The clinking of silverware and gentle hum of conversation filled the Aldridge estate's dining hall, but I couldn't focus on the roasted duck or the second glass of wine Charles insisted I pour. My gaze kept straying toward the arched glass doors that led out to the garden.
Evelyn and Celine had been out there for a while.
Charles was in one of his better moods, swirling his wine with a satisfied expression. He didn't press me to join in conversation, and I was grateful. The truth was, I'd never liked these post-meeting dinners. They always felt too polished, too orchestrated.
But this one had felt different since the moment Celine stepped outside.
She'd handled the evening with her usual poise—composed, brilliant, icy. But behind her restraint, I saw the undercurrent of something else. Strain, maybe. Conflict. A need to hold herself together just long enough to get through it.
It shouldn't have mattered to me.
Except it did.
"Thinking too hard again?" Charles asked, leaning closer with a glass in hand.
I offered a neutral shrug. "Just tired."
He grunted. "You'll need more stamina if you plan to survive in this marriage."
I didn't reply. I knew better.
When the doors opened again and Celine stepped back inside, something about her had changed. Not softened, but steadied. Her eyes were thoughtful. Her fingers brushed a closed velvet box she held lightly in one hand.
Evelyn followed a moment later, her expression unreadable but satisfied.
We didn't speak much that night. Celine left early, with a polite nod to Charles and barely a glance in my direction. I stayed until the last log in the fireplace had turned to embers.
"Your mother likes her," Charles said finally.
"She likes strength," I replied.
"She sees more than that," he said, then turned and left me to the silence.
—
The days that followed moved quickly—strategic briefs, investment reviews, internal restructuring memos. But despite the distractions, my mind often circled back to Celine.
She wasn't just surviving the pressure; she was commanding it. And not for appearances. For legacy. For something she refused to let slip from her hands.
I respected that.
I didn't tell her, of course.
Instead, I sent her a message about Friday's tea with Evelyn. Direct. Cold. Efficient. Because the alternative felt... exposed.
I'd grown up in a house that buried grief under duty. My father's death had left a silence that Evelyn tried to fill with love, and Charles with expectation. I loved my mother—no question—but I'd learned not to show affection too easily. Not when love could be stolen away in a single accident, a single night.
So I watched people instead.
I studied their reactions, their choices. Especially Celine's.
—
The morning of the board meeting, I arrived at Aldridge Industries early. I preferred to be in the room before the others. It gave me time to set the tone, claim the space.
When Celine walked in, her presence filled the room like voltage. Composed, tailored, elegant. Not just beautiful—undeniably formidable.
She didn't look at me until she sat down. When she did, it was with a calm, unapologetic precision that I found more arresting than any act of defiance.
Throughout the meeting, she handled every question with clarity and conviction. Even when I directed a challenge her way—"What's your post-merger strategy for AI development?"—she didn't falter.
"Autonomy, not assimilation," she said. "Innovation thrives when it isn't micromanaged."
That answer wasn't just smart. It was strategic. It told the board she wasn't going to be absorbed. That she was coming to the table as an equal, not a guest.
And it made me want to smile.
I didn't, of course.
When the meeting ended, most of the board members left with polite nods and quiet approval. She'd earned their respect without asking for it.
I found her in the hallway before she could leave.
"My mother mentioned she's expecting you Friday," I said.
"Yes. I know."
"She's excited."
"Is that your way of telling me I can't cancel?"
"I'm just giving you a heads up," I said.
There was a pause. I didn't want to walk away yet.
"You did well in there," I added. "They respect strength."
"I didn't do it for their respect."
"I know," I said. And I meant it.
I watched her go, wondering why those words felt heavier than they should've.
—
That night, Evelyn left a note for her.
I saw her handwriting on the envelope before Sarah delivered it to Celine's office. I never asked what it said. But I knew my mother. She was trying to build a bridge I hadn't yet figured out how to walk across.
And maybe that was the problem.
Maybe I'd built so many walls I'd forgotten how to cross the ones that mattered.