Roman flinched, and she hated herself for the small satisfaction it gave her. Not because she wanted to wound him, but because she wanted him to understand that wounds existed in places he hadn’t bothered to look.

“Celeste,” he said, and her name sounded different now. Not a label on an inbox. Not a quiet voice in the hallway. Her name sounded like something he was afraid of losing.

She waited, refusing to offer him an escape route.

He exhaled slowly, as if he’d been holding a breath for years. “Do you want to know the real reason?”

Celeste’s throat tightened. “If it’s another version of ‘it’s complicated,’ save it.”

“It’s not complicated,” Roman said, and something in him stripped down, raw and human. “It’s terrifying.”

Celeste’s anger hesitated, confused.

Roman moved away from his desk, pacing once, then stopping with his back to the windows, the city behind him like a reminder of how high he’d built his life. “My parents,” he said, and the words sounded like they’d been locked behind teeth. “They were… perfect. Not the Instagram kind of perfect. The real kind. Twenty-five years of waking up and choosing each other, even on the days they were exhausted or broke or mad.”

Celeste didn’t speak. She had learned that silence, when used carefully, could become a door.

“My mother died in a car accident when I was nineteen,” Roman continued. His voice didn’t crack, but his control was too tight, like a rope pulled to its limit. “I watched my father crumble. He didn’t just grieve. He disappeared inside grief. He was alive, technically, but he wasn’t… here. He died five years later. Doctors said it was his heart. Everyone else said it was a broken one.”

Celeste felt something cold and tender move through her chest at the same time.

“I decided then,” Roman said, “that I would never let anyone become my everything. Because if you make someone your everything, you give them the power to destroy you without trying.”

He looked at her. His eyes were hard with honesty. “And then you walked into my office three years ago and started doing it anyway. Quietly. Efficiently. Like it was just a job.”

Celeste swallowed. The letter on his desk suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.

“So I kept you in a box,” Roman said, voice low. “Assistant. Schedule. Calendar. Coffee. If I kept you labeled, I could pretend you weren’t… getting under my skin. Under my life. Into places I didn’t want anyone to touch.”

Celeste’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

Roman stepped closer, stopping on the other side of the desk like it was the last safe barrier between them. “I didn’t hide you because I was ashamed,” he said. “I hid us because I thought it would protect me.”

His gaze dropped to the resignation letter and then lifted back to her. “But I was lying. It didn’t protect me. It just hurt you.”

Celeste felt her eyes burn, furious at her own body for betraying her with emotion when she’d come in here determined to be ice.

“And you,” she whispered, because she couldn’t stop it now, “you don’t get to call it fear and think that makes it noble.”

Roman’s mouth tightened, a grim nod. “You’re right.”

Celeste’s hands curled at her sides. “For three years I made myself small so I could be useful. Invisible so I could be safe. I didn’t ask for your attention. I didn’t ask for your admiration. I just wanted… basic human decency.”

“I know,” Roman said, and the way he said it sounded like regret with teeth.

She looked at him, really looked, and saw something she hadn’t noticed before: the effort behind his control, the way his life was held together by discipline instead of peace.

“And now?” she asked. “Now that you ‘see’ me?”

Roman didn’t flinch this time. “Now I want a chance to do it right.”

Celeste let out a humorless laugh. “Do it right how, Roman? By keeping me behind closed doors until you’re bored? By introducing me as your assistant while you touch my hand under the table?”

Roman’s eyes flashed. “No.”

“Then what?” she demanded.

Roman stared at her for a long moment, like he was choosing between two versions of himself.

“The Davidson wedding,” he said finally. “Next Saturday. The one you told me I needed an ‘appropriate’ date for.”

Celeste’s chest tightened. “Yes.”

“I want you to come with me,” Roman said. “And I want you there as Celeste. Not as my assistant. Not as an accessory. As the woman I’m with.”

Celeste’s anger wavered, unsteady. “You’re saying this now because you think you’re going to lose me.”

