She came to dinner.
Celine Cater—my wife, my rival, the woman who could cut with her words or destroy with a single stare—came home, set down her bag, and stayed.
Not for the press. Not for our parents. Not because of the company merger. But for me.
I knew something had changed when she didn't shut me out that morning. The sarcastic text. The smirk when she replied. It had me walking through meetings with an annoying amount of optimism and a stupid smile I tried to hide from Oliver. (Unsuccessfully.)
But having her say yes to dinner?
That meant more than I'd ever admit aloud.
I spent the day half-present. Reviewed reports. Fielded calls. Showed up to meetings I barely remembered walking into. But my mind kept circling back to her. How she looked the night before. How she said "Yes?" when I told her I wanted to kiss her. How her lips tasted—like wine, like something I hadn't known I was starving for until I had it.
Now, sitting across from her on the balcony, I watched her pick at her couscous and hummus, pretending she didn't know I was watching her. But she did. Her eyes flicked up every few seconds. We weren't speaking much, but the silence had a rhythm to it. One we hadn't found before.
I couldn't help myself.
"I meant what I said last night."
She didn't flinch. Just looked at me.
"I'm not here to play games, Celine."
And I wasn't. For the first time since this whole thing began, I didn't feel like I was performing. I didn't want to be the heir. The strategist. The Aldridge who always wins.
I just wanted to be the man who earned her trust.
She met my eyes across the table. "What if we fall?" she whispered.
God. That question.
I could see how hard it was for her to ask. Vulnerability wasn't something either of us were trained in. We were CEOs, not romantics. We built empires, not soft spaces.
I reached out and took her hand.
"Then we fall together."
I expected her to pull back.
She didn't.
That small gesture—her fingers staying curled around mine—was bigger than any headline we'd ever made.
We didn't kiss that night. We didn't rush. We sat under the glow of the city, and when the chill of the breeze picked up, I got her a blanket and we stayed there until her eyelids started drooping.
When she finally stood, she didn't say goodnight with sharp sarcasm or cool formality.
She said, "Thank you."
I watched her walk toward her room. Watched her hesitate at the hallway, glance back, and then disappear.
The next morning, I woke earlier than usual. It was instinct, not alarm. Something about this stage—this delicate shift between enemies and lovers—felt like balancing on a tightrope. And I couldn't afford to stumble.
Oliver picked me up for the office at 8.
"Big day?" he asked, glancing at me through the mirror.
"Same as always."
But he knew me better than that.
"You smiled getting in the car."
I shrugged. "Maybe I'm just in a good mood."
He didn't press, but I caught the hint of amusement in his eyes.
At the office, I was sharper. I moved through my meetings with precision, but I wasn't rushing to leave. I had something to look forward to now—coming home didn't feel like walking into a cold negotiation anymore.
It felt like possibility.
I texted her around lunch.
[Blake]: You made that couscous look good. Wanna try the Greek place next?
No reply.
I waited until three.
Still nothing.
And then at four, just as I was finishing a call with one of our international partners, my phone lit up.
[Celine]: You're persistent.
[Blake]: Comes with the job. And the attraction.
[Celine]: You're not subtle.
[Blake]: You don't seem to mind.
There was no response to that one. But I knew her well enough to know she was smiling when she read it.
Back at the penthouse that evening, I picked up Thai food and took a chance. She hadn't said yes. But she hadn't said no either.
When I walked in, she was already home, standing by the window in a silk blouse and those ridiculous black trousers that made her legs look like something out of a designer campaign.
"You're early," she said without looking at me.
"So are you."
She turned slowly, arms crossed. "Let me guess. You brought dinner."
"Only because I knew you'd forget to eat again."
She tried to scoff but didn't.
"I was thinking we could try the couch instead of the balcony this time," I said. "Less wind."
To my surprise, she nodded.
We settled in—legs tucked, cushions rearranged, takeout spread out on the coffee table. It felt... normal.
And I liked that. I liked the normalcy.
Halfway through, she asked about my grandfather.
"How is Charles? He hasn't said much since the last board meeting."
"He's letting us find our footing," I said. "But he watches everything."
"I noticed."
She was quiet for a second, then added, "He likes me."
I nodded. "He does."
"And Evelyn... she's been kinder than I expected."
"She was waiting for someone like you. She just didn't know you'd arrive this way."
We smiled at the same time.
There it was again—ease.
After dinner, we stayed on the couch. I told her about my trip to Zurich during business school. She told me about her first failed pitch to a board when she was only twenty-two.
We laughed. We teased. We... connected.
When she yawned, I knew the night was ending.
But I didn't want it to end without saying something that had been building in my chest all day.
"Celine."
She looked over, already halfway to standing.
"Last night—"
"I know," she said softly. "It wasn't just a kiss."
I rose too, walking her to her room without thinking.
At her door, I reached out and took her hand again. No pressure. Just touch.
"Sleep well," I said.
Her thumb brushed mine. "You too, Blake."
I stood there long after she disappeared inside, the warmth of her skin still humming in my palm.
I wasn't just falling.
I had already fallen.