Speaking of the Devil
1302 Words
CELINE’S POV
“Please step on it—I don't wanna be late.”
Every red light felt like a personal attack. I checked my watch every few seconds, convinced it had stopped ticking. God help me, if I were behind the wheel, I’d drive on the sidewalk.
“Almost there, ma’am,” he said, again.
It's possible Shawn warned him about scratching the car. By the time I finished my makeup this morning, his red Bugatti gleamed in the sun, parked by the fountain. When did he buy that one? No idea.
“Don’t stress, the driver will take you to work,” he’d said earlier, shutting down any argument before it began. Being an hour late, the last thing I wanted was a fight.
Finally, the car rolled up to a stop in front of my company building. I slammed the door shut and exhaled. Today’s meeting could make or break Celine’s Couture. The email I read on the way; outlining a multi-million dollar deal, sent goose bumps racing up my arms.
I stepped in, nodding absently while brushing past the usual hellos. The elevator doors parted with a soft chime, revealing my office. My assistant stood by my desk, swiping through her tablet like the day had started hours ago.
“Morning, Miss Celine.” Her tapping persisted as I approached my desk. “I’ve moved your meeting with the Vogue rep to ten-thirty. The fabric supplier’s on line one, and the investor just called…They're running twenty minutes late.”
“Twenty?” I peeled off my shades, tucking them into my white shirt. “They were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago. My voice came out low but sharp. “Did you confirm the time?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she replied. There’s been a delay at the airport, but they confirmed they’re on their way.”
“Fine. Have the samples ready in the boardroom, and make sure the champagne’s cold. If this deal goes through, we’re celebrating before lunch.”
I’ll admit, there’s been a handful of crazy deals over the past few months for my brand, but this was the f*****g jackpot. I doubt any of Shawn’s investors were behind this. Regardless, I couldn’t afford to take any chances.
“Should I push the team briefing back?” she asked.
“No. If they show up late, they’ll wait. Anything else?”
“Just one. Your fiancé sent flowers again. Do I—”
“Toss them,” I cut her off.
She hesitated as I rounded my desk, my fingertip gliding over a leaf from the flowers by the floor-to-ceiling window.
“Got it,” she said.
Straightening my blue blazer, I rested both hands on my waist and took in the sweep of the city beyond the glass.
“Alright. Let’s make a few million reasons for them to forgive that delay.”
My distant gaze over the city took me back to a sixteen-year-old girl who loved trying on fancy clothes; the kind that turned heads the second you looked. On my dad’s last birthday before he passed, I made him a custom suit. The joy on his face that day… I only wish he could see me now.
The buzz from my assistant’s phone snapped me out of my reverie.
“Yes? … Okay, just hold,” she said, pressing the phone screen to her shoulder, eyes locked on mine. “Madam, Sylvia’s at reception. Should I send her up?”
Sylvia? What the hell is she doing here? I snatched my phone, thumbing through my inbox; there it was — a text from last night, buried among the clutter: Hey Cee, don't forget, florist shop, 10 a.m.
I wasn’t ready to see her stupid face again, but I’d be damned if I didn’t want to stare down the Judas who once called me her best friend—the same Judas who rode my husband like she’d been riding my trust for God knows how long.
“Sure, send her up.”
“Alright, madam,” she said, clicking the door shut.
I took a deep breath, bracing myself to face her. My eyes landed on the small framed photo of our Alaska trip, sitting beside the nameplate on my desk. I leaned against the edge, letting it all sink in. We’d done everything together; more like sisters than friends… Well, I guess stabbing me in the back made more sense.
Two sharp knocks echoed on the door before my receptionist pushed it open. Sylvia stepped in, wrapped in an all-black leather jacket and a matching skirt that skimmed just above her knees. I nodded in acknowledgment and let the photo slip from my fingers, meeting her green eyes as she drew closer.
“Girl, what’s up?” she asked, tossing her Chanel bag onto the couch before collapsing beside it. “Are you ever gonna pick up?”
I sighed and rubbed my temples, sinking into the softness of my chair behind my desk. “Honestly… I haven’t been feeling great. Might be coming down with something.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Huh… Sure you’re good, Cee? Did something happen?”
I forced a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. “Just tired,” I said, reaching for the coffee mug on my desk. “Didn’t sleep much.”
She tilted her head, her soft auburn waves catching the light. “You look… hold up, don’t tell me.” She took an audible inhale. “Cold feet?” Cold feet—Yeah right. That’s one way to put it. Betrayed. Shitty. Pissed. That’s a few more.
“I’ve got a pitch in two hours,” I said, deflecting. “Big investor. I can’t afford to be off.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Oh right! Don’t worry, I know you’re gonna crush it, babe.”
Babe? Every word that came out of her mouth twisted a knife in my stomach with every syllable. f**k.
I nodded, swallowing the bile rising in my throat. “Yeah. Hopefully.”
She leaned forward, her tone softening. “You know I’m here if you need anything, right?”
I looked at her then– really looked. Her voice sounded real. But so did the moans on the other side of that door I wasn’t supposed to hear. I wondered if guilt ever flickered behind those green eyes. If she even knew what she did to me.
She smiled, self-satisfied. I stared into the mug like it might fill itself with something stronger than coffee. I didn’t need peace. I needed clarity. Maybe even a gun. Maybe then I’d understand why hurting me sat better with her than our twenty-year friendship.
“Thanks, Vee,” I said, voice steady. “Really.”
“So, how’s the soon-to-be Mrs. Mercer prepping for her big day?” she asked, her voice lilting as she wiggled her head.
I swiveled my chair to the window, squeezing my eyes like I'd had enough of her questions.
“Busy. You know…final touches, guest list drama… I’m just trying not to lose my head.”
She leaned in, undeterred. “What? I mean, it’s Shawn Mercer—the love of your life! You’ve had a crush on this guy since college.”
I exhaled, clenching my jaw. “Um…can we talk about this some other time. At the shop, alright?”
“I… I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quickly.
“Vee!” I turned to face her. “Please…Can we not do this right now?”
The silence between us stretched, thick with everything we weren’t saying. Just then, the sharp ring of the telephone pierced through the air. I pressed the receiver to my ear, hoping for something good.
“Yes… What!?”
- Writer
