The penthouse was a glass and steel fortress, its streamlined, contemporary look reflecting the personality of its owner. Celeste came in, suitcase in hand, and shivered. The room was huge, with ceilings so high and floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto a breathtaking view of the city. But it was not warm, not alive. It was more a museum than a house.
Elliot stood in the center of the living room, hands in his pockets, looking at her with a vacant face. "This way," he said, walking toward a hallway.
He led her to a bedroom in the back of the penthouse. It was spacious and nicely furnished, but impersonal, like a hotel room. He set down her suitcase and turned to leave.
Wait, Celeste cut in, her voice cutting through the silence. "That's it? No tour? No blueprint on how things are done around here?"
Elliot paused, his back still to her. "You're a smart woman. You'll get the hang of it."
She crossed her arms, her fury bubbling over. "And what about you? Do I just pretend you don't exist?
He swung around to face her, his expression stubborn. "You can have whatever you need—except my time. This is a business deal, Celeste. Don't you ever forget it."
And with that, he walked out, leaving her standing in the middle of the room, her fists clenched. She was a stranger in her own life, a ghost in another's home.
The First Power Struggle
Dinner was a silent meal. Celeste sat at one end of the long table, Elliot the other. The only sound in the room was the tinkling of silver on china. The meal itself was lovely—filet mignon, roasted vegetables, a full red wine—but Celeste barely touched it. The atmosphere between them was electric, a thick fog that neither of them seemed to be in any hurry to blow away.
At last, she couldn't take it any longer. She set down her fork and looked at him. "Why are you like this?"
Elliot's eyes snapped up; his expression cold. "Like what?"
"Cold. Remote. Like you were chiseled from stone." She came forward, her eyes unyielding. "What happened to you?"
His jaw was clenched, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. Then he set his glass aside, his voice low and threatening. "I warned you not to pry."
"And I warned you I wouldn't be your puppet," she shot back. "If we're going to do this, I have a right to know who I'm married to."
Elliot's gaze turned hard, and for the first time, Celeste caught a glimpse of something behind his mask—pain? Anger? It was gone as soon as it appeared, replaced by the cold, calculating face she'd grown accustomed to. But it was enough to wonder. What had broken him? What was he running from?
"You don't deserve anything," he said to her, his voice as cold as ice. "This is a transaction, Celeste. Nothing more."
She held his gaze, refusing to back down. "Maybe. But even bargains must be truthful."
He sprang up hastily, the chair creaking as he stood. "Eat your dinner."
As he left, Celeste felt a paradoxical twinge of irritation and curiosity. She had gotten under his skin, and for the first time, she wondered if there was more to Elliot Sloane than met the eye.
The Midnight Encounter
That evening, later, Celeste was in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Sleep passed her by as she churned over questions. Who was Elliot, really? What had hardened him into a closed, uncaring shell, and why on earth had he picked her out of everyone he knew for this setup?
She got up and padded to the kitchen, hoping water would calm her nerves. As she passed Elliot's study, she heard his voice, low and insistent. She lingered, curiosity getting the upper hand.
"I don't care what it takes," he was saying. "Find out who's digging into my past. And make sure they don't get any farther."
There was a pause, then he spoke again, his tone softer but just as biting. "Natalia… I won't let it happen again."
Celeste's heart froze. Natalia. She didn't even know someone by that name, but the way Elliot said it—with such gravity and seriousness—spelled cold in her spine.
Before she could even stir, the door to the study opened, and Elliot came out. His eyes locked onto hers, and for an instant, she saw something there—fear? Anger? It was gone in an instant, replaced by the cold mask he always wore.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice unnervingly quiet.
"I couldn't sleep," she said, trying to keep her own voice steady. "I heard you talking…"
"Mind your own business, Celeste," he commanded, his tone not up for argument. "This is not a game."
She nodded, her heart racing. As she made her way back to her room, she couldn't help but think that she had just stumbled upon something much bigger than she had originally thought.
As Celeste lay in bed, her mind ran wild with questions. Who was Natalia? What was Elliot hiding? And why had he sounded so really afraid of someone discovering? She didn't know it at the time, but she had just stepped into the eye of a storm—a storm that would change everything.