He takes the guitar, checks the tuning, and leans into the mic. “How’s everybody doing tonight?”

  The crowd murmurs in approval, and a few claps come from the back.

  He says, “I’d like to try something different. Hope that’s okay.” He glances at Celeste; her eyes are on him, steady and supportive. He breathes in, lets the tension coil and uncoil, and starts to play.

  The first notes are slow and blue, the kind of sound that makes a room hold its breath. He sings, not loud but raw, the words a shuffle of regret and longing, a story about losing someone and finding them again at the edge of a blackout. His voice cracks in all the right places, the band picking up behind him, lifting the chorus into something that might be hope or might be a memory. It’s hard to tell.

  Celeste feels it, every vibration in the strings, every line of lyric landing somewhere below her heart. It’s like he’s playing directly to her, every phrase a private message, every riff a confession. The room falls away; there is only Thad, the music, and the secret they’re not quite ready to say out loud.

  He finishes the song, lets the last note ring, and the applause is immediate and honest. Even the bartender claps, and the MC mouths, “Not bad,” as she passes him on the way back to the booth.

  Thad returns to Celeste, face flushed and sweating barely, the old adrenaline chase still thrumming in his veins.

  She greets him with a raised glass. “That was beautiful,” she says, and it sounds like she means it.

  He’s embarrassed, which surprises her, and he shrugs. “Thanks for the setup. You’re relentless.”

  She grins. “You have to be in this city.”

  They sit closer now, the boundary between them all but erased. She places her hand on his knee, testing, and he covers it with his own. The music resumes, slower and more private, a ballad about lovers and loss.

  Thad turns to her, voice soft. “You ever think about going for it?”

  She doesn’t answer but instead leans in, her hair brushing his cheek. The kiss is tentative, then hungry, then something beyond words. She tastes of espresso and midnight, his hands finding the curve of her jaw, hers curling in the fabric of his shirt.

  The booth feels like the only place in the world. They break long enough to catch a breath, and she laughs, the sound low and satisfied.

  “You’re full of surprises,” she says.

  “So are you,” he answers and kisses her again, this time slower, deeper.

  Somewhere in the corner, a phone camera flickers, but neither of them sees it.

  The music builds, the air thickens, and for the next hour, nothing matters but the notes, the heat of their bodies, and the possibility they could belong to something outside of survival.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  At 6:37 a.m., Thad’s phone becomes a weapon. It rattles the nightstand with a sustained volley of buzzes, blips, and a single, vibrating shriek from an unknown number. He groans, reaches, fumbles, and in the act of unlocking the screen, he is assaulted by a barrage of pings, first a dozen, then a hundred, then more, the screen unable to keep up.

  There’s a text from Amy: “DUDE! UR MORE FAMOUS! ”

  One from Freddie: “Rock Star CEO? Bro, I’m dying.”

  Then another from Natalie, timestamped 5:51: “SEE BELOW. EMERGENCY BOARD CALL 8 AM. ANSWER YOUR PHONE.”

  Beneath that, Instagram: a post from @NYAfterDark234, tagged with both his and Celeste’s handles. The photo is unmistakable: him, lips locked with Celeste in a booth at the Blue Parlor, her hand in his hair, his fingers grazing her jaw, both looking exactly as wrecked and happy as he remembers. The caption reads: “Rock Star CEO’s Late Night Rendezvous with Employee. #HastingsHeir #CorporateRomance #BeautyAndTheBeat.” It has 50,000 likes in under 2 hours.

  Thad sits up, the cold sweat cutting through the haze of a hangover. He clicks through to the comments, first snark, then congratulations, then, as the press picks it up, a rising tide of speculation and attack. Another ping: a headline from the Post, “HEIR TODAY, GONE TOMORROW: Hastings’ Son Gets Down with Staffer.” They have cropped and enlarged the image and circled Celeste’s name in red.

  He swipes to his call history, finds the last incoming number, and dials.

  Celeste’s phone is already in her hand when it rings. She’s sitting on the edge of her bathtub, feet cold on the tile, wearing the same dress from last night and an expression of absolute clarity: this is how things end, and maybe, how they start again.

