By morning, the penthouse felt less like a fortress and more like a command post. Papers littered the long oak dining table, mock contracts, scribbled strategy notes, a blueprint of a company not yet public but already alive in the way their conversations kept looping back to it.
Celeste sat cross-legged on the table itself, one foot brushing Damien’s knee as he flipped through another investor dossier. She watched him, how naturally he moved through these calculations, the way his voice dipped low when he spoke about risk and equity like it was air.
“How many people have you already told?” she asked finally.
Damien didn’t look up immediately. “A handful. Quiet backers, a couple of legal heads. No press.”
“And the board?”
“Skeleton only,” he said, eyes flicking up. “Nothing signed in
