The room was silent, but the tension screamed.
Celeste's penthouse, usually pristine and eerily calm, now felt like a war room just after the first bomb had dropped. Noah stood near the door, fists clenched, jaw tight. Celeste was at the center island counter, staring at her phone like it was a loaded weapon.
Kuroda paced.
"This is a coordinated escalation," he said, voice clipped. "It's not just noise anymore. Someone's moving deliberately."
"Verena," Noah said flatly.
"Likely," Kuroda replied. "Or someone she hired."
Celeste's eyes didn't leave the screen. "She wouldn't outsource something this personal."
Kuroda stopped pacing and turned toward them. "Your sister was approached outside her school today."
Noah blinked. "What?"
Kuroda continued. "A woman posing as a reporter from a local paper. She asked a teacher if the school knew about the scandal.' Said she was doing a feature on young family members of rising influencers."
Noah's throat tightened. "Is she okay?"
"She wasn't harmed. The woman disappeared when security stepped in. But she left a calling card with a fake agency."
Kuroda reached into his coat and pulled out a photo. He handed it to Noah.
It was a still from school security footage: a woman in sunglasses and a long coat, walking away.
Noah stared at it, his grip tightening on the edge of the photo. "This is insane."
"There's more," Kuroda said. He handed Celeste a small white envelope.
She opened it and pulled out a note card—delicate ivory stock, handwritten in looping cursive.Noah read it over her shoulder:
"So proud of your son. He's making quite the impression. Love, Verena."
Inside the card was a pressed gardenia—his mother's favorite flower.
Noah's jaw clenched. His heart hammered in his chest. "She sent this to my mother?"
Kuroda nodded grimly. "Courier dropped it off at her apartment building. With flowers."
Noah turned away, pacing toward the wall of windows.
This was beyond the press. Beyond PR damage.
This was a threat.
Celeste oversaw him, as if she were trying to predict when he'd crack.
He turned back, voice low but shaking.
"This is your war, Celeste. Not mine."
She said nothing.
"I signed up to play pretend. Go to a few events. Smile. Now my family's involved. My sister is being stalked. My mother is getting... gifts from a woman who doesn't even know her but wants to destroy her son."
His voice broke slightly on that last word.
"I didn't ask for this."
Still, Celeste didn't speak. She only watched him, her expression unreadable—but her eyes were full of fire.
Noah moved to the door. "I need to step out. I need—" He stopped himself. Shook his head.
"I need not to be here right now."
He grabbed the door handle.
But before he could pull it open, her voice cut through the silence:
"If you leave now, she wins."
He stopped.
"And I lose you."
Noah turned, slowly.
Celeste hadn't moved. She wasn't pleading. She wasn't begging.
She just looked... honest. Open in a way he'd never seen her before.
No warpaint. No armor. Just Celeste.
"This was never supposed to be real," she said. "But it is now. And if you walk away—if I lose you—then she gets exactly what she wanted."
Noah stood in the doorway for a long, long moment.
Then he let go of the handle.
Took one step back into the room.
And closed the door behind him.
Celeste's private study was nothing like the rest of her penthouse.
The rest of her home was cold marble, designer surfaces, neutral tones—all curated for image. But the study… this room breathed. Dark mahogany shelves lined the walls, filled not with expensive first editions but well-worn novels and thick strategy books. The desk was cluttered with physical notebooks and a sleek laptop, half-covered in sticky notes.
It was the first time Noah realized: this was where she lived.
Kuroda tapped on the whiteboard near the far wall, where the Langford gala had been outlined days ago in neat marker strokes. He erased the original timeline and began redrawing it from scratch.
"Here's what we do," he said. "We stop playing defense. The leak is out. The story's spreading. The next few days are critical."
"Which story?" Noah asked bitterly. "The one where I'm a gold-digging fake boyfriend? Or the one where I'm a security risk to a billionaire heiress?"
"Both," Kuroda said flatly. "But we'll reframe them."
Celeste sat on the edge of her desk, legs crossed, arms folded. Her mind was already ten steps ahead.
"We stage something public. Something big. A united front."
Noah raised an eyebrow. "Like what? A press release?"
