The penthouse smelled like lavender and lemon polish. The lights were dimmed to a golden glow, the table set with Evelyn's usual perfection. She'd planned this dinner days before the wedding, I knew. Probably had the menu arranged with the chef weeks ago. She thrived on order, especially now that the world around her had shifted.
She was happy.
And I hated that I couldn't give her more than this illusion.
Celine arrived just after seven. She looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine—cool, composed, elegant. But I noticed the stiffness in her shoulders. The way her eyes barely flicked toward mine before returning to Evelyn with a polite smile. She wasn't late. She just didn't want to be here.
I didn't blame her.
Dinner went as expected. Evelyn asked too many questions. Celine gave short, perfectly measured answers. I added what I could to fill the silences, but there was a tension that threaded through the evening, unspoken but very much alive.
We didn't argue. We didn't disagree. And yet, we were miles apart.
When Evelyn excused herself to take a call, Celine and I sat in the candlelight, our wine glasses untouched. The silence wasn't just awkward. It was suffocating.
"You didn't have to come," I said quietly.
She looked at me, sharp and unimpressed. "And deal with Evelyn's disappointment? You really don't know me at all."
Fair. I didn't.
I ran a hand through my hair and leaned back in my chair. "I didn't ask for this either."
"You came to my office the morning after it was decided," she said, her voice low and cutting. "You were already wearing the mask."
"I came because my mother asked me to."
"You always do what she wants?"
That hit harder than I expected. My jaw clenched.
"Yes," I admitted. "Because she's the only family I have left."
Celine's eyes flickered. Something in her expression shifted, just slightly, before she looked away.
We didn't speak again for the rest of the night.
Back at the suite, she disappeared into the balcony with a glass of wine. I watched her through the glass doors. She looked like a painting—still and distant.
I didn't interrupt her. I didn't even say goodnight.
I went to bed and lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
---
The next morning, I was in my office before eight. Oliver brought in coffee, a new schedule, and two stacks of press clippings.
"Should I hold your morning meeting?" he asked.
"No," I said, rubbing my eyes. "I need the distraction."
Oliver paused. "There's… a lot of speculation. About the marriage."
"Let them speculate."
"She looked uncomfortable in some of the photos."
"She was."
He didn't respond.
I stared at my computer screen, but my mind was still at the dinner table. At Celine's face. Her fire. Her restraint. She was cold, but not cruel. Distant, but not careless.
I kept replaying her words—"You really don't know me at all."
She was right.
I didn't know her. I hadn't tried to.
Because knowing her meant risking something. Letting my guard down. Opening a door I'd spent years keeping locked.
But the truth was, there was a part of me that had noticed her long before the arrangement. The poised daughter of Robert Cater. The youngest board member in the company's history. She'd always been sharp. Commanding.
Unreachable.
And maybe that's what I liked.
Now she was within reach. Married to me.
And I still couldn't touch her.
The press called us a power couple. The city called it destiny. But I knew better.
We were oil and water, trapped in a bottle made of gold.
And we were sinking fast.