  She answers, voice flat. “So. We’re famous.”

  He exhales, a laugh with nothing behind it. “I am so, so sorry.”

  “For what? Being caught? Or for last night?”

  He’s silent, the question digging deeper than she means. “For both, I guess. Are you okay?”

  She glances at her inbox, where the subject lines all begin with her name in caps: “CELSTE, URGENT,” “Please call me,” and “Need to clarify the status of employment.” She says, “I’ll live. I hope you have a plan.”

  He laughs, desperate. “Not even close.”

  She softens a little. “Then let’s make one. Together.”

  There’s a pounding on her front door, the kind reserved for warrants or war. “I have to go,” she says, “but don’t let them make you the villain, okay?”

  He wants to say something else, anything, but she’s already hung up.

  Natalie is waiting at Thad’s kitchen table, a stack of legal pads and a thermos of black coffee, her only company. She looks up as he stumbles in, hair still wet, shirt only half buttoned.

  She says, “You’re trending. Worldwide. And not for the music.”

  He pours a cup, hands shaking. “What do I do?”

  She pushes a document across the table. “You go to the meeting, you don’t apologize, and you don’t mention the word ‘harassment’ or ‘power imbalance.’ Richard is going to try to hang you with your own press.”

  Thad reads the first page. It’s a transcript of the Post’s coverage, with the words “MISCONDUCT” and “CONFLICT OF INTEREST” in bold. He buries his face in his hands. “Fuck.”

  She is all business, no mercy. “You need to decide: is this a romance, or is it sabotage? Because the board will see it as the latter. You have one chance to spin this, and it has to look intentional. If you waffle, you’re finished.”

  He thinks of Celeste, the feel of her hand in his, the certainty that, for once, he hadn’t ruined everything. “It wasn’t sabotage,” he says. “Not for me.”

  Natalie nods, maybe approving, clocking the admission. “Good. Now shower, put on a suit, and meet me in the car in ten.”

  At the lab, Celeste is not greeted, not at first. The halls are alive with the hum of staff pretending not to look, their conversations clipped at the edges, their laughter a little too quiet when she passes by.

  In the elevator, one of the junior chemists glances up, tries to say something, then aborts. Another offers a weak, “You okay?” but doesn’t wait for a reply.

  She arrives at her office and finds Maya already at her desk, eyes wide and fingers trembling over a spreadsheet.

  Maya says, “It’s all over the net. You and Thaddeus. Is it true?”

  Celeste drops her bag and sighs. “Yes. It’s true.”

  Maya grins, open-mouthed. “That is so,” she catches herself, her face going pink. “I mean, are you going to get fired?”

  Celeste shakes her head. “That’s up to Richard. I’m supposed to meet him in the boardroom in twenty minutes.”

  Maya nods, then boldly, with borrowed bravery: “If you need anything, if you want to, like, hide, or talk, I’m here.”

  Celeste almost cries at that but instead says, “Thanks,” and walks down the hall, feeling each step like a countdown.

  Her phone buzzes: a text from an unknown number. “Board room. 9 sharp. Do not be late.- R”

  She deletes it, then grabs her notes on Cosmic, straightens her blazer, and heads for the elevator.

  At the front of the building, a scrum of reporters waits. Thad and Natalie slip through the back, but the sound of shouted questions, “Is it love?” “Is this a scandal?” “Are you stepping down?” echoes up the stairwell. Inside the elevator, Natalie is pure ice. She touches up her lipstick, eyes fixed on the mirrored doors.

  “Don’t flinch,” she says. “And don’t look at Richard unless you want to give him your soul.”

  The boardroom is packed. All the faces from the funeral, the identical power suits, and predatory smiles, but now the attention is on Thad and his liability.

  Richard stands at the head of the table, the picture of patience and betrayed dignity.

  Thad walks in, Natalie at his side, and for the first time in his life, he doesn’t feel small.

  He takes his seat. The chair is cold and hard, but it fits him.

  He looks at Richard, who looks back.

  The war is back on.

