The golden envelope had been lying on Damien Leclair's desk all morning, untouched, though his gaze had flicked to it more times than he could count. It was a formal invitation to the annual corporate charity gala—a night of suits, gowns, champagne, and, unfortunately for him, a public date. As the head of Leclair Industries, his appearance would be the most watched of all. And everyone expected to see him walk in with someone.
He exhaled sharply. Someone. Not his wife, because that bridge had long since turned to ash. Sepharina had long abandoned any semblance of a partnership. It was all appearances and obligations now. And he refused to bring her just to keep up a lie.
His mind, traitorously and instantly, thought of Celeste.
Celeste Moreau.
The woman who had stood beside him when his walls collapsed. Who had seen him unravel, not only without judgment, but with genuine care. She had become more than just the head of his finance department. She was… light. Warmth. Steadiness. And somehow, everything he didn't realize he needed.
The knock at his door interrupted his thoughts. "Come in," he said, already knowing it would be her.
Celeste stepped in, her hair tied loosely, a stack of reports in hand, but her expression soft. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he lied. Then he stood, walking over to his desk and picking up the envelope. "I need a date for the gala next week."
She blinked. "And you're telling me because…?"
"Because I'm asking you," he said, looking right at her.
Celeste's brows lifted in surprise, her mouth parting slightly. "Damien, are you serious?"
"Yes. I can't ask Sepharina. It would be… dishonest. Besides, if I'm going to be surrounded by fake smiles and forced conversations, I'd rather be with someone real. Someone I trust."
Celeste looked down at the envelope he was now holding out to her. She didn't take it. Not yet. "Are you sure this is a good idea? People will talk."
"They already do," Damien said with a wry smile. "Let them talk about something that actually makes me smile for once."
She swallowed. Her heart beat erratically in her chest, and she hated how easily her body betrayed her. But she also couldn't deny the strange flutter of excitement blooming inside her. "Alright," she whispered. "I'll go."
He exhaled in relief, his shoulders relaxing visibly.
The week passed in a blur. Between the endless meetings, preparation for the gala, and quiet moments in the office that were becoming increasingly intimate in their silence, Celeste tried not to overthink it.
Maya, however, had a field day. "You're going with Damien Leclair to the gala? As his date?! Girl, you better look like a goddess."
And so, the day of the gala, Celeste stood in front of a full-length mirror in Maya's apartment. The dress was a deep midnight blue that hugged her curves and spilled into a pool of silk around her feet. Her hair was styled in soft waves, her makeup subtle yet breathtaking.
When Damien arrived to pick her up, he stood frozen for a moment at the sight of her.
"You look… incredible," he said, almost breathless.
"You clean up well yourself," she replied with a smirk, trying to hide the heat rising in her cheeks.
They arrived at the gala to flashing lights, murmurs, and a collective shift of attention. Heads turned, whispers followed them as Damien placed his hand gently on the small of Celeste's back, guiding her with quiet protectiveness.
Throughout the night, he introduced her to powerful men and women, proud and composed. But every now and then, his gaze would linger a moment too long, his fingers brushing hers like a silent confession.
Celeste, in turn, dazzled. She spoke with grace, intelligence, and humor. The room loved her. And Damien, he just watched, wondering how he ever survived without her presence before.
Later, as they stood on the balcony for a moment of air, away from the crowd, Damien leaned against the railing and looked at her.
"Thank you for coming with me. I can't explain how much this meant."
Celeste smiled. "You don't have to. I know."
They stayed there for a while, not speaking, just breathing the same air.
And for once, Damien felt peace.
Even if it was temporary, it felt real.
And that was enough for now.
The gala was grand—opulent chandeliers, the clinking of crystal glasses, the quiet hum of elite conversation, and a sea of expensive suits and elegant dresses. As Damien Leclair stepped in, dressed in a black tailored tuxedo, he held his head high, but there was a distinct tension in his jaw.
Beside him, Celeste Moreau was radiant. Her gown hugged her curves and shimmered under the ambient lighting. Her hair was tied up elegantly, revealing a delicate collarbone and the barest hint of perfume that teased Damien's senses.
Celeste leaned closer, whispering playfully, "Tell me why every single man here looks like a Calvin Klein model. I think that younger one near the champagne tower just winked at me."
Damien's brows furrowed. "That's Ethan Fairchild. And he's twenty-three."
"Perfect age," she teased with a smirk.
Damien's eyes narrowed, not with anger—but with something else. Possessiveness.
But Celeste wasn't done yet. As they moved around the room, Damien introduced her to a few acquaintances. To his surprise and slight irritation, she was not only memorable but magnetic. The older businessmen he'd known for decades were already whispering amongst themselves.
"Damien, where did you find her?" one asked with a conspiratorial grin.
"Stunning, witty, and speaks like she owns the floor," another added.
Celeste laughed at their compliments, gracefully owning every room she walked into. Damien watched her from the corner of his eye, sipping champagne, catching the light just right, stealing everyone's attention without even trying.
She wasn't doing it to show off. She was just being herself. That was the part that stunned him the most.
And it bothered him—how easy it was for her to fit into his world.
Because deep down, he knew… she was slowly becoming his world.
