time at boarding school, forced into kitchen duty for sneaking into the dining hall. I liked seeing that light in her eyes. She didn't drop her guard often, but when she did, it was beautiful. Disarming.

By the time we finished eating, the room had changed. Not the décor, not the air—but the space between us.

It wasn't cold anymore.

It was charged.

We cleaned together, brushing shoulders and exchanging those small touches that meant nothing but suddenly meant everything. She reached up to wipe soap from my face, and I froze.

My heart knocked against my ribs like it had something to prove.

Her fingers lingered, soft against my cheek.

"Celine," I said, low.

She blinked. "Yes?"

"I'm trying really hard not to kiss you right now."

She didn't move away. "Why not?"

That caught me off guard. She wasn't being coy. She meant it.

"Because I want it to mean something," I said. And I meant that too.

She didn't hesitate. "It already does."

That was all the permission I needed.

I kissed her like I'd been holding my breath since the day we met. No strategy. No restraint. Just pure, unfiltered hunger wrapped in months of tension and something warmer buried beneath.

She tasted like wine and challenge. Her lips moved against mine with equal fire, as if she'd been waiting just as long. My hands cupped her face, her fingers tugged me closer by the collar.

God, I didn't want to let go.

We parted only when breathing became necessary. Foreheads touching, hearts racing.

"This complicates things," she whispered.

"Only if we let it."

Her eyes searched mine for a long moment. I saw the hesitation, the years of walls and armor. But I also saw the flicker of trust.

"And if I'm scared?" she asked.

"So am I," I said. "But I think we owe it to ourselves to see what's possible."

She nodded, and I exhaled like I hadn't in months.

We ended up on the couch, wrapped in the kind of silence that wasn't empty but full. Full of what hadn't been said yet. Full of the weight of new beginnings. Our limbs tangled under a blanket, her head on my shoulder. We talked in whispers, kissed with gentle intensity, laughed softly at jokes that would've fallen flat months ago.

This was something new.

This was the beginning of an 'us.'

And I was terrified.

Because this wasn't supposed to happen.

I wasn't supposed to fall for the girl I married out of corporate obligation.

But I was. In the way her smile stayed with me long after she left the room. In the way her sharp tongue now made me grin instead of flinch. In the way her silence wasn't cold anymore—it was contemplative. Real.

When she finally stood to go to bed, I didn't stop her. I just stood with her.

At her door, she turned to me. "Goodnight, Mr. Aldridge."

"Goodnight, Mrs. Aldridge," I replied.

She smiled, and this time it wasn't guarded.

After she disappeared into her room, I lingered in the hall, fingers pressed to my lips. I didn't know what came next.

But I knew one thing for certain:

She was worth the risk.