She seemed to read the thought on my face.
“I’m not here for you,” she said. “My college roommate is one of the artists.”
“That’s… comforting.”
A corner of her mouth lifted. “I suppose I deserved that.”
We stood side by side, looking at the painting.
Without the conference room, without the watchful eyes of executives, Celeste seemed different. Still composed, but less polished at the edges. Tired, maybe.
“I didn’t leave the photograph,” she said.
My body went still.
I looked at her.
She sipped her coffee. “You were going to ask eventually.”
“Did you know about it?”
“Not until Nathan confronted me.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
I had not known Nathan had done that. Part of me appreciated it. Another part wished he had told me.
Celeste’s gaze remained on the painting. “I have done many things I’m not proud of, Maya. But I don’t skulk around with cameras.”
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“You shouldn’t, automatically.” She finally turned to me. “But you should ask yourself who benefits if you blame me.”
The noise of the coffee shop faded around us.
“What does that mean?”
Celeste’s expression grew careful. “The Whitmore contract is not universally loved. Neither is Nathan’s leadership. There are people who would prefer him distracted, emotional, or publicly compromised.”
“People inside Northstar?”
“I said people.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” she said. “It’s a warning.”
I studied her face. “Why are you warning me?”
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then her expression shifted, and I saw a glimpse of something that looked almost like regret.
“Because once, I thought loving Nathan meant becoming useful enough that he would never leave.” Her voice was steady, but softer than before. “It was a foolish, exhausting way to live.”
I did not know what to say.
Celeste looked back at the painting. “You seem like someone who might try to love him honestly. That makes you vulnerable in a different way.”
The words settled over me with unexpected weight.
Before I could respond, Harper appeared at my side carrying a tiny clay bowl.
“Oh,” she said, looking between us. “This feels like either a coincidence or the beginning of a very expensive problem.”
Celeste gave her a polite nod. “Probably both.”
Harper blinked. “I respect the honesty.”
Celeste reached into her handbag and removed a business card. She handed it to me.
“If anything else arrives,” she said, “contact me.”
I stared at the card. “Why?”
“Because whoever sent that photograph wanted you afraid. Fear makes people predictable.”
“And you don’t want me predictable?”
“I don’t want you careless.”
She walked away then, leaving behind the faint scent of jasmine perfume and a hundred new questions.
Harper waited until Celeste was out of earshot.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m going to need the director’s cut of whatever that was.”
I told her everything over cinnamon tea at a corner table.
For once, Harper did not joke.
“You need to tell Nathan,” she said.
“I know.”
“And you need to be careful at work.”
“I know that too.”
“No, Maya.” Harper leaned forward. “I mean careful with everyone. Not just Celeste.”
That night, I lay awake listening to rain tap against my window.
I thought of Nathan, alone in his penthouse or office or whatever quiet expensive place held him when the world stopped demanding things from him. I wondered whether he knew how many people had built expectations around his life. Investors. Employees. Former fiancées. Board members. Me.
Then I wondered what expectations I had built around him.
The next morning, I called him.
He answered on the second ring.
“Maya?”
Just hearing my name in his voice made my resolve soften.
“I saw Celeste last night.”
Silence.
Then, carefully, “Are you all right?”
