The office buzzed with the usual afternoon lull, the faint hum of computers and quiet footsteps filling the space around Celeste's desk. Ethan Fairchild, the youngest CEO the company had ever seen, had made a habit of hanging nearby, and today was no different.
He leaned casually against the edge of her workspace, eyes flickering with amusement as he watched Celeste organize files with a calm efficiency that defied the chaos around them.
"You know," Ethan began, flashing a grin that was equal parts teasing and confident, "I've been thinking about our little conversation that night."
Celeste looked up, arching a brow. "Oh? That gala talk?"
He nodded, his expression smug. "Yeah. About age. You reminded me that you're a year or two older than me."
Celeste smirked, folding her arms. "One year and six months, to be exact."
Ethan laughed, a rich sound that echoed softly through the quiet office. "Close enough. But honestly, it's interesting — how much fire young blood has, compared to… well, old people."
Celeste's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of challenge sparking within them. "Old people?" she repeated, her voice cool but laced with subtle curiosity.
He nodded slowly, eyes gleaming with a knowing edge. "Yeah. People like Damien. He's… what? Thirty-six? Almost twice my age."
Celeste's heart gave a slight, unexpected jolt, but her face remained composed. "Almost twice your age, yes."
"Yet," Ethan continued, stepping a bit closer, lowering his voice to something conspiratorial, "there's something about youth — that reckless energy, that hunger. That's where real fire comes from. Not from experience or age."
She tilted her head, pretending to consider his words carefully. "You mean to say," she said slowly, "that experience dulls the flame?"
"Maybe," Ethan said with a sly smile. "Or maybe it just changes the way it burns. Older fire is steadier, sure — but younger fire? It's wild. Unpredictable. Dangerous."
Celeste studied him for a moment, amused despite herself. "Sounds like you think you're pretty dangerous."
"Dangerous enough to keep up," he replied smoothly. "Maybe even to outpace."
The teasing banter hung in the air, but beneath it lay an undercurrent of something more. A challenge, a game of power and possession neither wanted to admit outright.
Celeste leaned back in her chair, meeting Ethan's gaze head-on. "You really think you can outpace Damien?"
Ethan's grin widened, eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and confidence. "I don't just think it — I know it."
For a moment, the room felt charged, the quiet tension between them almost tangible.
Celeste's lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. "Careful, Ethan. Confidence can be… risky."
He shrugged, unbothered. "Risk is part of the fun."
As Ethan straightened to leave, he gave one last look over his shoulder. "Just remember — sometimes the young fire burns hotter, but it can also burn out fast."
Celeste watched him go, the smirk lingering on her lips as she turned back to her work.
Damien might have the experience and the steady burn, but Ethan had the reckless energy — and the game was far from over.
Celeste just rolled her eyes and shrugged as if Ethan's teasing was nothing more than background noise. She didn't bother to dignify his words with a response, and instead, her attention shifted back to the reports on her desk, cool and collected. The faint smile playing on her lips said, I'm above this.
But Damien? Inside, he was burning.
The words "young blood has fire" echoed relentlessly in his mind, stirring a bitter storm of jealousy and insecurity. He knew he was the first—and so far, the only—man who had been close to Celeste like that. He had shared something intimate with her, something raw and real, that no one else had touched. That thought should have been enough to quell his unease.
But she was young. Twenty-four. She was at the cusp of discovering herself, her desires, her strength. And maybe Ethan had a point — maybe she had the right to explore, to feel that fire with someone else, someone younger, more vibrant.
That thought cut Damien deeper than any insult. A silent question clawed at him: Could she want more than me?
His pride bristled, but beneath it lay a raw, vulnerable fear. He'd fought hard to be the man she trusted, the one she chose. And yet, here was Ethan, with his youthful charm and effortless confidence, planting doubts where there had been none.
Damien's gaze flicked toward Celeste again. She looked perfectly composed, serene even. The way she carried herself, the way she seemed unfazed by the subtle power plays around her — it was both intoxicating and infuriating.
He clenched his fists beneath the table, willing the storm inside him to calm. She's mine, he reminded himself silently, and I'm not ready to let go.
Celeste, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of the tempest brewing behind Damien's calm exterior. She had learned long ago that survival in Damien's world meant keeping her guard up — and her emotions in check. So she chose to dismiss Ethan's comments as nothing more than office banter, a game she wasn't interested in playing.
But there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes as she glanced briefly at Damien. She saw the flicker of something dark and unreadable in his gaze — something like possessiveness, or maybe something deeper.
He worries too much, she thought, shaking her head slightly.
For her, the moment wasn't about competition or insecurity. It was about trust. And despite the swirling emotions around them, she trusted Damien more than anyone else she'd ever met.
She wanted him to know that.