"No," she said. "Boring. Passive. We throw a curveball. An exclusive interview. Or better—an appearance. High-profile. Something where we look unbothered. In control."
"A distraction," Noah muttered. "Like lighting a fire so no one sees the other one burning."
She nodded. "Exactly."
Kuroda stepped forward. "I've already arranged early access to the Langford Foundation Gala guest list. We'll plant a story that you and Noah are co-hosting the silent auction portion."
Noah blinked. "Isn't that… the main spotlight?"
"Exactly," Celeste said. "You stand with me, center stage. We look unshaken. It becomes harder for them to question the story we want them to believe."
Noah crossed his arms. "You're using me."
"I'm using the position," she said. "The difference is, I asked you to be part of it."
"That was before my family got dragged into this."
Celeste didn't flinch. "And now they're protected."
"That's not what this feels like," he said.
Her voice dropped. "I'm doing what I can with the tools I have. This world doesn't play fair, Noah. You want rules? Morality? Closure? Go back to normal. You still have the choice."
Noah exhaled hard through his nose, pacing toward the window.
"You don't get it," he said finally. "This—this whole thing—it's not just about your family name anymore. People are digging through my sister's hospital history. My mom's address. My student loans. I didn't ask for this. And I can't afford it."
Silence.
Then:
"I know," Celeste said.
Her voice wasn't cold this time. It was... tired. Honest.
"I know," she repeated. "And if I could undo it, I would. But I can't. All I can do now is give you power in return."
Noah turned, slowly.
"What does that mean?"
Before she could answer, Kuroda's phone vibrated on the desk. He picked it up, checked the screen—then his face changed.
He stepped toward them, holding the phone so they could see it.
A new image.
Grainy, zoomed-in. A girl in a school uniform, standing at the edge of a sidewalk near the gates of her school.
Noah's sister.
In the blurry background: a dark SUV. Tinted windows. Parked. Unmoving. Watching.
Beneath the photo was a single caption, from an anonymous account:
"Nice family. Would be a shame if something… happened."
Noah's face drained of color. His hands curled into fists.
"Who sent this?" he asked, voice dangerously low.
"We don't know yet," Kuroda said. "But it was posted to a burner account on a private forum. Not public yet. We caught it through our web monitors."
Celeste stood slowly. "We escalate security. And we retaliate."
Noah's eyes burned with something darker now—something that wasn't fear anymore.
It was resolve.
"Let's make something very clear," he said. "This stops being pretend right now."
Celeste stepped forward until they were just a few feet apart.
"Then we do this together. No more halfway."
He nodded.
And for the first time since the contract began, it didn't feel like an act.
The rooftop was silent, high above the city's glimmering veins of traffic and light. Wind whipped through the air in steady, quiet gusts, lifting the hem of Celeste's jacket as she stood at the edge, her back to Noah.
She didn't flinch when he stepped onto the stone terrace behind her.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Finally, she said, "This is where I go when I need to remind myself that it's all just... noise."
Noah walked up beside her. The city stretched wide below—beautiful, chaotic, alive.
"And is it working?"
She glanced at him, eyes shadowed. "Not tonight."
The wind carried the weight of everything that hadn't been said. Of everything that couldn't be undone.
"You're angry," she said quietly.
Noah crossed his arms. "Yeah. I am."
"You should be."
He looked at her carefully. "Then why don't you seem surprised?"
Celeste leaned against the railing, her voice steady. "Because this is what they do. People like my mother. Like Cassian. They isolate. They dig. They punish you for being inconvenient."
"And you've just… accepted that?"
"No." She looked at him now. "I learned how to beat it."
Noah let the silence sit between them a moment.
"You said earlier… that you'd give me power in return. What does that mean?"
Celeste turned fully toward him.
"In this world, control is power. I can't make your family invisible. But I can make sure no one dares touch them again."
He searched her face. "Why would you do that?"
She didn't blink. "Because I invited you into this. I put you in danger."
"But it's not just guilt, is it?"
She hesitated.
And then: "No. It's not."
Noah's chest tightened.
"Then tell me," he said, quieter now. "What is this? What are we doing?"
