Chapter Five
The morning didn't come softly.
It came with the shrill vibration of her phone and a relentless knocking on her suite door.
Celine groaned as she reached for the phone, still tangled in the sheets. Her screen lit up with twenty-seven notifications. Texts. Missed calls. Mentions. Her stomach sank.
She opened the first link.
GOSSIP EXCLUSIVE:
"Blackwell's New Plaything? Mystery Woman Spotted Entering Billionaire's Private Elevator After Midnight."
Below is, a grainy photo of her.
Hair down. Robe barely cinched. Bare feet.
Her heart slammed in her chest.
Another headline:
"From Heiress to Mistress?"
Celine Moreau—daughter of late arms mogul Louis Moreau—was seen getting very close to Damian Blackwell after a sudden hire at his company.
Insider sources hint at more than just a promotion…
The knock came again. Louder.
"Celine, it's Vincent. You need to come with me. Now."
Ten minutes later — Damian's private floor
Celine sat on the edge of a leather couch, her blazer thrown over the silk camisole she hadn't even had time to change. Across from her, Damian stood by the massive window, his back turned.
Vincent closed the door softly behind them and left.
For a long moment, there was nothing but silence.
Then Damian spoke.
"How long have you known Julian was alive?"
Celine blinked. "Seriously? That's your first question?"
He turned. And his expression wasn't cold.
It was controlled. Which was worse.
"You were seen with him. After midnight. On my floor. Wearing next to nothing. While the press is printing photos of you walking out of my elevator like—" He stopped himself, his voice low and sharp. "They're not just coming after you, Celine. They're coming after me."
She stood, fire rising in her chest.
"Then maybe next time, don't put me in a penthouse guarded by ten cameras and a digital trail! Or better yet—don't parade me in front of Eva like a shiny new toy and expect no one to notice!"
Damian crossed the room in three strides.
He was tall—commanding in a way that made rooms hush and people obey. Hair dark as midnight, a tailored black shirt rolled up at the sleeves revealing strong forearms, and a watch that probably cost more than a small country.
His voice dropped an octave.
"You think I paraded you?"
Celine didn't back down. Her dark eyes glittered with fury, her sharp cheekbones flushed with emotion, curls pulled into a loose braid she hadn't had time to fix. Even in anger, she looked like something carved from rebellion.
"I think you use people, Damian. And I think I'm finally starting to see the rules of your little game."
He didn't answer at first. Just stared at her, as if calculating how far she was willing to go. Then he said:
"You walked into this war thinking you could win with truth. That's not how power works."
"Then teach me."
He blinked.
"What?"
"You want a weapon?" she said, voice trembling with steel. "Then sharpen me. Stop protecting me like I'm glass. Show me how to survive this world instead of shielding me from it."
Damian stepped closer.
And closer.
Until the space between them was nothing but the tension of things unsaid.
"I don't want to break you, Celine," he murmured.
"Then stop holding back," she whispered.
The air shifted.
And just when he leaned in—
The door slammed open.
Eva.
Dressed in full corporate armor—ivory pantsuit, blood-red lips, and stilettos like daggers. Her phone in one hand, a rolled-up gossip magazine in the other.
"Well, well," she said, smiling sweetly. "Should I knock next time before interrupting another scandal in the making?"
Celine stepped back.
Damian straightened.
Eva dropped the magazine onto the table, the headline blaring in bold letters:
THE HEIRESS AND THE TYCOON: HOW FAR DID SHE FALL?
She turned to Damian.
"The press wants a statement. Shareholders want a meeting. And if you don't get a leash on your little intern, this company's stock won't be the only thing going down."
Before Damian could reply, Celine picked up the magazine, flipped it open, and tore the page clean.
Then she handed it to Eva.
"I'll give them a statement," she said coolly. "At the press conference."
Damian's brows rose. Eva blinked.
"What conference?"
Celine smiled—sharp as broken glass.
"The one I'll be holding in exactly one hour."
One hour later — Blackwell Enterprises Lobby
Cameras flashed. Reporters shouted. Security barely kept the crowd back.
Celine stood behind the podium, shoulders square, expression calm.
She looked every inch the heiress again—tailored black pantsuit, crimson lipstick, diamonds at her ears. A woman is reborn from fire.
She cleared her throat.
"I'd like to address the rumors circulating about my position at Blackwell Enterprises."
Cameras stilled.
