The quiet in Damien’s penthouse the next morning was almost deceptive.
Celeste stood at the island counter, nursing a cup of coffee she’d barely touched. Damien’s shirt hung loosely off her shoulders, her bare legs cold against the polished floor, but she didn’t move.
She’d slept, a little. In pieces. Twined around Damien like she was trying to hold onto something before it disappeared again.
But now, the air buzzed. Like the silence before a bomb drops.
Damien came out of the bedroom, already dressed in slacks and a dark shirt, no tie. Sleeves rolled. Barefoot, hair still wet from the shower. He looked calm. Collected.
But his eyes, those storm-colored eyes were sharp and focused.
He crossed to her without a word and leaned down to kiss her temple. “I made a few calls. We’ll have ey
