Page 71 of Meet Me In The Dark
“Yes.” My hand is still cupping Celeste’s jaw, grounding me more than her. “Whatever she needs.”
“Thank you.”
When I hang up, the site slams back into focus.
Wind. Voices. Steel.
Celeste is still looking at me. Not the look she gives me when she’s ready to fight, and not the one she saves for when she knows she’s won. Something else.
“Are you okay?” she asks quietly.
I hate it. The question, the softness in it. The way her voice drops like she’s trying not to startle me. I hate the exact shade of concern on her face and how fast my body rejects it.
Pity looks like the social worker’s face when she found me asleep on the fire escape because it was cooler outside. Pity looks like a teacher’s hand on my shoulder because I’d come to school hungry and mean and ready to destroy something. Pity looks like the nurse who called me “sweetheart” while someone counted my bruises and asked where they came from.
Pity is useless. Pity is gasoline.
I bend, pick up my glove, slap dust off it, and pull it on. My face stays blank because it has to. Everythingelse goes back behind the wall where it belongs.
“We’re done here,” I say, and turn into the wind before she can try again.
Twenty-Two
Celeste
This is it.
The grand opening of the Sterling Vista Tower.
This is the pinnacle of every late night I’ve spent trying to outdo my last achievement.
Yet standing here, under glittering chandeliers on a rooftop bar with the city’s lights scattered beneath me like stars, satisfaction remains stubbornly out of reach.
Champagne bubbles float in my glass as conversations hum around me, a thousand praises blending into white noise.
It should feel like winning.
Instead,it feels hollow.
“Celeste, your design… My God, it’s inspired. The way you brought nature inside the building is remarkable.”
I blink back into the present and turn my gaze to the man at my side. He’s important, I think. Rich, undoubtedly.
“Thank you,” I say, forcing warmth into my voice.
He nods as he begins another predictable story about architectural genius. Naturally, he discovered it in Paris. It’s always Paris.
I let his voice fade as my eyes scan the sea of sharp suits, shimmering dresses, and perfect smiles.
I’m here, exactly where I dreamed of being for years. So why is it suddenly not enough?
Why do I have this insatiable hunger for something I haven’t yet named? Something I can’t find in the corners of my career or the edges of success.
My thoughts scatter when I sense a presence behind me.
“Ms. Morgan, your work truly is something to behold.”
Tom Kingsley.
