Celeste's POV
The silence in my penthouse wasn't peace—it was aftermath.
Sunlight slashed through the soaring glass windows, warming nothing. My champagne glass caught the light like a blade, the bubbles rising with irritating calm, mocking the storm inside me.
Every tick of the ornate grandfather clock in the corner reminded me that time was moving forward, but not in my favor.
Damon Westin had humiliated me. Publicly. Legally. Spectacularly.
The trust fund I bled years for? Frozen.
The shares I wrangled through proxies? Voided.
Our marriage? Nullified on the courthouse steps by his pet lawyer and a headline-hungry judge.
He thought he'd won.
And Aria Harper—the glowing, naive little country belle with her hand protectively over her bump and her fingers wrapped around my ex-fiancé's soul—believed she'd ascended the throne.
But they had underestimated me.
I wasn't the type to lick wounds. I set traps. And the best traps don't just ensnare—they destroy.
