Midnight Ride

The heavy fire escape door swung inward, revealing a space that dwarfed the entire design department downstairs. Celine stepped into the executive office, her eyes scanning the massive, open floor plan. A sprawling mahogany desk anchored the center of the room, flanked by a pristine leather sofa set and a dedicated, sleek coffee bar in the corner.

"If you're tired, go sleep in there." Vance lifted his chin, gesturing toward a door tucked away near his desk.

Celine followed his gaze and spotted the entrance to a small, private suite. Through the crack in the door, it looked surprisingly homey and comfortable, a stark contrast to the sterile hotel room from the other night. A flash of heat rushed to her cheeks as the memory surfaced.

"I can just sit on the sofa out here." Celine took a deliberate step backward, clutching her bag.

"Suit yourself." Vance walked past her, sitting down at his desk. He immediately pulled a thick stack of documents toward him, his focus shifting instantly to the pages.

Celine did not venture anywhere near the private suite. She moved toward the leather couch, sitting rigidly on the edge of the cushions. She intended to simply wait it out. She had barely slept the night before, and the lingering exhaustion from the day sat heavy in her bones. The quiet scratch of his pen and the soft rustle of turning pages filled the vast room. She did not know how much time passed, but the rhythmic, mundane sounds eventually pulled her under. She slumped sideways against the armrest and dozed off.

Meanwhile, Vance remained at his desk, burning through piles of paperwork and handling complex business matters as though he possessed endless stamina. They had experienced a similar late night just twenty-four hours ago, and he had been the one exerting all the physical effort. She could not fathom how he still had this much energy.

When Celine finally woke up, her mind felt groggy and disoriented. The digital clock on the coffee bar read one in the morning.

Vance was standing by the towering floor-to-ceiling windows. He gazed out silently at the sprawling city nightscape, his back to her. His broad shoulders and narrow waist cut an imposing silhouette against the glowing city lights. His dress shirt sleeves were casually rolled up to the elbows, revealing the defined veins standing out along his forearms.

Celine touched her stiff neck, letting out a small, pained sound as she shifted her weight. The expensive black suit jacket that had been draped over her shoulders slid off, pooling onto the leather cushions.

"You aren't going to sleep?" Celine rubbed her eyes.

"The elevator's fixed." Vance turned around slowly. His expression remained unreadable in the dim lighting.

"Oh."

"I will take you down." He started toward the door.

"There is no need for that. I can just grab a cab downstairs on my own." Celine picked up her bag and the borrowed jacket, setting the garment neatly on the table. She wanted nothing more than to put distance between them.

Vance ignored her refusal. He grabbed the jacket right back off the table and followed closely behind her.

Celine felt a prickle of nervous discomfort. He trailed her like a massive, intimidating puppy she could not shake off, his silent presence looming over her every step. They rode the repaired elevator down in stifling silence. She headed straight out of the lobby doors and toward the external exit, hoping to flag down a passing taxi. She had not even made it out of the underground parking garage entrance when the sharp blast of a car horn echoed behind her.

She moved to the side of the concrete lane, but the sleek black car simply rolled forward and kept honking.

Celine stopped and looked back.

"Get in." Vance sat in the driver's seat. His low, magnetic voice carried easily through the rolled-down window. His deep eyes looked cold behind his frameless glasses.

Celine clutched her bag tight against her stomach. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She hesitated, eyeing the dark, empty street ahead, before letting out a defeated sigh. She walked around the hood and slid into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut.

Right at that second, a silver BMW took a sharp, reckless turn and sped directly into the underground garage. The deafening screech of tires sliding on polished concrete echoed dangerously through the structure.

Celine jolted in her seat, twisting her body away from the window in a panic. When the speeding car disappeared into the lower levels and she finally snapped back to attention, she realized how uncomfortable she was. She began yanking at her ill-fitting, restrictive outfit. The cheap fabric of the tight skirt rode high up her thighs every time she shifted. She grabbed the hem, attempting to force it down over her bare legs.

As she strained against the awkward angle, the taut button right across her chest popped open with a sharp snap.

The fabric parted wide. Her deep cleavage and the bare, pale swells of her breasts were exposed directly to the cool air of the car cabin.

A deafening, suffocating silence filled the cramped space. Vance snapped his head away, staring rigidly out the driver’s side window. His jaw clenched tight. His throat worked involuntarily as he swallowed hard, the sharp line of his Adam’s apple bobbing.

Celine gasped, her face flushing crimson as she frantically pulled the edges of the shirt together. Everyone in the office knew she had a great figure, but this was a humiliating nightmare.

Neither of them spoke. The tension in the air felt thick enough to cut with a knife.

Without a word, Vance reached into the back seat. He grabbed his expensive black suit jacket and tossed it blindly into her lap. It was a silent command to cover her exposed skin.

Celine understood instantly. She shoved her arms through the oversized sleeves and pulled the heavy material tight across her chest, burying herself in the faint scent of his crisp cologne.