“Yes,” Roman said simply. “And because you’re right. I’ve been cowardly.”

Cowardly. Roman Castellano admitting cowardice felt like watching a skyscraper bow.

Celeste stared at him, searching for the trap. For the condition. For the fine print.

“And your family?” she asked. “Your social circle? Your precious privacy?”

Roman’s expression tightened, but he didn’t look away. “If they can’t handle it, that’s their problem. Not yours.”

Her heart slammed hard against her ribs, like it didn’t trust him either.

“And Vincent?” she asked. “He won’t stop.”

Roman’s mouth turned cold. “Let him try.”

Celeste’s fingers twitched. She thought of Vincent Maro’s smile, smooth as polished stone. The way his eyes looked like they were always calculating angles.

She also thought of Roman at the charity gala, the way his hand had found the small of her back like it belonged there. The way he’d looked at her when she’d said, Perhaps you’re just seeing me for the first time.

She had meant it as a truth. She hadn’t realized it would become a test.

“I can’t live in ‘maybe,’” Celeste said quietly. “Not again.”

Roman’s eyes softened, and Celeste hated how much she wanted to believe that softness was real.

“Then don’t,” Roman said. “Give me one week. One public week. If I fail you, you walk away and I won’t stop you.”

Celeste felt the air change. A week was nothing. A week was everything.

She looked at the resignation letter again, then back at Roman. “And what about my job? If I stay, I’m still your assistant.”

Roman’s gaze sharpened, as if he’d anticipated this, and he nodded once. “You’re not my assistant,” he said. “You’re the reason my life functions. You’re the reason half of my deals don’t collapse under my own impatience. You deserve a title that reflects what you actually do.”

Celeste’s breath caught.

Roman reached into a drawer, pulled out a folder, and slid it across the desk. “Chief of Staff,” he said. “Effective Monday. HR has it ready. I was going to offer it after the gala, but I… hesitated.”

Celeste stared at the folder like it might disappear if she blinked too hard.

“You already did it,” she whispered. “You already changed it.”

Roman’s eyes held hers. “Not enough.”

The room felt too small for the thing happening between them.

Celeste picked up her resignation letter from the desk, folded it slowly, and tucked it into her portfolio. She didn’t tear it up. She didn’t dramatically crumple it. She held onto it like a compass.

“One week,” she said, voice quiet but firm. “Public. Honest. No hiding.”

Roman nodded. “One week.”

Celeste turned to leave, and Roman’s voice stopped her.

“Celeste,” he said. When she looked back, he swallowed once, the motion small but visible. “I’m sorry.”

Celeste held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than she should have. Then she walked out, leaving him alone with the city and the consequences.

If anyone in the building had bothered to look, they would have noticed that Celeste Morgan did not walk the hallways the way she used to.

She still wore the oversized gray cardigan on Monday. Still had her hair pulled back, glasses on, lipstick neutral. The old uniform. The invisibility cloak.

But inside it, something had shifted. Not confidence, exactly. Not yet. More like… awareness. Like she’d lived in a dim room for years and someone had cracked open a door.

Roman tried not to stare.

He failed constantly.

He found reasons to step out of his office. To ask questions he already knew the answers to. To hover at the edge of her desk as if the distance between them was a problem that might be solved by proximity.

Celeste handled it with professional precision, which almost drove him insane.

“How’s the Morrison acquisition file?” he asked at ten-thirty, even though he’d read it twice over the weekend because he couldn’t sleep.

“On your tablet,” Celeste replied, eyes on her screen. “Annotated. The risk section includes three scenarios. The third one is the most likely if their CFO is lying, which he is.”

Roman almost smiled. Almost. Celeste’s competence had always impressed him, but now it hit differently, like realizing the person who’s been holding up your roof is also quietly brilliant.

At noon, his mother called. Roman stared at the phone until it stopped ringing.

Celeste, out of habit, noted the missed call in his calendar and highlighted it with a reminder.

Roman watched her do it, and guilt climbed up his throat like acid.