Celeste stepped forward, the space between them shrinking.
"This started as a lie," she said. "But lies are easiest when they stay shallow. When no one looks too long. We've already gone too deep."
He didn't move away. "So what now?"
She looked at him, something unguarded in her expression. "Now, we fight back. And we stop pretending."
He stared at her, pulse thudding. Not from fear, but from something deeper. Something real.
"You don't trust easily, do you?" he asked.
"I don't trust at all," she whispered. "But I believe you. That's worse."
Noah took a step closer. "Why?"
Her eyes didn't leave his. "Because it makes this real. And real things can be taken away."
They stood there, breathless in the wind, tension simmering between proximity and honesty.
Then her phone buzzed. She didn't check it.
"I don't care," she murmured.
But Kuroda's voice came from the rooftop stairwell seconds later.
"You will."
They turned as he crossed to them, holding his tablet with the screen already lit.
"It's him," Kuroda said. "Cassian just bought exclusive airtime on a late-night finance stream."
Noah frowned. "Why?"
Kuroda looked at Celeste.
"To announce his engagement—and name the Langford Foundation as his fiancée's next donation target."
Celeste's face darkened.
"He's using our name to legitimize his own. He's declaring war."
The TV was muted, but the message blared loud and clear.
Cassian Vale sat on-screen in a tailored steel-blue blazer, oozing smug charm across the news panel like a serpent wrapped in expensive fabric. The ticker beneath his face scrolled casually:
CASSIAN VALE ANNOUNCES ENGAGEMENT TO ENTREPRENEUR IRIS DANE — DONATION TO LANGFORD FOUNDATION PENDING
Kuroda muted the stream, turning back to Celeste and Noah in the study.
"He bought legitimacy," Kuroda said. "He's using the Foundation's name to imply proximity, influence. He wants people to think he's part of the Langford legacy now."
Celeste's mouth curled into a bitter, bloodless smile. "He's hijacking my last name."
"He's not done," Kuroda added. "There's a media packet being distributed to press: old photos, family trees, investor connections. Guess who's missing from every document?"
Noah spoke, voice low. "You."
Kuroda nodded. "It's a silent erasure."
Celeste stood at the window, arms crossed, as if bracing herself against the weight of a tide she had long expected—but never welcomed.
"I thought he'd aim lower," she said. "He's always been petty. But this... this is polished."
"Why now?" Noah asked. "Why not just come after you directly?"
Celeste turned to him, eyes cold. "Because if he gets the Foundation, I'm nothing more than a Langford by name. And he knows how badly I fought to be more than that."
She crossed to her desk and sat, fingers steepled beneath her chin.
"I spent the last five years using the Foundation as my proof," she said quietly. "Proof that I wasn't just another rich heir trying to stay relevant. It was the one thing I built with my hands, with my vision. Not Mother's. Not my father's ghost. Mine."
Noah leaned against the edge of the desk. "And now he's trying to turn it into a footnote under his biography."
Celeste's eyes flicked to him. "He won't."
Noah watched her carefully. There was steel in her voice now—but it wasn't forced. It was real. Earned.
He stepped closer.
"Then what's the play?"
Celeste stood slowly. "We make the lie unignorable."
Kuroda frowned. "You're not seriously thinking—?"
"I am."
She looked to Noah.
"I said I wanted control back. This is how we do it."
Kuroda stepped forward, cautious. "If you escalate—if you take this public—you're going to ignite a war you can't walk away from."
"I don't want to walk away anymore," she said.
Noah's heart thudded. "Celeste, what are you saying?"
She turned to him fully now. Not as a Langford. Not as a strategist. Just as her.
"I'm saying," she said softly, "we go public first. Not as a Foundation appearance. Not as a whisper in a column. I'm talking full-stage, full fire. You and me—together."
"A real announcement?" Kuroda asked.
"No," she replied, eyes still locked with Noah's.
"A fake engagement."
The silence that followed was a roar.
Noah stared at her, stunned.
And yet, in his chest, something tightened—not with fear.
But with inevitability.
Because in that moment, the line between performance and reality blurred beyond saving.