The drive through the empty city streets was quiet. Halfway to her apartment, Vance abruptly pulled the car over to the curb and killed the engine. He stepped out without an explanation, disappearing into a bright corner shop. A few minutes later, he returned and opened the driver’s door, bringing the rich scent of roasted espresso and sweet spices into the cabin.

He handed a steaming cup over the center console.

"Here." His tone was flat.

Celine froze, staring at the familiar logo of Golden Beans Café. She reached out and took it from his large hands.

"Thanks."

The subtle scent drifted up through the lid. It was a brown butter latte. Her favorite drink. Golden Beans Café made them using real butter, Madagascar vanilla, and a specific touch of cinnamon that made the flavor incredible. Every time she went shopping on weekends, she stopped by for this exact order. The café stayed open until three in the morning and always had a line out the door.

How in the world did he even know that?

They drove the rest of the way in silence. She rented an apartment at Bramblewood Gardens, a modest complex not too far from the corporate office. Vance parked the car right at the curb. He did not drive away when she stepped out. He sat idling in the dark, watching her walk through the glass lobby doors and step into the elevator. He tilted his head back, staring up at the towering building. He stubbornly waited until the lights on the sixteenth floor finally flickered on.

When Celine stepped out of the elevator on her floor, the momentarily softened mood brought on by the warm coffee plummeted into a dark abyss.

Lying directly by her front door was a pathetic bouquet of yellow tulips and a plastic cup of iced coffee, the sides sweating cold condensation onto the hallway runner. It looked exactly like a grim funeral offering left at a gravestone.

A surge of anger flared in her chest. She remembered her friend’s blunt, unapologetic advice: trash belongs strictly in the trash can.

Celine tightened her grip on her warm latte. She lifted her black heel and aggressively kicked the bouquet of tulips aside, scattering yellow petals across the carpet. She bent down, picked up the sweating iced coffee, and marched over to the hallway garbage chute, tossing the plastic cup straight down into the darkness.

She unlocked her door with her fingerprint scanner and stepped into her apartment. She peeled off the oversized black jacket and the restrictive, awful clothes, slipping into her soft house slippers. She headed straight for the bathroom to wash the grime and stress of the day off her skin.

By the time she emerged, clean and wearing her comfortable pajamas, it was already two in the morning. She sat on the edge of her bed and finally powered on her phone.

A massive flood of notifications assaulted her screen. The device chimed and vibrated relentlessly. Among the chaos of missed calls and unread messages was a lengthy text from Trent.

"I tried calling but you didn't pick up. I sent messages but you ignored them. I am so worried about you, Celine. The flowers outside your door were freshly picked today. I hope you like them."

Celine sneered at the screen. His indiscriminate, performative romance was suffocating. He doled out this manufactured charm to any woman who gave him the time of day.

They had been together for five years. Because she came from a strict single-parent home, she possessed incredibly rigid personal boundaries regarding physical intimacy. Even with marriage on the table, she had never let him do more than hold her hand and share brief kisses.

That boundary had shattered her entire world during the National Day fashion expo.

She had gone looking for Trent during the closing hours of the event. Instead of finding him packing up booths, she found him cornered in a secluded hallway with Aubrey. She had stood frozen in the shadows, personally watching Trent intimately touching and feeling up Aubrey's body. His hands had roamed over her curves with practiced ease, their bodies pressed flush against each other.

The sight of his hands on another woman had felt like a physical knife twisting in her gut.

What made the humiliation infinitely worse was that Vance and Nolan had been walking down that same corridor. They had witnessed her exact moment of heartbreak from afar. They had seen her paralyzed by the betrayal. That agonizing, public degradation was the entire reason she had spiraled at the celebration banquet later that night. She had drank far too much alcohol to numb the pain, eventually stumbling into a stupor that landed her directly in Vance's hotel bed.

Sitting in her quiet apartment, she stared blankly at Vance's WhatsApp profile. The heavy borrowed suit jacket rested on the chair nearby, and the warm brown butter latte sat on her nightstand.

Celine vividly recalled the ridiculous, impossible thing he had asked her earlier that afternoon in the lobby.

"Would you consider becoming my wife?"

She felt dazed, her thoughts spinning out of control. No matter how desperate she was to move on, she could not just marry a stranger on a whim. Why would a wealthy, untouchable CEO zero in on a low-level, broken employee like her? He was not running a charity.

Seeking a distraction, she opened Instagram. Her feed was buzzing. Several colleagues had praised her late-night hustle story, leaving generic comments about her dedication to the design drafts.

As she scrolled through the viewer list, a familiar, distinguished profile picture caught her eye.

Vance had liked her post.

Celine stared at the little heart icon. Did he purposefully come downstairs to the dark stairwell just because he saw her story? Did he know she was trapped?

No. That was impossible.

She tossed her phone onto the mattress, letting out a long, exhausted breath. She picked up the Golden Beans cup and took a slow sip of the brown butter latte.

God, it's sweet.