When I walked into the penthouse late that night, the lights were dimmed and the air carried the faint scent of lavender. I expected silence. What I didn't expect was Celine standing by the window, silhouetted against the city lights.
She didn't turn as I shut the door and loosened my tie. For a moment, I thought she might just ignore me the way we had learned to do so effortlessly.
Then she spoke.
"We should talk."
I froze mid-step.
"Alright," I said, cautiously. "Now?"
"Yes. Please."
There was a calmness in her tone I didn't recognize. Not icy. Not distant. Just... deliberate. I walked over and leaned against the edge of the console table, leaving space between us.
"I've been thinking," she began, still not facing me, "about how much energy we've wasted fighting something neither of us can undo."
Her hands were folded in front of her, fingers tight.
"This marriage—this situation—it's complicated, yes. But we're not enemies anymore, are we?"
I didn't answer. I wasn't sure how.
She turned to face me then, her expression carefully composed but not guarded.
"I don't want to pretend anymore," she said. "Not about how much I hate being stuck in something I didn't choose. But also not about the fact that we're here. Together. And if we're going to make it through this, we need to find something to stand on."
Her eyes searched mine, looking for something. An answer, maybe. A hint of softness.
"So I'm suggesting we start over. Not as lovers. Not as business partners. As friends."
The word landed heavier than I expected.
Friends.
No one had offered that to me since I was a boy too broken to understand what it meant. Celine was many things—fierce, brilliant, untouchable—but in that moment, she was also brave. Because she was asking for a truce without surrendering her pride.
I looked down, thinking.
"I've never been good at friendship," I admitted.
She gave a small laugh. "Neither have I."
"But you want us to try?"
She nodded. "We have a long road ahead of us. Public appearances. Joint decisions. A future we didn't script. I'd rather walk through it beside someone I can trust to tell me the truth than someone I have to pretend with."
Something in my chest loosened.
"I can do that," I said quietly. "I don't know how well, but I can try."
She nodded once and moved to the kitchen, pouring two glasses of water like it was the most normal thing in the world. I followed and took one.
"To honesty?" I asked.
"To friendship," she corrected.
We clinked glasses.
And in the quiet after, I realized something unexpected:
The most powerful shift between us hadn't come through a fight or a kiss or an argument.
It had come through a single, deliberate choice.
To try.
We stood there for a while—two people who had once barely tolerated each other now sharing a glass of water like it was wine. I glanced over at her, trying to read the set of her jaw, the stillness of her gaze. She didn't seem nervous, but I could tell this had cost her something. Vulnerability was never easy. For either of us.
"I noticed you didn't respond to my texts earlier this week," I said after a beat.
She looked at me over the rim of her glass. "I was processing."
"Did it help?"
She tilted her head. "Some. Evelyn did more than that, though."
I nodded. "She has a way."
"She does."
Silence stretched again, but not awkwardly this time. Just... cautiously. Like we were learning to speak a new language.
"Blake," she said softly, "can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"What's the real reason you agreed to all of this?"
I took a long breath. "The honest answer?"
"That's what friends are for."
I met her gaze. "My mother. She wanted it. And I couldn't say no to her. She's given me everything. And after losing my father, she never really... came back from that grief. This—us—it gave her hope again."
She nodded slowly. "So it wasn't about me."
"No," I said. "But that doesn't mean it's not about you now."
That startled her. Just a flicker in her eyes, but I saw it.
"I don't want to live a life where I only protect myself by keeping people out," I continued. "I thought that was strength. But maybe it's just loneliness dressed up as survival."
She swallowed, and her voice dropped. "I know that armor too."
And in that moment, I knew—something had changed. Not dramatically. Not romantically. But meaningfully. This wasn't just a truce. It was the first step onto unfamiliar ground. One where we weren't soldiers. Just two people trying to learn how to share the same space.
"Friends," I repeated quietly, testing the word again.
She nodded. "Friends."
And for the first time since we said 'I do,' I felt something I hadn't in a while:
Relief.