“You have my number,” I whisper.
Celeste smiles. “Yes.”
“How?” My voice shakes. “How did you—”
“Do you know how easy it is to find someone who lives in the same city, works in the same place, and has a paper trail of stress?” she interrupts gently. “You’re not invisible, Elara. You’re just unused to being seen.”
My hands clench. “So you’ve been messaging me.”
“I’ve been reminding you,” she corrects.
“Reminding me of what?”
Celeste’s gaze drops to the envelope. “That you’re borrowing power you don’t understand.”
My jaw tightens. “And what do you want?”
Finally—finally—the question seems to amuse her.
“What do I want?” she repeats, as if tasting the words. “I want you to stop turning this into a love story.”
My chest tightens. “It’s not.”
“Not yet,” she says softly. “But I can se
