The city was soft in the hour before dawn. From the penthouse balcony, Celeste could see the sprawl of Los Angeles stretching endlessly west, lights flickering out as the night receded. It felt quieter than usual, like a hush that follows a storm that never quite made landfall.
She sipped her tea, the mug warm in her palms, and let the memory of the televised interview replay in pieces. Arthur’s restless eyes. Priya’s calm voice. Her own words, spoken without script or spin.
She’d slept after, tangled up in Damien’s arms, the two of them too exhausted to do anything but breathe each other in. She’d expected to wake to chaos, headlines twisted beyond recognition, opportunists circling again.
But instead, her phone held something else: messages that felt different. Real. Not just fans or
