The sun hadn’t yet risen, but sleep had long since abandoned them both.
Damien stood by the window, shirtless, glass of untouched whiskey in his hand. The city stretched below, eerily still. Celeste sat curled in a blanket on the couch, watching him, but saying nothing.
There was a silence between them that wasn’t born from tension, but from knowing what was about to be said would change something. Maybe not everything. But something.
He didn’t look at her when he finally spoke. “There are things you don’t know, Celeste.”
Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of the blanket. “Then tell me.”
Damien’s jaw flexed. “When I took over Sinclair Media, it was already infected. My father built it on manipulation, favors, blackmail. He thought information was currency, and he made sure we
