Heathrow's Terminal 5 was never quiet—but this was chaos.
Noah caught the first flicker of a camera flash just as they stepped off the private tarmac gate and into the terminal's luxury arrivals lounge. A second later, the flashes multiplied—bright, disorienting bursts through tinted windows.
Then the shouting started.
"Celeste! Is it true you eloped in Prague?"
"Who's the man with her? Is he the real fiancé?"
"Did Cassian Vale lie about the engagement ending?"
Dozens of paparazzi swarmed toward the cordoned VIP exit, pushing past velvet ropes and confused airport staff. Someone had leaked their landing. Not just the flight—the gate, the time, the moment.
Celeste tensed beside him, jaw clenched, chin up like a queen under siege.
"Stay close," Noah muttered, already shifting his stance.
They pushed forward, flanked by two private security officers. But it was Noah who blocked the worst of it, stepping between Celeste and a rogue photographer lunging too close with a lens the size of a weapon.
"You wanna try again?" Noah growled.
The man backed off.
Flashes kept coming.
More questions flew.
"Was the man in the photo the real heir to Langford's fortune?"
"Is it true you bought your boyfriend to beat the board vote?"
"Is he a bodyguard—or your secret child's father?"
Noah almost laughed. Almost.
Celeste didn't flinch. She didn't blink. But her voice was steel as she leaned into him and whispered, "We're going to walk out of here like we own the chaos. No running. No shame."
And that's exactly what they did.
Out the front doors, hand in hand—through a hurricane of noise and speculation and false headlines already brewing in a thousand group chats.
Behind them, Kuroda's voice rang into her earpiece:
"Your name just hit number one on the U.K. trend list. With his. Together."
"What are they saying?" Celeste asked, not turning her head.
"That you disappeared to marry him in secret. That your father's will was forged. That you staged a romantic scandal to bury a murder investigation."
"And the source?"
The photo came from an anonymous drop account routed through Dublin. Guess who last used that ISP?"
"Iris," Celeste said flatly.
They reached the waiting car, sleek and black, engine already running. Noah held the door for her. Just as she climbed in, one last reporter shouted from behind the flashing lights:
"Celeste, is it true your father died protecting a secret heir?!"
She paused. For half a heartbeat.
Then she turned toward the chaos, expression like ice—utterly unreadable.
"No comment."
The door slammed shut.
As they pulled away, Noah looked back once.
The crowd didn't think.
It thickened.
Like blood around a fresh wound.
Celeste's penthouse felt less like a home and more like a crisis command center.
The sleek glass tables were littered with laptops, printouts, and freshly prepared media statements. PR agents paced around the room, talking urgently into phones, while Kuroda stood near the panoramic windows, scowling at something on his tablet screen.
In the center of it all sat Celeste, still dressed from the airport, her posture poised, face an unreadable mask. Noah hovered nearby, arms folded tightly, tension visible in every inch of his frame.
"This is bad," one advisor said, pacing quickly. "The internet's in meltdown. They're digging into Noah's MMA records—personal background, finances, debts. We can't control this."
Another chimed in anxiously, "They found footage of one of his matches. They're branding him as violent and unstable. Cassian's team is feeding every gossip outlet. It's coordinated."
Celeste's voice cut sharply through the chaos, commanding instant silence.
"I don't care what they say about me. Protect him first."
The PR advisor shook her head. "Celeste, with all due respect, you need distance. The board's already nervous. If this sticks, you'll lose control."
"Then I lose control," she snapped. "But I'm not dropping him."
Noah stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear.
"Celeste, maybe they're right. I'm becoming a liability."
Her eyes flashed dangerously. "You're not."
"But what am I, then?" he pressed, tone urgent. "A shield? A strategy? When does this stop being about your image and start being about trust?"
She stared at him, something raw flickering just beneath her carefully crafted façade.
"I do trust you," she said, voice softer now. "But I don't trust what they'll do to you."
Before Noah could respond, his phone vibrated violently in his pocket. He pulled it out, swiping quickly.
His face went pale.
On the screen was a single photo message—his old gym, a humble, gritty space in Brooklyn, now charred and smoldering. The windows shattered, and the sign was half-burned.
Below it, a short line of text:
"Walk away. Or we start burning more than buildings."
Celeste reached for the phone, taking it gently from his fingers.
She looked at the image. Her jaw clenched visibly. Fury sparked deep in her eyes.
"We're done reacting," she said quietly, handing the phone to Kuroda. "Find who did this. Now."
Noah turned toward her. "Celeste—"
She cut him off. "Noah, trust goes both ways. Let me handle this. If they want a fight—"
Her voice went cold, deadly calm.
"—they'll get one."