That evening, Roman stayed late. So did Celeste, because she always did. She had always been the last light on the executive floor, the quiet glow that stayed after everyone else left.

Roman stood in the doorway of her office nook. “Tell me something,” he said.

Celeste didn’t look up. “If it’s about your schedule, I already know what you’re going to ask.”

“It’s not,” Roman said. His voice lowered. “Tell me why you hide.”

Celeste’s hands paused on the keyboard.

Roman stepped closer, careful, as if he was approaching a wild animal that might bolt. “That night at the gala,” he said, “it wasn’t just clothes. It was like you… unlocked.”

Celeste swallowed. “I didn’t unlock. I just… stopped locking for a few hours.”

“Why do you lock?” Roman asked.

Celeste finally looked at him. Her eyes behind the lenses were steady, but there was something guarded in them, like a door with multiple deadbolts.

“Because being seen has consequences,” she said.

Roman leaned against the doorframe, trying to keep his tone gentle. “What consequences?”

Celeste stared at her screen as if it might rescue her. “People decide they’re entitled,” she said quietly. “To your time. Your body. Your story.”

Roman’s stomach tightened.

Celeste exhaled. “I didn’t always look like this,” she added, and there was a bitterness in her voice that made Roman’s hands curl.

Roman’s gaze sharpened. “Like what?”

“Like someone nobody notices,” she said. “There was a time I was noticed too much.”

Roman waited, refusing to push. He had spent years pushing. This time, he stayed.

Celeste’s voice came out softer. “When I was twenty-one, I worked for a tech startup in Midtown. I was their executive assistant. I got hired because I was organized, because I spoke Spanish and French, because I could manage an executive’s chaos like it was a game.”

Roman listened, silent.

“The CEO flirted,” Celeste said, her mouth tightening. “At first it was jokes. Comments. Everyone laughed because he was ‘charming.’ Then he started touching my shoulder. My lower back. And when I pulled away, he acted like I was overreacting.”

Roman’s jaw tightened.

“I filed a complaint,” Celeste continued. “HR told me to ‘be careful’ because he was the company. Then, one night, at a networking event, I went to the bathroom and found myself cornered by one of the investors who’d had too much whiskey and too much confidence.”

Celeste’s hands tightened on the edge of her desk. “I got out. I got away. But the next day, rumors started, because I left early and someone saw me crying in the lobby. Suddenly I wasn’t ‘professional.’ I was ‘dramatic.’ I was ‘trouble.’”

Roman felt a cold, steady rage settle in his chest.

“I quit,” Celeste said. “And I promised myself I’d never give anyone that angle again. I decided that if I made myself invisible, nobody could twist me into a story.”

Roman’s voice was low. “So you made yourself small.”

Celeste laughed once, bitter. “I made myself safe.”

Roman stepped closer, stopping beside her desk. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and this time it wasn’t just apology for hiding her. It was apology for a world that made her choose invisibility to survive.

Celeste looked up at him, and for a moment, her eyes looked tired. “Don’t be sorry,” she whispered. “Just don’t be like them.”

Roman’s throat tightened. “I won’t.”

Celeste held his gaze. “You don’t get to promise that like it’s easy.”

Roman nodded once. “Then I’ll do it like it’s hard.”

She didn’t smile. But something in her face softened, just slightly, like the door had opened another inch.

Vincent Maro appeared on Wednesday like a storm with good tailoring.

He strolled into the executive suite with a grin that felt rehearsed and a suit that probably cost someone’s monthly rent. He didn’t need an appointment. Vincent never believed in waiting.

Roman stepped out of his office before Celeste could announce him. “You’re early,” Roman said flatly.

Vincent’s grin widened. “You know me, Roman. I like to keep you uncomfortable.”

His eyes flicked to Celeste, lingering. “Miss Morgan,” he said smoothly. “Still making miracles happen with his calendar?”

Celeste’s polite smile didn’t touch her eyes. “Mr. Maro.”

Vincent’s gaze sharpened, like he noticed the chill. “Call me Vincent,” he said, voice velvet.

