The sun had dipped behind the skyline by the time Damien and Celeste returned to the penthouse. The night air clung to them like a secret, one they both held close to their chests. The hallway was still, dimly lit, and echoed only their soft footsteps. There was no sign of staff or interruptions, just a pocket of silence that allowed their shared smiles to linger a little longer.
Celeste padded barefoot toward the bedroom, Damien close behind her, his shirt unbuttoned and jacket slung carelessly over his shoulder. He watched her slip out of his shirt and into her dress once more, the silk gliding over her skin like it belonged there. And perhaps, he mused, it did.
She was humming under her breath as she pulled her hair into a quick, messy updo, still a little breathless from the day they'd spent tangled in sheets and laughter. Damien leaned against the doorway, watching her with a quiet kind of hunger that hadn't dimmed since morning.
"You sure you want to go?" he asked, voice low and soft.
Celeste turned, already slipping her heels on. "If I stay any longer, someone will start asking questions. You don't want that."
"I don't care," he said, and he meant it. But she only smiled.
Walking up to him, she looped her arms around his neck and tiptoed up to press a kiss to his jaw. "I'll miss you."
"You saw me five minutes ago."
"Still." She kissed his cheek. Then his nose. Then the corner of his mouth.
He chuckled, eyes fluttering shut as her lips danced over his face like tiny flames.
"Celeste—"
"Shh," she whispered, brushing her fingers through his hair. "Let me spoil you for a second."
Her lips captured his, soft but insistent, as if trying to tattoo the memory of her onto him. Each kiss was different—some teasing, others deep and lingering, like she couldn't decide which emotion to leave him with.
He held her tighter, one hand sliding down to her waist as he kissed her back, deeper, unwilling to let her go.
"I should go," she whispered breathlessly.
"Then go."
"Stop holding me like that, then."
He didn't.
So she kissed him again, one last time, pouring everything into it—her want, her care, her growing attachment. And when she finally pulled back, her eyes glimmered.
"You better be dreaming about me."
Damien laughed quietly. "I already am."
She slipped away, heels echoing down the hallway as she disappeared from sight, leaving behind her scent, her heat, and the thudding echo of his own heartbeat that refused to settle.
Damien closed the door behind her, leaning against it.
God, what was happening to him?
And why didn't he want it to stop?
Damien stepped out of the shower, towel-drying his hair with lazy strokes, the warm air of his penthouse clinging to his skin. A satisfied hum slipped past his lips as he padded barefoot into the hallway, wearing nothing but a pair of loose pajama pants. The cool marble under his feet felt refreshing, contrasting the fire that had burned through last night and this morning.
His chest, arms, and back were scattered with fading and fresh marks — nail scratches, love bites, and most visibly, the delicate trails of Celeste's passion. He stood before the full-length mirror by the bedroom wall, observing them with a small, crooked smirk.
"Damn," he muttered to himself, fingers lightly grazing a particularly deep mark near his collarbone. "She really didn't hold back, did she?"
But then again, neither did he.
His mind replayed the way she had clung to him, her voice breathless, her nails digging in as she reached her high. He remembered her softly whispered pleas, the way her body arched beneath his, and the sweet way she kept calling his name like it was the only thing that grounded her.
A pang of guilt flickered in his chest. He recalled how Celeste was nearly boneless by the end, struggling to even sit up. Her face, flushed and dazed, stayed etched in his memory.
"Too much," he muttered to himself, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. "You were too damn much, Leclair."
Yet despite the self-scolding, the pride in his eyes betrayed him. He couldn't help the grin that stretched on his face, boyish and smug. It wasn't just about the physical part — it was the way Celeste trusted him, the way she gave herself entirely. That was what really made his chest swell.
He leaned on the kitchen counter, sipping from the bottle as he stared out the tall windows. The city lights were beginning to flicker to life as the sun began to set.
Then he heard it — the faint click of the door.
His brows drew together as he turned his head toward the entryway, setting the bottle down slowly. No one was supposed to be here. Not Lucien. Not Maya. No meetings, no calls, no plans.
A shadow moved across the frosted glass of the entrance.
Still shirtless, Damien straightened, his expression losing its playfulness. His body tensed slightly as he took a cautious step toward the hallway.
And then the door creaked wider.
He turned fully.