  The boardroom is an aquarium for the carnivores: frosted glass, gleaming obsidian, a wall of screens tuned to stock tickers and weather maps. The board is already assembled- Richard at the prow, arms folded like a kingpin, and the rest of the directors and legal retainers arranged by power and preference. Natalie is to Thad’s left, tablet open, pen poised. Celeste sits at the far end, not at the table but in a side chair, the designated seat for witnesses and expendables.

  Richard begins before Thad is even seated. “Thank you all for convening on such short notice. I regret the circumstances, but we have an urgent matter of leadership and liability to address.”

  He presses a button. The lights dim, and the main screen flickers to life, showing a photo of Thad and Celeste, their lips locked in a booth, the world’s most damning embrace.

  A gasp from one of the junior board members. Another leans in, intrigued.

  Richard’s voice is pure scythe. “I don’t think I need to explain the significance of this image. In less than twelve hours, the media has created a narrative of our CEO’s… priorities. I have already fielded three calls from shareholder groups and a half-dozen from legal. The term ‘hostile work environment’ has appeared in every message.”

  He lets it hang. “This is not only a breach of company policy but a direct threat to our reputation and market position. I propose immediate action: the termination of Ms. Bellamy for cause and the appointment of an interim CEO with the experience to guide us through this storm.”

  He looks at Thad, all teeth. “With the board’s approval, of course.”

  There’s a ripple of assent, the nervous shuffling of papers. Someone coughs. The general counsel, a woman in gray, checks her notes. “We should address the HR implications. And, Mr. Hastings, give you a chance to respond.”

  All eyes are on Thad. He feels his pulse in his jaw, but when he speaks, his voice is steady. “I won’t deny the photo or the relationship. But let’s not pretend this is about ethics. This is about a power grab, and everyone in this room knows it.”

  Natalie taps a note but doesn’t look up.

  Thad continues. “Celeste is the most talented person in this company. If you fire her, you don’t lose a headline, you lose Cosmic, and you lose every other chemist who actually gives a shit about the work.”

  There’s a murmur. The CFO leans over and whispers to her neighbor.

  Richard interjects, “Personal loyalty is admirable, but we have a duty to protect the company. I move we vote on the proposal.”

  But Thad stands, hands flat on the table, and for once, he feels the exact opposite of small. “You think this is the first time someone in this company dated a coworker? You don’t think I haven’t heard about how you met your first wife here, in this building? All you’ve ever done, Richard, is tear things down.”

  There’s a silence, deep and electric. Natalie finally looks up, her face neutral but her eyes sharp.

  Thad turns to the room. “If you want to fire me, do it. But I won’t let you scapegoat the one person who actually cares about Jocelyn’s legacy.”

  He glances at Celeste, who meets his gaze and doesn’t look away.

  He finishes, “You’re scared of change, but if you try to run this company by committee, you’ll lose everything that made it worth running. If you want stability, pick someone with a pulse.”

  The general counsel says, “We’ll take it under advisement. In the meantime, perhaps Ms. Bellamy can excuse herself while the board deliberates?”

  Celeste stands, every motion controlled, and leaves the room. Thad waits until the doors close, then sinks back into his chair, adrenaline making his vision vibrate.

  Richard glares, lip curled, but it’s not as triumphant as before.

  The board argues for twenty minutes, voices rising and falling in pitch. At some point, Natalie leans over and whispers, “That was good. Don’t get cocky.”

  He doesn’t answer, staring at the blank screen where the photo once was.

  When it’s over, they all file out. Richard is first, storming down the hall with his acolytes in tow. The CFO gives Thad a cool nod; the legal team avoids his eyes. Natalie lingers and hands him a single sheet of paper. “They’re going to ‘review options’ before taking action,” she says. “That’s code for ‘we’re not sure if we can afford to lose you yet.’ I’d lay low, but also, congratulations. You survived.”

  He asks, “What about Celeste?”

  “She’ll be fine. For now.”

  He stands, not sure what to do with himself, and leaves the boardroom. In the hall, he finds Celeste by the windows, looking out at the city like she’s trying to decide which part to burn down first.

  He walks to her and stops beside her.