“No,” Celeste replied, equally smooth.

Roman’s mouth tightened, a flicker of satisfaction slipping through his irritation.

Vincent turned back to Roman. “I’m hosting a small dinner tomorrow,” he said. “A few investors. A few journalists. I thought you might want to join, given the recent… attention.”

Roman’s eyes narrowed. “We’re not discussing the tabloids.”

Vincent chuckled. “Not tabloids. Society pages. There’s a difference. Either way, you’ve become interesting again. And that’s good for business.”

Roman’s voice was cold. “What do you want?”

Vincent’s gaze slid to Celeste again, and Roman’s stomach tightened. “I want your assistant,” Vincent said lightly, as if he was asking to borrow a pen.

Celeste’s spine stiffened. Roman’s hand curled into a fist.

“She’s not for sale,” Roman said.

Vincent raised his brows, amused. “That’s an intense response about an employee.”

Roman didn’t blink. “Leave.”

Vincent held up his hands, feigning innocence. “Fine. Fine. But I’ll tell you this,” he said, voice dropping slightly. “She deserves someone who doesn’t keep her in the shadows. Shadows breed resentment. You should know that.”

Vincent turned and walked away, whistling softly like he’d just planted something and enjoyed the thought of watching it grow.

Roman watched him go, jaw tight.

Celeste exhaled slowly behind her desk. “He’s trying to provoke you,” she said quietly.

Roman looked at her. “He’s trying to take you.”

Celeste’s gaze steadied. “Then don’t give him the opening.”

Roman’s chest tightened. “That’s why I’m taking you to the Davidson wedding.”

Celeste’s fingers paused over her keyboard. “You’re sure?”

Roman didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Celeste studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. “Then we should plan.”

Roman blinked. “Plan?”

Celeste’s mouth quirked slightly, the faintest hint of humor. “If you’re going to stop hiding, Mr. Castellano, it would be helpful not to do it like a man falling down stairs.”

Roman felt something warm and strange in his chest. “Celeste,” he said, softer.

She looked up. “Yes?”

Roman realized he didn’t have a clever line. He didn’t have a strategic response. He just had truth.

“Thank you,” he said.

Celeste stared at him for a heartbeat, then looked back down at her screen. “Don’t thank me yet,” she murmured. “We haven’t survived your social world.”

Roman watched her, and for the first time, the idea of “surviving” something wasn’t about business. It was about being worthy.

The Davidson wedding was not a wedding. It was an event disguised as a wedding.

It took place at an estate in Westchester that looked like it had been built purely to intimidate people. White stone, manicured hedges cut into shapes that suggested someone had time and money and a preference for control. Cars lined the drive like polished beetles: black sedans, sleek coupes, the occasional absurd sports car.

Celeste sat in the backseat of Roman’s car, staring at the estate as they pulled up.

She wasn’t wearing midnight blue this time. She wore a deep emerald gown that made her eyes look like they had their own light. Her hair was down in soft waves again. No glasses. No armor.

Roman sat beside her, suit crisp, posture rigid. He looked calm to anyone who didn’t know him. Celeste, unfortunately, knew him now.

His hand hovered near hers on the seat, not touching, like he was afraid of making the wrong move.

Celeste glanced at him. “Breathe,” she said.

Roman let out a slow exhale. “I’m breathing.”

Celeste lifted an eyebrow. “That’s not breathing. That’s negotiating with oxygen.”

Roman almost smiled, then sobered. “Are you okay?”

Celeste’s lips pressed together. “I’m… present,” she said carefully. “That’s the best I can offer right now.”

Roman nodded, as if he understood the weight of that word.

The car door opened. A valet offered a hand. Roman stepped out first, then turned back to Celeste.

And then, in full view of the estate, the guests, the photographers clustered like birds waiting for something shiny, Roman offered Celeste his hand.

Not as an accessory. Not as a secret.

As a choice.

Celeste placed her hand in his, and Roman’s fingers closed around hers firmly, like he was making a vow with his grip.