Later, Damien found himself pacing his office, the city lights twinkling behind him like distant stars. The night felt heavy, filled with unspoken words and unresolved tensions.
He replayed the day in his mind — Ethan's veiled insinuations, Celeste's effortless composure, and his own restless heart.
He wasn't a man given to jealousy, but this was different. This wasn't just about possession. It was about the fear of losing someone he cared for deeply.
His thoughts drifted back to the moment he first touched Celeste's hand, the way she had looked at him with a mix of curiosity and vulnerability. He remembered the nights spent learning each other, breaking down walls brick by brick.
And yet, the thought of her exploring that with someone else — it was almost unbearable.
Maybe she needs that, Damien admitted quietly to himself, maybe she does have the right to feel that fire with someone else.
But he couldn't shake the ache it left behind.
Turning from the window, he sank into his chair, burying his face in his hands.
I won't lose her.
The next morning, Celeste arrived at the office, her usual confident self. She was focused, efficient, and completely in control — the kind of woman who didn't let anything rattle her.
She worked through her tasks with precision, unaware of the burning gaze fixed on her from across the room.
Damien watched her silently, a mixture of admiration and something darker flickering beneath his calm exterior.
He realized, with a jolt, that despite everything that had happened between them, Celeste had not slowed down. She hadn't looked for favors or cut corners. She hadn't expected anything from him beyond what they already shared.
That realization both relieved and unsettled him.
She's stronger than I thought, Damien thought. Stronger than I deserve.
But he also knew the battle wasn't over.
The meeting wrapped up, leaving behind echoes of muted conversations, the scratch of pens, and the lingering weight of unspoken tensions. Celeste gathered her files with practiced ease, a faint smile curving her lips—one that didn't quite reach her eyes.
She didn't need to look at Damien to know he hadn't spoken a single word since Ethan's last jab. She recalls when everyone began to exit and Ethan gave one last smug smile in Damien's direction. She didn't need to ask why either.
She knew Damien too well.
And that silence from him? That was not Damien Leclair, the intimidating powerhouse of the boardroom, the man whose voice alone could silence a room. No, this quiet was different. Heavy. Wounded. Brooding.
Celeste placed a hand lightly on Damien's arm as she passed behind him—fingertips barely grazing his skin—and whispered low enough that only he would hear:
"Don't let a kid with too much gel in his hair get in your head."
Damien blinked. The words broke through the noise in his chest like a crack of sunlight through storm clouds. He looked up, but Celeste was already walking away, hips swaying with an effortless grace, her heels tapping out a confident rhythm on the marble floor.
But she wasn't done.
Later, after the crowd had cleared and Damien had retreated into the solace of his office—pent-up emotions simmering just beneath the surface—there was a knock.
He didn't answer. He didn't have to.
The door creaked open anyway.
Celeste stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind her. She wasn't smiling, not the way she usually did when teasing him. Her expression was soft, thoughtful, and… patient.
"You're thinking too much again," she said, stepping closer, removing her blazer and setting it neatly on the back of the chair before sitting on the edge of his desk.
Damien didn't answer immediately. His jaw clenched, knuckles tight against the armrests of his chair, eyes staring into the distance like he was still somewhere else—somewhere in his own spiraling thoughts.
Celeste sighed gently and leaned forward, brushing his hair back from his forehead with the familiarity of someone who had memorized the shape of him.
"I know that look," she whispered.
He looked at her then, finally. His dark eyes searched hers for a long moment. "Do you?"
Celeste gave a slow nod, her voice quieter now. "You've gone silent because you think I'll leave. That maybe Ethan—someone younger, someone with 'energy'—can give me something you can't."
Damien's shoulders tensed. He didn't reply.
So Celeste did what she always did when he shut down—she broke through with honesty.
Her hand slid down to his chest, nails softly grazing the skin above the first open button of his shirt. "But he doesn't matter. Not in the way you think."
Damien swallowed hard. She was too close. Too gentle. And yet, that vulnerability still sat like a weight on his chest.
"I'm not… blind," he muttered, eyes shifting away. "You're twenty-four. He's twenty-three. I'm thirty-six, Celeste. You don't think that bothers me? You don't think I see him—" He broke off, jaw locking again.
Celeste's eyes softened. She leaned forward, her hand coming to rest against the back of his neck, pulling him in until their foreheads touched.
"And yet the man I can't walk straight after is you."
Damien froze.
Celeste chuckled lightly against him, the sound warm and feather-light. "You think Ethan's dumb comment rattled me? Please. I was just thinking about how I still couldn't feel my thighs properly when I woke up this morning. It's been two days, yet I can feel it."
That startled a quiet breath from Damien—part huff, part disbelief, part something far more emotional.
She cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the edge of his stubble. "Damien Moreau, if even for one second you're questioning yourself, let me remind you—when I'm with you, I don't even have space in my head for another man."