If someone had told me a few years ago that I'd wake up on Christmas morning with Celestia Valentina Moreau — the most chaotic, brilliant, bratty, unpredictable, impossibly complex and infuriatingly perfect woman on the planet — stealing all the blankets and mumbling in her sleep like she owned the place, I probably would've laughed, and then immediately asked what miracle or parallel universe that was happening in.
But here we were.
I watched her breathe, slow and peaceful, one hand tucked under her cheek, completely unguarded. No plans, no projects, no grand schemes that required spreadsheets and color codes.
Just Val.
It almost made me forget the chaos of last night's party — the polished smiles, the champagne chatter, and the reminder that her world and mine would never quite fit cleanly together.