He just didn't know what to do about it yet.
The music slowed as the chandeliers dimmed, throwing shadows across the golden flooring of the grand hall. The shift from spirited conversations to soft jazz was seamless. Couples began stepping onto the dance floor, their gowns brushing elegantly, tuxedos crisp under the soft spotlight.
Celeste stood near the refreshment table, a half-empty champagne flute swirling in her hand. The golden liquid shimmered as she tilted it slightly, eyes focused on nothing in particular. Her cheeks were a little rosier than before, whether from the champagne or the way every gaze in the room seemed to land on her — she couldn't tell.
She had been floating all evening — laughing with older business tycoons, tossing witty lines at younger heirs, and politely dodging overly suggestive remarks with a grace that impressed even Damien. But now, as the music softened, the air felt different. Intimate.
Damien, who had been quietly observing her from a distance for the past ten minutes, finally approached. He hadn't touched a drink since arriving. Not because he didn't need one, but because keeping himself in check while she moved around like that — all elegance and fire — already required every ounce of his restraint.
"Celeste," his voice was calm but carried an undertone of something heavier, "you've become the centre of gravity tonight."
She turned toward him, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
He didn't reply immediately. His eyes softened as they raked over her — her off-shoulder gown that clung just right, her eyes gleaming under the crystal lights, and the way she casually played with the rim of her glass.
"Would you dance with me?" he asked, offering his hand, a little more formal than usual.
Her gaze lingered on his extended hand before locking eyes with him. "Hmm, and here I thought you didn't want to feed the rumours," she teased, her voice teasingly laced with challenge.
"I'd rather feed the truth," he murmured, almost too softly, but Celeste caught it.
She placed her hand in his, allowing him to lead her into the sea of dancing couples. One of Damien's hands rested respectfully at her waist, the other gently holding hers. The proximity made her stomach flutter. His cologne — dark, musky, and familiar — surrounded her like a quiet storm.
The music wrapped around them, violins and piano echoing through the hall like a lullaby. Celeste, for a moment, forgot about the dozens of eyes still watching her, or the whispers that probably began the moment Damien placed his hand on her waist. All she could register was how steady he was — his heartbeat almost in sync with hers.
"You clean up dangerously well, Mr. Leclair," she said, peering up at him.
"And you…" he breathed out slowly, tightening his grip slightly. "You're making me forget I'm supposed to keep things… professional."
Celeste blinked, her breath hitching just slightly.
"Just tonight," he added, gaze intense but not forceful. "Can we forget about all of it? The company, the gala, the weight?"
She nodded slowly. "Just tonight."
As the soft melody swelled around them and the room dipped into warm, golden tones, Celeste took the lead in a way Damien wasn't expecting. They were standing just a little too far apart on the dance floor, his hands respectfully resting on the sides of her arms — safe, formal, distant.
But that wouldn't do.
Not tonight.
With a playful glint in her eyes and an almost imperceptible smile, Celeste reached up and gently took Damien's hand, guiding it from her upper arm down to the curve of her waist. He blinked, caught off guard, but didn't resist. His hand now rested where her dress cinched in, her warmth bleeding into his palm through the silky fabric.
She stepped in closer.
Then, slowly, deliberately, she guided his other hand around to the small of her back — fingers brushing over his knuckles as she placed it there herself.
"Relax," she whispered, barely audible above the music. "We're dancing, remember?"
Damien let out a breath, unsure if he was trembling because of the alcohol still lingering in his system or because of her — this woman who wasn't afraid to touch him with intent, without demand. It wasn't seductive. It wasn't showy.
It was just real.
And she was asking him to feel something without fear. So he did.
He pulled her in.
At some point, Celeste's head rested softly against his shoulder, and Damien's hand moved just slightly, resting over her lower back like it had always belonged there. Neither of them spoke. The silence was far too comfortable to break.
Until he finally whispered, "I haven't felt this… peace in years."
She closed her eyes, heart betraying her with its sudden sharp rhythm. "And here I thought I was just good company."
He chuckled lowly. "You're something else entirely, Celeste."
The music eventually slowed to a close, but they didn't let go immediately. It was Damien who eventually stepped back first, visibly hesitant. She noticed, but didn't say anything. Instead, she gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and smiled.
"Let's get some air?" she asked.
He nodded, and without a word, took her hand again.
Out on the balcony, the night was quiet — a beautiful contrast to the orchestra inside. The city lights blinked like stars, and below, the hum of traffic reminded them they were still very much on Earth.
Damien leaned against the railing, his jacket now loosened. Celeste leaned beside him, her arms folded, gaze lost in the skyline.
"I didn't want to bring anyone else," he confessed.
She glanced sideways. "To the gala?"
He nodded. "It had to be you."
"Why?" Her voice was softer now.
"Because you're the only one who sees me without expecting something in return."
She didn't speak — the lump in her throat was too stubborn.
He looked at her, eyes darker than before but filled with vulnerability. "You make me feel like… I'm allowed to be a person."
Celeste laughed, but it came out shaky. "What a tragic thing, Mr. CEO."
They both smiled.
Inside, the music shifted again, but neither moved to go back.
The moment, suspended like stars over the balcony, belonged to them.