Page 56 of Meet Me In The Dark

I scroll to the team page and find her.

Celeste Morgan.

Lead Architect.

Panel speaker. Award winner. Probably invented gravity and never mentioned it.

In her photo, her hair is swept back. She wears minimal makeup. Her eyes are just as sharp.

I stare at it and pinch to zoom because fuck it, I’ve come this far, might as well go full creep.

There are some articles linked below her photo, and one catches my eye.

The Woman Behind the Skyline: Celeste Morgan on Power, Purpose, and Designing a Better Future.

The article features a shiny banner image of theSterling Vista Tower set against a sunset background. The city’s newest architectural showcase is scheduled to open in the coming months.

There’s a second photo further down. She’s not as polished in this one. Her hair is in a ponytail, and she’s wearing dusty jeans while walking through a construction site. An older woman is beside her.

The caption reads:

Morgan pictured at the Westbridge Women’s Shelter Project—her firm’s third pro bono community partnership with The Hope Foundation in two years.

I sit back and read it again.

“These spaces save lives,” she says. “And women who’ve survived the worst deserve better than crumbling walls.”

This isn’t just some piece about a hotshot architect. This is her on the ground, choosing to build something that matters.

This is exactly the kind of work that shaped me and Nathan into who we are. Working with real communities. Investing in neighborhoods nobody else cares about. Building something from nothing. Not for a press release, but because we remember what it was like when no one cared about the street we came from.

I close the tab and slam the phone onto the passenger seat. I’ve seen enough to know she’s more than a distraction, and that’s exactly the problem.

Sixteen

Celeste

I’m dying.

Absolutely, one hundred percent dying.

My pulse thrums in my veins, like it forgot it’s supposed to keep me alive, not drive me to madness.

Julian sits confidently at the head of his conference table, commanding the room with ease.

We’re meeting in his offices today, so I’m in his territory, and my body knows it.

My fight-or-flight is in overdrive.

I’m sitting right next to him. He demanded direct communication, the ruthless bastard, and now I’msuffering for it.

It’s frustrating how his team is as meticulous as he is. Everything I usually have to chase a client for was already filed, stamped, and neatly organized before I even signed the contract. They weren’t just prepared for me; they had cleared every obstacle as if they were racing toward this moment.

Which means I can’t even bury myself in work to avoid him. We’re too far ahead. All the tedious stuff that usually keeps me safe from this kind of proximity is gone.

I risk a glance from beneath my lashes, resentment coiling tight in my chest at how effortlessly in control he looks. It’s unfair how he can play the indifferent CEO when my insides twist at the memory of his hand around my throat.

I hate him for this.