The sound of pen against paper is the only thing tethering me to the present.
I sit at my desk, encased in rich mahogany and the scent of parchment and power. Tall windows to my left bathe the office in late morning sunlight, dust motes dancing like glittering secrets. Outside, the skyline stretches like a promise. Inside, my empire moves beneath my fingertips—contracts, acquisitions, secrets, and whispers.
The corner of my lip curls as my phone buzzes.
Not just any call.
That call.
I press the button to answer and lean back in my chair, my gaze drifting to the glass ceiling above.
"Talk to me," I say, already knowing the voice on the other end.
A short exchange later, I end the call, a sharp, knowing smile still playing on my lips.
"Celeste!" I call without turning.
