The rooftop lounge buzzed with laughter, glasses clinking and soft jazz humming through the speakers. Celine sat at the head of the long reserved table, her usual composed demeanor softened by the glow of success and a glass of vintage rosé in her hand.
She had taken her entire team out to celebrate the Chanel deal, one of the biggest contracts her company had secured this quarter. Everyone knew what it meant, and it showed in their loosened ties, the cheers, and the relaxed faces around her.
Bonuses had been announced. Raises handed out. Even the usually shy intern looked like he might cry when Celine personally handed him his envelope.
"Looks like someone is in a good mood," Stacy mouthed as she slid into the seat beside her, slightly tipsy.
Celine gave her a side glance, the faintest smirk on her lips. "Why wouldn't I be?" she said, lifting her glass. "We landed Chanel."
Stacy clinked her glass gently against Celine's. "To Chanel," she grinned, her eyes glassy with wine and excitement. "And to the queen who made it happen."
Celine chuckled, shaking her head. "Please, don't start."
"Oh, I will start and not stop," Stacy said dramatically, tipping back her drink. "Do you know how many sleepless nights we pulled on this campaign?"
"I was there," Celine replied dryly, sipping her rosé.
"But you don't look like it," Stacy teased, leaning in. "How do you look like you slept for eight hours on Egyptian cotton while the rest of us look like we survived a war?"
"Because I did," Celine said, deadpan. "Perks of being the boss."
They both laughed, and around them, the team was toasting and snapping photos, clearly enjoying the rare moment of celebration. Some danced near the low-lit balcony where the skyline painted the night with shimmering lights. Others talked shop, still too wired to completely unplug.
Celine leaned back in her seat, letting the sounds wash over her. For a rare moment, the weight on her shoulders felt lighter.
"You did good," Stacy said, more quietly now. "Seriously."
Celine glanced at her, surprised by the shift in tone.
"You make it look easy. But I know it's not. So… just saying. You deserve this."
Celine blinked slowly, then offered a small nod. "Thank you."
"Now," Stacy grinned again, mischief returning, "should I order a second round? Or will HR report me for trying to get the boss drunk?"
Celine raised her brow. "Try it and you're fired."
"Worth it," Stacy laughed, already waving at the waiter.
***
Celine adjusted the hem of her coat as she stepped out of the lounge, the laughter and music still humming behind her. The night was brisk, city lights flickering like stars beneath a dirty sky. She waved down a taxi, heels clicking against the curb as she slid into the back seat.
"North Terrace, Royal Crest Towers," she murmured, leaning back.
The driver nodded, music low, the city passing like a blur.
She closed her eyes briefly, content, mellow from the celebration, the Chanel deal signed, sealed, and her team well-compensated. For once, everything seemed… steady.
The taxi pulled up to the curb of her high-rise. She thanked the driver, stepped out, and took the elevator up, still humming the song that played during their last toast.
Then she opened her front door.
She froze.
The lights were off, but the hallway was lit enough from the city glow outside to show the chaos waiting inside. A cold draft greeted her like a slap. Her coffee table was shattered, shards glinting. The mirror by the hallway,smashed. Her art pieces? Ripped from their frames.
Panic crawled up her spine.
"Hello?" she called, voice barely steady.
No answer.
She reached for her phone. Then stopped.
There,on the kitchen counter, untouched in the madness, sat one of her old wedding photos.
Nolan.
Her blood went ice cold.
A red marker circled her face on the photo.
And written across the glass in thick, angry strokes:
"You always walk away. But not this time."
She backed away slowly, heart racing, hands shaking.
This wasn't random.
This was personal.
Her hands trembled as she stared at the shattered remains of her living room. Rage burned through the panic. She snatched her phone off the console, thumb jabbing Nolan's number.
He answered on the third ring, smooth, unbothered.
"Celine. To what do I owe the pleasure?" His voice was too casual. Too calm.
"You don't scare me," she spat, pacing through the wreckage. "Whatever this is, whatever message you think you're sending, it won't work."
There was a pause. Then a faint chuckle. "I'm not sure what you're talking about."
"Oh, cut the act," she snapped. "You broke into my home. You trashed it. Left a picture, circled my face like some psycho. You think this is going to make me cave?"
"Celine," Nolan said smoothly, "do you have proof? Cameras? Witnesses? Fingerprints?"
"You bastard."
"Careful," he murmured, "that could be slander."
"I'm calling the police."
He laughed now. "And what are you going to tell them? That your ex-husband hurt your fragile little feelings?"
Her jaw clenched.
"You've always been dramatic," Nolan continued. "Maybe you broke it yourself. Wouldn't be the first time you spiraled."
She was silent. Breathing heavily.
"You don't get to play the victim now, Celine. You left me."
Her voice was low and steady. "If you come near me again, I'll make sure you regret it."
"Goodnight, Celine," he said simply, and hung up.
Her fingers were white around the phone. She stood still, her chest rising and falling as the silence closed in.
Then her eyes drifted to the circled photo again.
Enough was enough.
She was done being cornered.
Her fingers moved quickly this time, not to the police, but to building management.
The phone rang once. Twice.
"Good evening, Ms. Celine," came the concierge's voice, polite and clipped.
"I need the locks changed," she said sharply. "Tonight."
A beat of hesitation. "Is everything alright, ma'am?"
"Don't ask me that," she cut in, seething. "Why do I pay security fees if my property isn't secure? I came home to a wrecked penthouse. I want new locks installed tonight."
"Yes, ma'am. We'll dispatch maintenance right away—"
"And after that, I want to speak to whoever handles surveillance. First thing in the morning."
She didn't wait for a reply before hanging up. With a tight exhale, she began picking her way through the mess, broken glass, overturned chairs, framed photos ripped off the wall. Her sanctuary violated.