Chapter 10
Adrian
It was a week after the mail arrived at Laurent Atelier that I got the call from our in-house counsel, her voice strained in a way that suggested legal, not personal, catastrophe.
“We’re getting a lot of press queries,” she said, her words clipped. “About your marriage. About… Celeste.”
My instinct was to blame the usual suspects: a slow news cycle, the irresistible cocktail of money, art, and failure.
But when I asked for specifics, she sent me a folder of emails—hundreds of them.
Some were tips from “unnamed sources,” others were outright fabrications, rumors that Vivienne and I had orchestrated our separation for publicity.
A few, though, were different. They came from PR firms with addresses in Berlin and London, and all of them pointed to the same thread: the story was being built from the inside out.
At first, I assumed Celeste was just protecting her reputation.
She’d always been ruthless, but she wasn’t usually careless.
But the more I dug, the more obvious it became that someone wanted the world to see us—me and Celeste—as inevitable.
The photos, the headlines, even the “exclusive” quotes about my “renewed closeness” with her.
It wasn’t just speculation; it was a campaign.
I called her direct line, bypassing every assistant and gatekeeper.
She picked up on the third ring, her voice cool and precise. “Adrian. Was just thinking of you.”
“Cut the act,” I said. “What are you doing?”
She laughed, soft and low. “I was waiting for you to call. You always hated being upstaged.”
“I want to see you. In person. Today.”
She made me wait three hours. She picked the bar, one of those rooftop places where everyone is beautiful and no one listens to the music. She was already there when I arrived, wearing black silk and the kind of red lipstick that made everything else look desaturated.
She greeted me with a kiss on the cheek, as if we were old lovers, and motioned for me to sit.
“You’ve been busy,” I said, sliding the emails across the table.
She glanced at the screen, shrugged, and took a sip of her drink. “Perception is reality, Adrian. I’m just accelerating the inevitable.”
I fought the urge to yell, to make a scene. Instead, I lowered my voice. “Why are you doing this?”
She tilted her head, as if the answer was so obvious it bored her. “Because you belong in my world. You always have.”
She said it with conviction, as if she were discussing the weather or the inevitability of tech cycles.
I stared at her, trying to remember the version of myself that would have agreed. “You never even liked me,” I said.
She smiled, sharp and clean. “I liked your potential. But you wasted it. You let yourself become… domesticated.”
I thought of Vivienne, the way her name had finally become its own brand, the way she’d started to exist in her own gravity. I tried to imagine a world where I was with Celeste, and all I saw was a room of glass and steel, every surface wiped clean of fingerprints.
“You don’t know me at all,” I said, surprised by how true it felt.
Celeste’s smile faded, just for a second. “You’re right,” she said. “I wanted you to be something you’re not. But so did Vivienne. You were just quick to disappoint her.”
The words hit so fucking hard.
I leaned back, folded my arms, and waited.
Celeste watched me, something hungry and almost sad in her eyes. “You could still have it,” she said. “We could be the couple everyone watches. The power, the press, the… inevitability.”
“No,” I said, and the sound of it felt better than any victory in a boardroom. “That’s not what I want anymore.”
She laughed again, but there was nothing behind it. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Probably,” I said. “But at least it’s my mistake.”
We sat in silence. I waited for her to try again, to escalate, but she just finished her drink and signaled for the check.
Before she left, she touched my hand, just for a second. “If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”
I nodded, but I already knew I never would.
I walked home. The city was damp, clouds catching the last light, and everything felt raw, as if the air itself had decided to shed its skin.
When I got to the apartment, the place was as empty as ever. I poured a drink, stared out at the skyline, and tried to imagine what came next.
There was no grand epiphany, no sense of peace. Just the low, persistent ache of realizing that no matter who started the fire, it was my house that burned.
I thought of Vivienne, alone in her studio, making something from nothing, and wondered if I could do the same.
I poured another drink and let the city spin beneath my feet, knowing that the only way forward was to build something real.
And this time, I’d do it without pretending I already had the answer.