Chapter 13
824 Words
Celina
Celina woke with a gasp, heart racing, sheets twisted around her legs.
Elliot.
Even in sleep he haunted her—his eyes dark with restraint, his voice low and commanding, the way he’d left her standing there with heat still humming under her skin and questions burning holes in her chest.
She swung her legs off the bed and pulled on her running shoes before she could think too much about it. Anger was easier to outrun than confusion.
The estate was quiet in the early Sunday light, mist clinging to manicured lawns as she jogged the perimeter, breath steady, muscles working the frustration out of her body. She let her mind go blank—no Elliot, no almost-kisses, no disappearing acts.
Her pace slowed when she reached the main house.
She’d never come this close before.
The architecture stopped her cold—grand, old money elegant, stone and glass married with impossible precision. It didn’t feel abandoned. It felt… preserved. Waiting.
As she stretched near the massive central windows, something inside caught her eye.
A portrait.
A woman stared back at her from within the house, rendered in soft light and exquisite detail. Dark hair swept back, eyes luminous, a beauty so effortless it felt unreal. The kind of woman who belonged in oil paint and legacy, not passing glances.
Celina’s chest tightened unexpectedly.
Who lives here? she wondered.
In her time on the property, she’d seen no one else. No family. No staff. Just him.
Mr Tall, Dark, and Troubled.
A thought struck her suddenly.
Security.
Elite. Private. The kind who guarded wealth and secrets. That would explain the access, the car, the club, the way people moved aside for him. Maybe the date wasn’t his world—maybe he’d borrowed it.
The idea soothed something in her, even as it raised new questions.
The week slipped into routine—lectures, work in the research support department, late nights studying and pretending her thoughts didn’t drift every time she passed an elevator or heard a low voice behind her.
By Wednesday afternoon, a familiar black car waited outside the poolhouse.
Her pulse spiked.
Frank stood beside it, calm and unreadable. Next to him was a stylish woman with a warm smile.
“Miss Sheppard,” Frank said, holding out a phone. “Mr Blackwood.”
Celina took it, jaw tight.
“You have some nerve,” she said the moment she heard his voice.
He didn’t interrupt.
He listened.
When she finally ran out of steam, he spoke—measured, controlled, but different. Quieter. Like something weighed on him.
He explained the arrangements he’d made. The event. The penthouse. The intention behind it.
She said nothing at first, absorbing the shift in his tone.
“Here’s my counter,” she said finally. “I’ll go along with this—if you answer my questions. Honestly. No half-truths.”
A pause.
Then, faint amusement threaded with something deeper. “You negotiate boldly.”
“I don’t submit blindly.”
“Good,” he replied. “Ask.”
The next days felt unreal.
Alice—the personal shopper—was a whirlwind of silk and sparkle, laughter and reassurance. Celina was dressed, fitted, indulged in ways she’d never imagined. At the penthouse, time softened. A personal chef cooked meals that tasted like care. A massage therapist worked tension from her shoulders until she nearly cried.
She soaked in baths overlooking the city, glass of water sweating beside her, wondering how a life could pivot so suddenly.
Her unexpected anchor was Mara, the assistant Elliot had assigned—sharp, kind, and refreshingly normal. They talked. Laughed. For once, Celina didn’t feel like a visitor passing through someone else’s world.
Saturday morning arrived quietly.
She woke late, body heavy with rest—and warmth.
A lingering dream clung to her senses. Elliot’s presence. His attention. The way he’d looked at her like restraint was a choice he made every second.
Her breath stuttered as awareness returned fully, heat pooling low in her stomach, pulse skittering.
She wasn’t alone.
Elliot sat in a chair in the corner of the room, suit trousers and a dark shirt, tie loosened.
Watching her.
The air thickened instantly.
He rose and crossed the room with unhurried intent, stopping close enough that she could feel him without being touched.
His mouth found hers—slow, claiming.
She answered.
Then she stopped him, pressing a hand to his chest.
“No,” she said, eyes blazing. “You don’t get to do this without answers. You don’t get to pull me close and vanish and expect me to just—”
His gaze held hers, intense and unflinching.
“Then say it,” he murmured. “Say what you need.”
Her heart pounded as she met him head-on.
And for the first time, Elliot Blackwood didn’t look like a man in control—
He looked like a man ready to listen.
- Writer
