Unraveling The Rules
1092 Words
The Morning After, Celeste awoke with the weight of last night pressing against her skin like an unwanted brand.
She sat up in bed, her silk sheets pooling at her waist as sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Paris sprawled beyond the glass, golden and breathtaking, but her mind was trapped in the storm of what had happened.
The memory of his voice, low, commanding—whispered through her thoughts. "This isn’t a game anymore."
Her stomach clenched.
She had locked the door, yet still he had walked through it.
This was a reminder that he always got what he wanted. That the illusion of control she thought she had was just that—an illusion.
But the worst part was that she hadn’t pushed him away.
She had let him stand there, close enough to steal the air from her lungs. Close enough to make her question everything.
Celeste exhaled sharply and swung her legs over the bed, determined to shove the moment into the deepest corner of her mind.
"It's just three months. That was all this was." She kept reminding herself.
Celeste padded barefoot into the penthouse kitchen, determined to pretend that nothing had changed, but the moment she saw Damien standing by the coffee machine, shirtless, wearing nothing but sweatpants and a knowing smirk, she knew she was screwed.
His hair was still damp from the shower, his muscles defined in the morning light. He looked unfairly relaxed, like a man who hadn’t spent the night unravelling everything she thought she knew.
Celeste cleared her throat and crossed her arms. “You’re in my kitchen.”
Damien sipped his coffee, unbothered. “Our kitchen, technically.
She scowled. “Don’t push it.”
His lips twitched. “Good morning to you too.”
Celeste ignored the way her pulse reacted to his voice and focused on the espresso machine, deliberately putting distance between them.
Damien leaned against the counter, watching her with amusement. “You’re avoiding me.”
Celeste scoffed. “I’m making coffee.”
His smirk deepened. “You’re making a point to not look at me.”
She turned, meeting his gaze head-on. “Happy?”
His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering behind them. “Not yet.”
Heat coiled low in her stomach, but she refused to let him win.
“I have a fitting today,” she said coolly, changing the subject. “For the Vogue cover.”
Damien nodded. “I know.”
Celeste frowned. “How?”
“I control half the magazine industry, Celeste.” His voice was laced with amusement. “Did you think I wouldn’t know where my fiancée is at all times?”
She gritted her teeth. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
Damien set his coffee down, stepping closer. “No,” he murmured, his voice a low hum against her skin. “But you do need a reminder that the world is watching.”
Celeste’s breath hitched as he reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Play your role, sweetheart,” he whispered, his lips just inches from hers. “Or someone else will write the script for you.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She wanted to slap him, but at the same time, she wanted to kiss him.
Forced herself to smile, she said, “Don’t worry, darling, I never forget my lines.”
She grabbed her coffee and strode past him, ignoring the way his gaze burned into her back.
She had won this round, yet she knew that Damien wasn’t done playing.
Later that morning at the fitting.
Celeste sat in front of a massive mirror in the Vogue studio, dressed in a custom, form-fitting black gown. The fabric hugged her curves, the high slit revealing just enough to be scandalous.
It was perfect, except for the fact that she was suffocating under the weight of everything that was happening.
Her phone buzzed on the table, picking it up she frowned at the unknown number.
UNKNOWN: You look stunning. But then again, you always did know how to play a role, didn’t you?
Her blood ran cold.
She turned her head sharply, scanning the room. There were Photographers, Stylists and Assistants, but no one stood out as suspicious. No one watching her.
But she had a growing unease in her chest that curled tighter.
“Celeste?” She jolted as her stylist, Margot, touched her shoulder. “Are you okay?"
Celeste forced a smile. “Yeah.” She set her phone down, determined to ignore the message. “Let’s finish this.” But the words sat heavy on her tongue because she knew that whoever had sent that text wasn't done watching, but then neither was she.
By the time she returned to the penthouse, her nerves were frayed. She needed answers, and unfortunately, there was only one person who could give them to her. Damien.
Damien was in the living room, casually flipping through a document. He barely glanced up as she stormed in.
“I need to talk to you.”
He smirked. “Hello to you too.”
Celeste ignored his sarcasm and tossed her phone onto the table. “I got a message.”
Damien picked it up, his gaze flickering over the screen.
His expression didn’t change, but she saw the movement, a slight tightening of his grip and the way his jaw tensed, just for a second.
It was barely noticeable, but to Celeste, it was everything. “You know who sent it,” she accused.
Damien set the phone down. “Maybe.”
Celeste narrowed her eyes. “Damien!”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Her pulse spiked. “It matters to me.”
Damien sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Julian.”
Her stomach dropped. "Julian Mercer!" She should have guessed it would be him.
Celeste crossed her arms. “And you weren’t going to tell me?”
Damien met her gaze. “No.”
Her breath caught.
Damien was ruthless, but this? This was personal. He wasn’t just protecting the engagement. He was protecting her, and she didn’t know what to do about it.
Celeste exhaled, turning away. “I don’t need saving, Damien.”
She expected him to argue, but instead, he just watched her with those unreadable grey eyes.
“No,” he murmured. “You don’t.”
Those words somehow terrified her more than anything else because for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to fight him, or fall.
- Writer
