The air in the penthouse was thick with anticipation. Outside, the sky was tinged with the last embers of sunset, bathing the high-rise windows in a copper glow. Inside, Damien’s voice was low but firm, pacing as he clicked through documents on the large screen in the living room.
Celeste sat curled on the velvet sectional, her legs tucked under her, hair loosely braided and damp from a quick shower. She had changed into one of Damien’s oversized shirts, seeking comfort in the lingering scent of him on the cotton. Still, her fingers kept tapping nervously on the edge of her laptop.
The project. Her project. The one Damien had championed. The one that could redefine her entire career.
“It’s a good script,” Damien said, pausing. “Better than good. The role was written for someone like you