"My late father taught me that reputation is armor, but truth is a weapon. I came here not to seduce, but to build. Not to be whispered about, but to be heard. I will not apologize for being hired on merit. And I will not be ashamed of where I live—because, unlike some people, I didn't sneak in. I was invited."
Her eyes flicked to Eva, who watched from the crowd, arms folded.
"And as for the photographs? Yes, that was me. Coming back from a meeting. At midnight. Because that's what I do when I'm working to clean up the mess of someone else's legacy."
A murmur rippled through the press.
Then Celine added one last thing.
"To those who think I slept my way into this office—I only have one response."
She paused. Looked straight into the camera.
"You should've at least made me dinner first."
The room exploded.
Reporters clamored. Flashes went wild. Damian stood in the shadows of the hallway, lips twitching despite himself.
And beside him, Vincent whispered:
"She just burned them all."
Damian watched as Celine turned from the podium, fire in her eyes.
"No," he murmured. "She just declared war."
The elevator doors slid shut behind her, cocooning Celine in silence. She exhaled shakily, her heart still pounding from the adrenaline rush of the press conference.
Had she just declared war on half the city?
Yes.
And she'd do it again.
Her fingers trembled as she reached up to unpin her hair. The tight coil she'd forced into place this morning loosened, spilling her thick chestnut waves around her shoulders. Celine stared at her reflection in the mirrored panel — wide brown eyes, flushed cheeks, and steel she hadn't known still lived in her.
She wasn't just surviving.
She was becoming dangerous.
The elevator chimed at the penthouse level. The doors opened.
And Damian was already waiting.
He'd discarded the suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and poured himself a drink — bourbon, neat. He looked less like a tech billionaire and more like a calculated storm. Under the sleek lines of wealth and control, there was always something darker in Damian. Something no press release could explain.
He didn't speak as she walked in.
He simply handed her a glass and motioned toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the skyline glowed like scattered embers.
Celine sipped.
"I'm guessing Eva is sharpening her stilettos?"
Damian's mouth quirked at the edge. "She wants your head. PR wants your apology. And the board… well, they're still too stunned to decide."
"I'm not sorry," she said, sinking into the velvet armchair near the window.
He took a slow sip of his bourbon. "You shouldn't be."
She blinked at him. "You're not angry?"
"I'm furious," he said evenly. "But not at you."
A beat of silence stretched between them.
"I told you to stay quiet," he added.
"I know," Celine said. "But I don't stay in cages."
Damian walked toward her. Each step was unhurried, deliberate — the pace of a man who owned the room before he entered it. When he stopped in front of her, Celine had to tilt her head to meet his gaze.
"I warned you this wouldn't be easy," he said.
"You also told me not to be afraid."
"I didn't expect you to burn the house down," he muttered.
She smiled faintly. "Was that what that was?"
"No." He leaned in, resting one hand on the back of her chair. "That was your first real move. Now they'll come at you harder."
She swallowed.
"And you?"
Damian studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
Then he murmured, "Now I have to decide whether to protect you… or unleash you."
A knock interrupted them.
Vincent opened the door just enough to speak.
"There's someone here to see you, sir."
Damian's eyes didn't leave Celine's. "Who?"
Vincent hesitated. "It's Julian Vale."
The name cracked the air like a lightning strike.
Celine's heart thudded. She shot to her feet. "Julian?"
Damian's jaw tensed. "He's supposed to be in Dubai."
Vincent nodded grimly. "He's not."
Celine turned to Damian, voice low. "He helped me once. When my father—"
"I know what he did," Damian interrupted, eyes darkening. "And I also know he doesn't show up without an angle."
She stepped back, trying to rein in her spiraling thoughts.
Julian Vale — slick, charming, and always one secret away from being dangerous. He'd once been her father's most trusted partner until a mysterious split sent him vanishing overseas. She hadn't seen him since her father's funeral.
Damian turned to Vincent. "Bring him up. But not here. Conference Room B. And scan him. Every inch."
Vincent nodded and disappeared.
Celine looked to Damian. "What do you think he wants?"
Damian finished his bourbon. "If he's here unannounced, it's not good."
She wrapped her arms around herself. "Do you trust him?"
"I don't trust anyone I can't control."
"And me?"
Damian turned, his eyes locking on hers. "You're the only wildcard I've ever bet on."
The room fell into silence again.
But this time, it thrummed with something deeper — not just attraction or tension — but the dangerous realization that whatever game they were playing…
The rules had just changed.