The sun crept slowly across the floor of the Sinclair penthouse, painting golden lines through the expansive glass windows. For the first time in weeks, the atmosphere inside wasn’t pulsing with strategy or retaliation. It was quieter, steadier. A lull, but not of defeat. Of breath. Of space.
Celeste stood at the edge of the balcony, barefoot and still in her robe, coffee cooling in her hands. She looked out over the Los Angeles skyline, the city that had both crowned her and crucified her, the same city where she’d found her way back to Damien.
She had survived Veronica’s worst. The doctored footage. The sabotage. The lies. Even her ex resurfacing like a ghost from the past hadn't shattered her this time.
But survival wasn’t the same as healing.
Damien stepped onto the balcony, a file