They walked toward the entrance together.

Heads turned.

Whispers followed.

Celeste felt them like static on her skin. The glances that slid over her dress, her face, then flicked to Roman as if trying to calculate how this happened.

A woman near the entrance leaned toward another, fan in hand, mouth half-hidden. Celeste couldn’t hear the words, but she didn’t need to. She’d heard variations her whole life: Who is she? Where did she come from? How did she get him?

Roman’s hand tightened on hers.

Celeste glanced up at him. He didn’t look away. He didn’t flinch. He looked… steady.

Inside, the estate smelled like roses and money and the faint metallic tang of camera flashes. A string quartet played something delicate, like background music for power.

Davidson’s mother, a tall woman with sculpted hair and the expression of someone who’d never apologized in her life, greeted them at the door.

“Roman,” she said, kissing the air near his cheek. Her eyes slid to Celeste, sharp. “And this is…?”

Roman didn’t hesitate. “Celeste Morgan,” he said. “My partner.”

The word hit the space between them like a thrown stone.

Celeste felt her breath catch.

The woman’s expression flickered, polite but strained. “How lovely,” she said, then leaned in toward Celeste with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Enjoy the evening.”

They moved into the crowd.

Roman introduced Celeste repeatedly. Not as assistant. Not as staff. Not as “this is Celeste, she helps me.” Each time, Roman said it clearly: “This is Celeste. She’s with me.”

Celeste felt something inside her, something old and bruised, begin to loosen.

Then Vincent appeared, because of course he did.

He moved through the crowd like he belonged, because men like Vincent always believed they belonged anywhere. He approached with a grin and a champagne flute.

“Well,” Vincent said, looking between them. “I didn’t think you had it in you, Roman.”

Roman’s eyes narrowed. “Leave.”

Vincent laughed softly. “Relax. I’m not here to fight. I’m here to admire,” he said, and his gaze slid over Celeste in a way that felt like a hand. “You look stunning, Miss Morgan.”

Celeste’s smile was polite and cold. “Thank you.”

Vincent leaned slightly closer, voice dropping. “He’s making a big show,” he murmured, “but men like Roman don’t change. They perform. Then they retreat.”

Roman stepped closer, his hand sliding to the small of Celeste’s back, firm, possessive, protective. “Walk away, Vincent.”

Vincent’s grin sharpened. “Touchy,” he said lightly, then raised his glass. “Enjoy your night.”

As Vincent drifted away, Celeste’s stomach tightened. “He’s going to do something,” she whispered.

Roman’s voice was steady. “Let him.”

Celeste looked up at him. “That’s easy to say when you have power.”

Roman’s gaze softened. “I don’t have power over what he does,” he said. “I have power over what I choose. And I’m choosing you. Publicly. Clearly. Every time.”

Celeste’s throat tightened, the sensation dangerously close to tears.

Before she could respond, the lights dimmed slightly. Someone clinked a glass. The band quieted.

A toast.

Davidson, the groom, stood near the center of the room, smiling too wide, cheeks flushed with the kind of happiness that came from wealth and certainty. He raised his glass.

As he spoke about love, about partnership, about finding “the one,” Celeste felt irony curl in her chest. Love was easy when no one made you pay for it.

Then Davidson lifted his glass toward Roman. “To Roman Castellano,” he said, “who taught me that loyalty is a real currency. And who, apparently, has finally stopped working so hard and started living.”

The room laughed politely.

Davidson grinned. “Roman, say something, will you?”

All eyes turned.

Celeste felt her pulse spike. Roman’s hand tightened at her back, and she realized he was not calm. He was bracing.

Roman stepped forward with his glass. The room seemed to lean in.

He could have said something safe. Something polished. Something about friendship and business and wishing the couple well.

Instead, Roman looked at Celeste.

And then he looked at the crowd.

“For most of my life,” Roman said, voice steady but edged with something raw, “I thought control was the same thing as safety. I thought if I kept my world perfectly managed, perfectly private, I could prevent loss. But control isn’t safety. It’s a cage with nice furniture.”