  She says, “You didn’t have to do that.”

  He says, “Yes, I did.”

  She glances at him, searching for a lie, and finds none.

  “You know this won’t end here, right?” she says.

  He nods. “I know.”

  There’s a pause, the city below them moving at triple speed, the world already recalibrating to fit the new story.

  She says, “I don’t regret it.”

  He says, “Neither do I.”

  For a moment, they stand in silence, the glass cold beneath their hands, the world and its consequences waiting on the other side.

  Then, together, they turn and walk out, not to escape, but to face whatever’s next, with eyes open and hearts, finally, unguarded.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The executive suite felt like a bomb shelter if bomb shelters came with panoramic views of Midtown and espresso pods that cost more per ounce than plutonium. Thad sat at the head of the conference table, his, officially, though the chair still smelled faintly of Richard’s cologne and centuries of failed masculinity. While Natalie prowled the room, she was sowing sheets of printout like seeds.

  “First up: unauthorized budget reallocation,” she said, tapping a highlighted paragraph with the contempt usually reserved for serial plagiarists and people who didn’t tip baristas. “Richard’s been siphoning from R&D into ‘marketing strategy,’ which, if you decode the expense reports, means late-night vendor meetings at Four Seasons and payments to a consulting firm that’s not a consulting firm.”

  Thad scanned the page, eyes blurry from the sixteen he’d already read. “Is that even illegal?”

  She shrugged. “If you’re an evil genius, no. If you’re an executive at a public company, it’s frowned upon. We can loop in legal, but only after we have more.”

  She slid another folder over, this one thicker, bulging with flagged emails and Slack transcripts. “Next: direct sabotage. He’s been emailing board members off-hours, painting you as a ‘transitional asset’ and implying you’re already talking to competitors about a golden parachute.”

  He barked a laugh. “That’s rich. I don’t even know what a golden parachute is besides the plot of a bad Tom Cruise movie.”

  She ignored the joke. “This is the warm-up. It gets worse.”

  A third packet, annotated in red. “He tried to stall the Cosmic launch by pulling your mother’s approval from the marketing rollout. According to this, ‘any further delays in the fragrance pipeline will ensure Thad’s transition is irreversible.’”

  He winced, not because it hurt, nothing did anymore, but because he could practically hear Richard’s voice, the measured glee in every double-negative. “Jesus.”

  Natalie’s pen tapped a staccato on the desk. “You want the nuclear stuff?”

  He nodded.

  She handed over a crisp, one-page printout, already trending on the internal comms thread: a snapshot of an email chain with a subject line so lurid it belonged in the Daily Mail, RE: URGENT- HASTINGS/COO UNETHICAL ROMANCE.

  Thad skimmed. At the bottom, Richard had pasted a TMZ link: “Rock Star Heir Caught in Steamy Office Affair: Meet His Perfumer Girlfriend.” The attachment was a PDF of every relevant post, comment, and hate meme generated in the past 24 hours.

  He tossed the printout onto the table and rubbed his forehead. “He’s not even subtle.”

  “That’s the whole point,” said Natalie, not unkindly. “He wants you to react. Make a mistake. Give him something actionable.”

  He straightened. “But you wouldn’t have called me in at 7 a.m. on a Saturday unless you had something actionable.”

  She grinned, all predator. “Check page three.”

  He did. The smoking gun was an email from Richard to a board member, timestamped 2:12 a.m., in which he outlined plans to “restructure the company for immediate sale of the perfumery division, regardless of internal R&D progress or pending launch of Cosmic.”

  “He was going to nuke the department before even seeing the final product,” said Natalie. “And he told the board, off-record, that he had your approval.”

  Thad’s jaw clicked, a tic he’d inherited from Jocelyn. “Fuck him.”

  Natalie’s eyes glittered. “That’s the attitude. Now, here’s what I propose: I ghostwrite a full breakdown, including the financial chicanery and the perfumery sabotage, and send it to select members of the board. No BCC, no communications department, direct and old-school, just like your mother would have done. At the same time, you show up at the next board meeting, prepared to counter every move he makes, armed with this evidence and a calm, unflappable face.”