Chapter 7
May 30, 2025
Celene’s POV
3 years after
I stood in front of the mirror, buttoning my white silk blouse. The fabric was crisp, structured, and unapologetically clean. There were no frills, no soft edges—just intent. I layered it with a blazer tailored sharp enough to draw blood and painted my lips in a deep red that didn’t ask for attention. It commanded it. I held my own gaze without flinching, and for the first time, the woman staring back didn’t feel like a stranger. She felt like the one I’d been trying to find all along.
From the front of the suite, my father called out, “You good?”
“I’m not here to be good,” I replied calmly, still watching my reflection. “I’m here to bury them in silence.”
Monroe Towers rose from the street like a monument to power. Every pane of glass sparkled in the morning sun, reflecting the city back like it owed it something. I walked through the front doors without hesitation, my heels tapping against the polished stone floors. It wasn’t so long ago that I stood on the other side of that glass, hoping someone inside would notice me. Now, they did. And they stood.
“Welcome back, Ms. Monroe,” the receptionist said, already rising from her seat.
I offered the smallest nod and stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for the top floor. The mirrored walls reflected every angle—white blouse, black blazer, red lips. Every choice deliberate. There was no softness left, only edges. I looked like someone who had walked through fire and come out forged in steel.
As the elevator doors slid open, I drew in a quiet breath and walked into the executive suite. The air was cool, the lighting precise. Everything about the floor felt curated, like a museum dedicated to old money and unspoken rules. The glass walls gleamed, gold plaques shined, and silence sat heavy between the conversations already happening.
And then I saw him.
Rhys Carrington was exactly where I expected him to be—seated at the head of the long conference table like he still owned the room. He had one leg crossed over the other, a hand draped casually along the chair’s arm, that practiced lean making him look effortlessly in control. He didn’t see me at first. He was too busy holding court, too used to being the center of attention.
But then the energy shifted. He looked up.
Our eyes met.
In a split second, his entire body tensed. It wasn’t just surprise,
it was disbelief, the kind that hits like a slap. His posture unraveled. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, scanning the room as if someone else might explain what he was seeing: his ex-wife walking straight toward him like she owned the building he built.
But no one moved. No one spoke. The silence gave me room.
Each step I took echoed sharply across the floor, slowing only when I reached the far end of the table and pulled out the chair across from him, the chair for someone who mattered. I sat down and folded my hands lightly on the table.
Rhys stared at me like I was a ghost. “What the hell are you doing here?”
His fingers tapped once against the surface, his mouth parting slightly, like he was still searching for the right thing to say. I leaned in, just far enough to keep the moment between us.
“Surprised to see me?” I asked, my tone light but cold.
He blinked. Said nothing.
I tilted my head. “That’s new. You usually have something slick to say.”
Then I smiled. Not out of affection or triumph, but with the kind of restraint that stung more than a slap. It was the smile of a woman who’d been underestimated one too many times. Across from me, Rhys didn’t just look shocked—he looked undone. Like everything he’d buried was rising to the surface in the worst possible moment.
He looked at me and didn’t see the wife he abandoned. He saw the consequence of it.
And I was done being the quiet ending to his story.
My name was Celene Monroe.
And I had just rewritten the beginning of mine.