He turned fully to Celeste, and his gaze didn’t waver. “This woman,” he said, clear enough that every whisper in the room died, “has been standing next to me for years, holding my life together with her intelligence and her heart, and I repaid her by keeping her hidden because I was afraid. Here’s what I finally learned: You can’t hide a lighthouse and still expect it to guide you home.”

The room went silent as Roman lifted his glass. “Celeste Morgan is my partner, in every sense that matters, and I’m done pretending she isn’t. To David and Elise,” he said, nodding toward the bride and groom, “may you be brave enough to be seen, and wise enough to see each other.”

For a heartbeat, nobody moved.

Then someone started clapping.

Then another.

Then the applause spread through the room like a wave, reluctant in some places, genuine in others, but loud enough that Celeste’s chest felt like it might split open.

Roman turned back to her, and his eyes were bright with something dangerously close to relief.

Celeste stared at him, stunned by the audacity of it, the vulnerability, the way he’d taken a room full of power and given them truth instead of performance.

She whispered, barely moving her lips. “You just did that.”

Roman’s voice was low. “I told you. One week. Public. Honest.”

Celeste’s eyes stung. She hated that she wanted to cry in front of these people. She hated that the tears felt like hope.

Vincent, across the room, watched with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Celeste saw it and felt her stomach drop.

This wasn’t over.

Vincent’s retaliation didn’t come with shouting. It came with paperwork.

On Monday morning, a legal envelope arrived at Castellano Industries before Celeste even finished her first coffee. Roman’s general counsel walked into the executive suite with a face like stone.

“Hostile move,” the counsel said. “Maro Industries quietly acquired a significant stake over the last few weeks. Enough to cause a problem if he pushes.”

Roman’s expression didn’t change, but Celeste felt the air thicken.

“He’s going to try to force a board vote,” the counsel continued. “Or scare investors. Or both.”

Celeste’s mind moved quickly, the way it always did when something tried to collapse. “How did he acquire it without triggering alerts?”

The counsel looked at her, surprised by the question. “He used intermediaries,” he said. “Shell entities. He’s good.”

Roman’s gaze slid to Celeste. “You were right,” he said quietly. “He did something.”

Celeste’s jaw tightened. “Then we do something back.”

Roman held her gaze. “Tell me what you need.”

It was such a simple sentence, but it hit Celeste like a door opening.

Roman Castellano, the man who had treated her like furniture for three years, was asking her what she needed.

Celeste straightened. “I need full access to the acquisition trail,” she said. “Every intermediary. Every timing detail. And I need to review internal trading records from the last month. If he’s setting this up, there’s a pattern.”

The counsel blinked, impressed despite himself. “We can pull it.”

Roman nodded. “Do it.”

Celeste turned to her desk, fingers flying. “Also,” she added, “we need to control the narrative before he does.”

Roman’s mouth tightened. “PR.”

Celeste nodded. “We don’t panic. We don’t deny. We highlight stability. We highlight value. And we highlight our philanthropic commitments, because your investors like the idea that you’re not just a shark in a suit.”

Roman exhaled. “You’re good at this.”

Celeste didn’t look up. “I’ve been good at this,” she said quietly. “You just weren’t watching.”

Roman flinched, then nodded. “You’re right.”

They worked like that for days, side by side, tension and focus braided together. Celeste didn’t have time to nurse her emotions. The threat was real, and Vincent played dirty.

Then, on Thursday, the leak hit.

A story popped up online from a “business insider” source, hinting at “internal instability” at Castellano Industries. It suggested Roman was “distracted by a scandalous relationship” and that “executive decisions were being influenced by an employee.”

The comments under the article were predictable and poisonous.

Celeste stared at the screen in her office nook, feeling old fear crawl up her spine.

Roman walked in, saw her face, and understood instantly.

“He’s trying to make you the weakness,” Roman said, voice low.