The gala glittered in icy splendor beneath a canopy of glass and stars, a façade of elegance stretched thin over whispers and tension. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead like clusters of frozen tears, each table meticulously set, every guest dressed as if armor could be woven from silk.
Celeste entered the hall with Noah at her side. His black tux was immaculate, but his eyes remained watchful, scanning the crowd like a soldier on the front lines. Cameras flashed discreetly. Gossip simmered behind champagne flutes.
Across the room, Cassian stood beside Iris, his smile cold and polished, his posture arrogantly at ease. When their eyes met, he raised his glass subtly, a mock toast across the distance. Celeste didn't blink. Noah tightened his grip on her hand, a small, reassuring gesture of quiet support.
"Let him look," Noah murmured, voice low. "We're not here to hide."
Celeste's expression softened just enough for him to notice. "No. We're here to remind him I don't break."
Noah spotted Kuroda near the edge of the ballroom, discreetly monitoring security. Kuroda nodded once—a signal that their precautions were in place.
Celeste excused herself briefly to speak with a group of foundation donors, leaving Noah momentarily alone by the grand staircase. He felt the air shift behind him.
Cassian.
"Quite the Cinderella story," Cassian remarked smoothly, swirling his drink. "Didn't think you'd make it this far."
Noah faced him calmly. "I always go the distance."
Cassian smiled, sharp and unpleasant. "Funny. So did the last boxer Celeste hired. He didn't last the full match either. Careful—she tends to break her toys."
Noah's eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice stayed level. "She's not the one trying to break people, Cassian."
Cassian's smile tightened. He leaned closer, voice dropping. "It's not personal. She's just standing where she doesn't belong. If you want to protect her, tell her to step down. It'll save everyone some pain."
"Is that a threat?"
"Just a friendly warning," Cassian replied lightly, stepping back. "Fighters who don't know when to quit end up losing more than matches."
Before Noah could respond, the ballroom lights flickered.
Once. Twice.
Then darkness.
Gasps echoed throughout the hall. The sudden, jarring silence was shattered by the sound of glass cracking sharply overhead.
"Get down!" Noah shouted instinctively, reaching for Celeste, pulling her close.
The skylight exploded, shards of glass raining down like diamond hail. People screamed, scattering, panic rising.
Above them, against the blackened sky, a single red flare streaked upward, blooming into a burning, unmistakable symbol—the Langford Foundation crest glowing fiercely, mockingly, as sirens began to wail in the distance.
Celeste's grip on Noah's hand tightened to a painful, trembling clasp.
"He's not warning me," she whispered. "He's declaring war."
Smoke and confusion filled the streets outside the gala. Guests scattered, heels clicking, shouts muffled by sirens. Kuroda swiftly led Celeste and Noah toward a black SUV idling in the rooftop parking deck.
Celeste's composure had shattered—not from fear, but from rage.
Across the lot stood Iris, visibly shaken but controlled. Celeste stopped abruptly, eyes narrowing dangerously.
"You did this," she accused, voice trembling with suppressed anger. "You fed him everything—my schedule, our movements, Noah's background. You've sold your soul, Iris."
Iris didn't deny it, but her gaze hardened. "You think Cassian needs me to hurt you? You're fighting the wrong war, Celeste. It's not Cassian you're battling—it's the version of him you still loved."
Celeste lunged forward, fury erupting, but Noah grabbed her arm, holding her back.
"No," he murmured urgently. "Not here. She's baiting you."
Celeste fought against him briefly, eyes blazing. But the fight in her subsided as she stared at Iris, realizing the truth behind her words.
Iris turned away slowly, slipping into another waiting car, leaving silence behind.
Inside their SUV, silence thickened. Celeste stared blankly through the tinted window as the city sped past, lights smearing into a blur of color and darkness.
Then, without warning, she broke.
Quiet tears rolled down her cheeks, her body shaking slightly—not loud, not dramatic, just raw and real. Noah watched her silently, giving her space, until finally, unable to bear it, he reached out and gently took her hand in his.
He said nothing. He didn't need to.
Celeste didn't pull away.
They stayed that way, locked together in quiet acknowledgment, until the shrill ring of Celeste's phone cut sharply through the silence.
She pulled it from her coat with trembling fingers, pausing to glance at the screen. Her expression changed instantly—confusion, then disbelief.
She pressed it to her ear slowly, voice barely steady.
"Yes?"
Silence stretched for a heartbeat, two.
Then the voice, familiar but distant, came through the speaker clearly enough for Noah to hear:
"You're getting close, Cee. But are you sure you want to know why I disappeared?"
Celeste froze, breath hitching.
"Declan," she whispered.
Noah's hand tightened around hers, feeling her tremble.
The call ended abruptly.
Celeste stared at the screen, stunned.
"He's alive," she whispered, turning to Noah with wide, haunted eyes. "He's still alive."