CHAPTER EIGHT
Recessed lights illuminated the grand conference room with a table strewn with glossy portfolios for a late-night session. At the head of the table, Caspian wore a crisply ironed suit, though it did little to disguise the pallor of his face. Dark circles under his eyes testified to another sleepless night, yet he soldiered on, resolved to wrap up the negotiations. Executives from different divisions listened intently, writing notes with tense focus. But each time he spoke, his voice faltered just a little bit, a giveaway to the sheer fatigue eating away at him.
As the minutes dragged on, there was an air of expectancy. Caspian was fighting to keep his mind on track and had to blink hard against the dizziness that threatened to close in. A slight frown wrinkled the lips of Celeste, who sat at the far side of the table. She read the subtle clues: the stiff set of his shoulders, the shallow gasps for air, the hurried glances as if the building might whorl at any second. Their relationship remained frayed by resentments, but concern swelled in her chest.
He stood up to make an important point. A staff member handed him a chart. His vision blurred, and his knees were about to give. He clutched the side of the table, colour draining from his face. There was an alarm in the room. Chairs scraped as those in attendance leapt up; confusion spread inaudibly. Without missing a beat, Celeste leapt up from her seat and rushed to his side. She slipped an arm beneath his elbow, bracing him before he toppled to the floor. His lashes flickered in momentary confusion. A hush fell, the crowd immobilized by the sight of the fearsome heir appearing so close to collapsing.
He wheezed, struggling against the tide of weakness. Rage flashed on his face at this weakness he could not control. In a curt tone, he declared a recess, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Celeste’s hand stayed lightly on his arm, warmth connecting them across the air. For a moment, he let her existence around him. Then he stepped back, tight nod. The inquisitive stares from the team closed in around him and made him scorch with shame.
Not daisies, he said, as if she had inquired, which she hadn’t, all half-formed questions swirling in there with her, and he pushed through the door behind the counter, out into the street. Resolute not to let him out of her sight, she followed him in a flutter, her heart thumping. By the time she arrived at his office door, he’d locked himself inside. No invitation beckoned her. She paused in the hall, unsure whether he might lash out or welcome comfort. Silent worry lingered as her knuckles grazed the surface.
Celeste had a moment’s escape in Roman’s flower shop after that tense boardroom showdown. The smell of fresh lilies and carnations was a tentative balm, though her mind was dark with the image of Caspian almost falling down in front of his friends. Roman stood behind the counter, arranging blooms, his face creased with concern. She relayed the harrowing scene, her voice thick as she described how close Caspian had come to losing consciousness.
Roman put down a pair of pruning shears. “He’s straining himself beyond reason,” he said, concern evident in his voice. But then he suddenly changed the subject, pushing a thin folder across the table to her. “I’ve done a little digging,” he said softly. “I believe Soren has hired a private detective to dig up every crumb of your past. “Does this guy seem like he leave anything to chance, and any slip-up could light the torches.”
This made her stomach turn when she realized it. She scrolled through the file Roman collected, grimacing at scraps of potential blackmail. Lines of rumour, half-truths and older details from her youth that an opponent with a motive could spin filled the page. “So Soren is going to destroy me,” she said quietly, a mix of anger and fear sparking in her eyes.
Roman nodded. “If he can’t usurp your hold on Caspian directly, he’ll put your name in the mud. He might say you want money or accuse you of something worse.” He paused and pushed up his glasses. “Talia might know something. She’s been sniffing around here, half inquiring about you, half evading questions. Looks divided, like she doesn’t know which side to choose.”
Celeste worked her breath, leaning against the counter. Caspian’s drawn face flashed in her memory, his insomnia and unwillingness to take her help. The mansion itself already felt heavy with secrets. Now, the coming of a detective’s shadowy pursuit was threatening to drown that sense of security. She considered escaping, but she was tightly contracted. And she wasn’t going to give Soren the gratification of winning that easily.
Roman put his hand on her arm, voice anxious. “Be careful,” he warned. “They’ll take whatever they find that can be taken out of context and make it into a scandal.” But she knew all too well how quickly public perception could sour and reach a vicious pitch. With a firm set to her jaw, she snapped shut the folder. She would take on these new dangers head high, no matter how vile the blows grew from Soren. Stepping outside, she braced herself for whatever a detective might find.
Burgundy evening draped the sky when Celeste stepped out from the flower shop, cradling a small arrangement that Roman had shoved into her arms. Now the streets were less crowded, just the hum of the cars passing by and the low light of streetlamps. She dived down a back alley shortcut, she needed a moment away from onlookers. She mused on Caspian’s worsening state, Roman’s warnings, a detective hot on her trail.
A figure emerged from the shadows and stood near a flickering lamppost, startling her. The outline coalesced into the outline of a man with a sharply chiselled profile and a hawk-like gaze, wearing a nondescript jacket that suggested polite professionalism. “Mrs. Hayes,” he said, his voice politely frosty. Flowers in hand, she sized him up with a wary look. She sensed something predatory about his posture — a well-trained hunter prepared to cut off its quarry.
He picked up a thin folder of photographs. “Your younger self, am I right,” he said quietly, fanning them out so she could catch glimpses of candids from years before. Nothing scandalous on the face of it, but the angles and timing hinted that they could be spun into insinuations. Each photo seemed like a potential weapon in her malign press, a reminder of how stories could be distorted by a canny practitioner. She could feel her pulse hammering in her throat at the thought of how easy it would be to ruin her fragile standing with a word whispered in the right ear.
His voice velvet-soft, he leaned in. “Soren offers a nice payment if I bring him something juicy.” His eyes gleamed. “If you wanted to make sure nothing gets out… well, maybe you can convince me otherwise.” Grinding her teeth, she wouldn’t give in. A spinning ball of fear in her gut battled indignation. She rolled her shoulders back, stepping back to give space. “I won’t be blackmailed,” she said, forcing strength into her voice.
A hint of a smirk tugged at his lips as if her resistance were amusing. “We’ll see,” he said, tucking the photographs into his jacket. A smell of desperation hung in the air. She felt tremors snaking through her limbs, but she tightened rigidly: He wouldn’t see her dread. Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, taking the sound of his threat with him.
She ran into her car, breath shaking, mind swirling with the detective’s silent ultimatum. The ride back to Caspian’s estate was surreal, every streetlight a reminder that every detail of her life could be fanged against her. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel as she prepared to do battle with Soren’s latest weapon with all the determination she could muster.