Celeste swallowed. “He’s trying to make me the excuse.”

Roman stepped closer. “Look at me,” he said.

Celeste looked up, and Roman’s gaze was fierce, steady. “You are not my weakness,” he said. “You are the reason I’m not panicking.”

Celeste’s throat tightened.

Roman reached out, hesitated, then gently lifted her glasses off her face, setting them on her desk. He studied her eyes like they were something sacred.

“I won’t let him turn you into a story again,” Roman said. “Not without a fight.”

Celeste’s voice came out small despite her efforts. “Fights have consequences.”

Roman nodded. “Then we handle the consequences together.”

Celeste held his gaze, and something inside her, something that had been locked for years, shifted another notch.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Together.”

On Friday, Celeste found the crack.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t cinematic. It was the kind of crack that appears when you stare at numbers long enough and let your brain do what it was built to do.

Vincent’s intermediaries had bought shares at odd hours, clustered in a pattern that suggested coordination. The shell entities were different, but the timing was too similar. Someone was signaling someone.

Celeste cross-referenced the buying pattern with public news cycles, then with private calendar notes she’d kept from investor dinners, then with the charity gala guest list, because people loved to talk at parties when they thought no one important was listening.

A name appeared twice. Then three times.

A small investment firm that had no business moving that much money that quickly.

Celeste felt her pulse quicken.

She walked into Roman’s office, the file in her hands, and for once she didn’t knock.

Roman looked up sharply, then saw her face and stood immediately. “What is it?”

Celeste placed the file on his desk. “He’s using Greystone Capital as a front,” she said. “But Greystone has a compliance issue. Their last SEC filing is… messy.”

Roman’s eyes narrowed as he flipped through. “This isn’t enough,” he said, but his voice had changed. Hope, cautious.

“It’s not the whole proof,” Celeste agreed. “It’s leverage. If we push them, they crack. If they crack, Vincent’s chain shows.”

Roman looked at her, something like admiration settling into his expression. “How did you find this?”

Celeste’s mouth tightened. “Because I know how men like Vincent operate,” she said. “They don’t just want to win. They want to win while you’re humiliated.”

Roman’s gaze softened. “And you’re not going to let him.”

Celeste lifted her chin. “No.”

Roman reached across the desk, took her hand, and held it. Not hidden. Not secret. Just held.

“Celeste,” he said, voice low, “I’m proud of you.”

Celeste’s breath caught. Pride was such a simple thing, but she had lived a long time without anyone offering it cleanly.

“Don’t get sentimental,” she said, because she didn’t know what to do with tenderness.

Roman’s mouth quirked. “Too late.”

They met with legal counsel that afternoon. They prepared filings, quiet and precise. They contacted Greystone with questions phrased like knives wrapped in velvet.

Greystone panicked.

People always did when they realized someone else could see behind their curtain.

By Monday morning, Greystone’s attorneys were calling Roman’s team with a proposal: they would disclose the chain of purchases if Castellano Industries agreed not to publicly bury them.

Roman listened, then looked at Celeste.

Celeste’s expression was calm, but her eyes were sharp. “We don’t need to bury them,” she said. “We just need them to tell the truth.”

Roman nodded. “Agreed.”

Vincent’s move unraveled in daylight, the way most dirty plans did when someone finally bothered to turn on the lights.

His stake was still real. His threat was still real. But now his strategy was visible, and visibility changed everything. Investors didn’t like surprises. Regulators liked them even less.

Within days, Vincent’s position weakened. He withdrew, not because he suddenly grew a conscience, but because the cost of continuing had become too high.

He sent Roman a text, short and smug: Enjoy your lighthouse. They’re bright until the storm hits.

Roman showed it to Celeste without comment.

Celeste stared at the message, then deleted it from Roman’s phone. “He wants free space in your head,” she said. “Don’t rent it to him.”

Roman watched her, then nodded. “You’re right.”

That night, Roman drove with Celeste to the children’s hospital, the same one from the gala. The pediatric wing smelled like antiseptic and crayons, a strange combination of fear and innocence.

