Damian sat behind his wide mahogany desk, papers neatly stacked in front of him, the faint ticking of the antique clock on the wall marking the seconds.
His pen lay forgotten beside him.
The lunch basket Celine had brought sat at the corner of his desk, untouched.
He hadn't been able to bring himself to open it.
Not yet.
Because the moment he did, it would feel real.
And if it was real...
If her smile, her softness, her trembling courage were real —
then he would have to face the gaping wound still bleeding inside him.
"Focus," he muttered to himself, dragging his attention back to the quarterly reports spread before him.
Numbers blurred on the page.
Profit margins.
Market shares.
Expansion strategies.
Meaningless.
Because all he could see was her standing there — radiant and shy, waving at him like the sun itself had paused just to touch him.
---
Helena, his assistant, knocked quietly and entered, setting a new file on his desk.
She hesitated a moment, watching him with a frown.
"Is everything alright, Mr. Wylder?" she asked carefully.
Damian looked up sharply.
"Fine," he said, a little too fast, a little too sharp.
Helena didn't argue, but her expression said clearly she didn't believe him.
Everyone noticed when Damian Wylder was distracted.
Because it was so rare.
So unnatural.
The man who ruled boardrooms with silence and precision —
now sitting in his chair, staring blankly at a lunch basket like it might explode.
---
The whispers had already started.
"Trouble with the wife again?"
"Maybe she caused another scandal?"
"Maybe she left him this time..."
Damian let the rumors swirl around him, ignoring them.
He was used to it.
He had lived years with the weight of Celine's chaos dragging behind him like a heavy chain.
But this...
This was different.
He didn't know how to fight it.
Or if he even wanted to.
---
Meanwhile, across town, Celine wandered slowly through the grocery market, a small woven basket hooked over her arm.
She chose carefully — apples, crisp and red, just the way Damian liked.
Fresh bread, warm from the oven.
Simple things.
Homely things.
Things she would have once turned her nose up at.
Now, every choice was an act of devotion.
Every step a silent apology.
She even found herself smiling once — a small, real smile — as she tucked a small box of black coffee into the basket, remembering how he preferred it without cream.
"You're not above this," she whispered to herself, running her fingers along a row of neatly lined jars. "You're not too important to care for someone you love."
The weight of the past still clung to her like an old, tattered cloak.
But she was shedding it, thread by stubborn thread.
And somewhere deep inside, a fragile hope flickered.
That maybe...
maybe she could build a life worth living.
---
Back at the office, Damian finally caved.
With slow, careful hands, he opened the basket.
Inside, he found:
A neat sandwich, wrapped carefully in wax paper.
A small container of cut fruit.
A thermos of black coffee, still warm.
And tucked under it all, a tiny folded note.
He hesitated.
Then unfolded it with trembling fingers.
In Celine's elegant, careful handwriting, it simply said:
> "You're doing well.
You're loved.
You are not alone."
— C.
Damian closed his eyes, pressing the note to his chest for one breathless moment.
His heart hurt.
God, it hurt.
Because some small, foolish, desperate part of him wanted to believe it was true.
Wanted to believe she was real.
Wanted to believe he wasn't alone anymore.
But scars didn't fade in a day.
And trust was a garden long abandoned — overgrown, thorned, fragile.
It would take more than a smile.
More than a lunch basket.
It would take time.
---
Damian folded the note carefully, tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket, and finally — finally — picked up the sandwich.
As he ate in silence, his mind wandered, unwillingly, to thoughts of her:
Celine, standing barefoot in the kitchen someday, laughing as she cooked.
Celine, waiting up for him at night with a book in her hands and a cup of tea ready.
Celine, smiling at him across a crowded room like he was the only man alive.
He closed his eyes briefly, breathing through the ache.
"Don't hope yet," he warned himself.
But it was already too late.
Somewhere deep in the ashes of his battered heart...
a small fire had begun to stir.