And locked eyes with the uninvited guest.
Damien froze in place as the click of the door echoed louder than thunder in the silence of his penthouse. He had barely turned to face the intruder when the air stilled around him. There she stood. Sepharina.
His wife.
Ex-wife, in every way but legality.
She hadn't changed much, but her face contorted into something unreadable the second her eyes landed on him. On his bare chest. On the fading trails of Celeste's nails down his skin. On the bold hickeys across his collarbone. Her eyes widened, and Damien could swear she paled even more than he did.
For a second, no one spoke. The silence was deafening. And then she took a slow step forward.
"Well," she said, voice cool but laced with something sharp. "I see you've been… busy."
Damien didn't move. His pulse thundered in his ears.
"Why are you here?" he asked, his voice a rough rasp.
Sepharina raised a brow. "Still my name on the lease, still my passkey, Damien. Or did you forget?"
He clenched his jaw. "You shouldn't be here. Not anymore."
"You don't get to say that," she snapped. Her eyes flicked down again to the very visible proof of his night. "Although clearly, you've moved on."
"What do you want, Sepharina?" he bit out.
Her expression twisted at the coldness in his voice. For a moment, she looked genuinely hurt. But it passed.
"I came to talk. But clearly, you're… occupied."
Damien exhaled harshly and grabbed a throw from the couch, wrapping it around his shoulders more to end her line of sight than out of modesty.
"Talk about what? We've talked enough in court. In silence. In those cold dinners. There's nothing left."
"That girl," Sepharina whispered, stepping forward. "You love her?"
He flinched. He hadn't expected that question. He hadn't admitted it to himself yet.
She must have read the truth in his silence.
"You're a fool, Damien."
"Then let me be a fool. Just not your fool anymore."
He saw it then—a flicker of rage. A glint of the woman who had destroyed every warm thing between them.
"You're still married to me," she hissed.
"On paper only. And not for long."
"She doesn't know what kind of man you are. She doesn't know what you did to us."
His eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare make this about me. You were the one who rejected everything I offered. The life, the family, the future."
"You were weak. You begged me to give you a child, Damien. You begged."
"And you laughed in my face!"
His voice cracked, the fury boiling over.
"You looked at me like I was pathetic for wanting love, for wanting something real."
Sepharina's lip curled, but she said nothing.
"Get out."
"You can't order me—"
"Get. Out."
There was venom in his voice now, the kind she had never heard from him even at their lowest. Sepharina blinked, taking a shaky breath as she realized he meant it.
"This… isn't over."
Damien didn't respond. He just stared until she finally turned and walked out the same way she came. The door clicked shut behind her, and the silence that followed was deafening again.
He sat down slowly, head in his hands, his heart pounding.
This time, it didn't feel like closure.
It felt like a storm had just begun.
Damien's POV
The silence that followed Sepharina's arrival was deafening. She hadn't said a word after that initial shocked expression, but Damien could feel her judgment, the unsaid accusations hanging in the air like smoke from a fire long burned out. She had seen the marks. The ones that didn't lie. The ones Celeste left all over his skin.
Damien closed the door behind her after she stormed out — or maybe drifted out — and leaned against the wall. He didn't move for a long time. His chest rose and fell slowly, and yet the weight inside him was pressing down harder with every breath.
How did they get here?
Sepharina. His wife.
His wife.
He dragged his fingers through his hair, frustration bubbling just under his skin. His jaw clenched. Not from guilt — no. But from the mess he had willingly walked into again.
There was a time he would have done anything for her.
He did do everything for her.
He had tried—God, he had tried. Every anniversary, he planned something thoughtful. Every time she pulled away, he told himself to hold on a little longer, that maybe she was just overwhelmed or stressed or going through something she didn't know how to express. He gave her space, gave her attention, gave her support. At times he even gave up parts of himself hoping she'd fill in the space he left behind with something of her own.
But she never did.
Damien walked to the edge of his bed and sat down, elbows on knees, head in his hands. He could still remember the first year of their marriage. It was beautiful on paper — the house, the dinners, the photos. The image they projected to the world. The kind of marriage that made the front page of socialite magazines.
But behind closed doors? She slept further and further to the edge of the bed. Her touch became rare. Conversations dried up unless it was about image, reputation, or events. Love—wasn't love supposed to be easier than this?