Celeste stood outside Noah's apartment door, her perfectly manicured finger hovering over the doorbell; his mother told her he had an apartment that he went to when things went south, and here she was. She could hear muffled sounds inside—Noah moving around, maybe pacing. She took a deep breath, smoothing her designer coat and adjusting her expression to one of sincere concern. She was ready. She pressed the doorbell.
The news of Laura's accident had clearly shaken him, and Celeste knew this was her opportunity to step in. To be the one who "saved" him from himself—or, more accurately, to be the one he turned to when everything else fell apart. She straightened her posture, adjusted her coat, and rapped her knuckles against the door.
The door opened almost immediately, and Noah stood in