They visited quietly, without cameras. Celeste spoke softly to a nurse she’d met during the gala planning. Roman listened to a little boy explain, with great seriousness, how his IV pole was “basically a robot friend.”

In the hallway, Roman stopped near a window, watching the city lights flicker beyond the glass.

“I should have done this sooner,” Roman said.

Celeste stood beside him. “The hospital?”

“No,” Roman said. He turned toward her, eyes steady. “You.”

Celeste’s chest tightened. “Roman…”

He reached for her hand, gentle. “When you resigned,” he said, “I realized something brutal. I don’t just like you. I don’t just want you. I built my life like a fortress, and you walked in anyway, and now the thought of you leaving feels like losing oxygen.”

Celeste swallowed, throat tight. “That’s a lot of pressure.”

Roman nodded. “I know. That’s why I’m saying it here, not in front of a crowd. I don’t want to trap you with words. I want to offer you… honesty.”

Celeste looked at him, and for a moment she saw the nineteen-year-old boy who watched his mother die and decided love was too dangerous.

She also saw the man who stood in a room full of power and admitted fear.

Celeste exhaled slowly. “I can’t promise I’ll never get scared,” she said.

Roman’s mouth softened. “Neither can I.”

Celeste’s eyes stung again, but this time she didn’t fight it. “Then what are we doing?”

Roman lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, simple and reverent. “We’re learning,” he said. “How to be seen. How to see each other. How not to run when it hurts.”

Celeste let out a shaky breath that almost became a laugh. “You realize you sound like a therapist.”

Roman’s mouth quirked. “You make me say weird things.”

Celeste finally smiled, small but real. “Good.”

Roman stepped closer, and this time, when he kissed her, it wasn’t stolen. It wasn’t hidden. It was quiet, honest, and earned.

The next morning, Celeste walked into Castellano Industries wearing her usual cardigan, her usual glasses.

But she didn’t feel invisible.

Roman had already sent out a company-wide announcement: Celeste Morgan, Chief of Staff. It described her contributions in concrete terms, not vague praise. It was professional, precise, and unmistakably public.

People congratulated her. Some looked surprised. A few looked resentful. Celeste didn’t care. She had spent too long letting other people’s reactions shape her life.

At noon, Roman’s mother called again.

This time, Roman answered.

Celeste didn’t listen to the whole conversation, but she heard enough. Roman’s voice stayed calm, firm, controlled in a way that felt different now. Not a cage. A boundary.

“Yes, Mom,” Roman said. “I’m serious. No, she’s not ‘just staff.’ Yes, she’s coming to dinner. If you can’t be respectful, we won’t come.”

Celeste’s chest tightened at the sound of that last sentence.

Roman ended the call, then walked out of his office and stopped at Celeste’s desk.

“You’re coming to dinner,” Roman said.

Celeste blinked. “Was that a request?”

Roman’s eyes softened. “It’s an invitation,” he corrected. “And a promise that you won’t be alone in that room.”

Celeste studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded once. “Okay.”

Roman exhaled, relief flickering across his face. “Okay.”

Celeste watched him walk back into his office, and she realized something that made her throat tighten.

She hadn’t needed a goddess gown to matter.

She had needed someone willing to see her.

And she had needed the courage to stop hiding long enough to let that happen.

Outside the windows, New York moved as it always did, indifferent and bright. Inside, a different kind of movement had begun, slower but real, the kind that didn’t rely on spectacle to be true.

Celeste adjusted her glasses, not as a shield this time, but as a habit she didn’t mind carrying. She opened her calendar and started planning the week, because life didn’t pause for romance, and love didn’t erase responsibility.

But now, when Roman stepped out of his office and looked at her, his gaze didn’t slide past.

It landed.

It stayed.

And Celeste, for the first time in years, didn’t feel like she had to disappear to survive.

She could be seen and still be safe, not because the world had suddenly become kind, but because she had learned to choose a man who was brave enough to stand in the light with her.