HIS FORBIDDEN OBSESSION

Celia let herself be led through the glittering crowd, her fingers resting lightly on Ethan's. His touch was warm, steady-just like him.

She still wasn't used to how easily he commanded a room. How people turned to him, eager to be in his orbit, drawn to the effortless confidence he carried like a second skin.

And he had chosen her.

It still didn't feel real sometimes.

The Ethan Blackwell-the heir to an empire, the man every woman in the city wanted-had looked at her and seen someone worth standing beside him. Worth marrying.

She glanced up at him as he spoke to a group of investors, his voice smooth, assured. Even when discussing business, there was something undeniably captivating about him.

And he was hers.

A small smile touched her lips as she studied him-the sharp cut of his jaw, the piercing blue eyes that had held her attention from the first moment they met.

She had loved him before he ever belonged to her.

And now?

Now he did.

Ethan caught her watching him and smirked, squeezing her hand gently. "Enjoying the view, sweetheart?" he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.

Celia felt heat creep up her neck. "Just admiring my fiancé."

His smirk deepened, but there was something softer in his eyes. "I like the sound of that."

He lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss over her knuckles.

Celia's stomach fluttered.

She still wasn't used to the way he made her feel-like the ground beneath her was both steady and unsteady at the same time. Like she belonged somewhere, but also like she was falling.

A waiter passed by, offering champagne. Ethan took two glasses, handing one to her. "Come," he said, tugging her slightly toward the grand balcony doors. "Let's take a moment for ourselves."

The night air was cool against her skin as they stepped outside. Below them, the Blackwell estate stretched in elegant perfection-manicured gardens, marble pathways, an entire world crafted for the elite.

Ethan leaned against the stone railing, his gaze on her instead of the view.

Celia turned toward him, tilting her head. "You seem... pleased with yourself."

He chuckled, taking a slow sip of his champagne. "Can you blame me? I'm engaged to the most beautiful woman in this city."

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was real. "Flattery doesn't work on me, you know."

"Doesn't it?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Because I seem to recall a certain someone blushing just a few minutes ago."

Celia narrowed her eyes, but her pulse betrayed her, thrumming a little faster. "That was because of the champagne."

Ethan laughed, and the sound was rich and deep. "Of course it was."

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

For a moment, everything else faded-the party, the guests, the weight of being a Blackwell fiancée.

It was just them.

Ethan leaned in, his breath warm against her skin. "You do love me, don't you, Celia?"

She exhaled softly, looking up into the eyes of the man she had given her heart to long before this night.

"With everything I have."

His lips found hers in a slow, lingering kiss, and Celia melted into it, into him.

She didn't know what the future held, what being a Blackwell wife would truly mean.

But tonight, none of that mattered.

Tonight, she was in love.

And she was his.

Ethan's kiss was slow, deliberate like he had all the time in the world to savour. And Celia let herself fall into it, let herself forget the dozens of eyes inside watching, the weight of the Blackwell name pressing down on her shoulders.

Here, in his arms, she wasn't just the future wife of Ethan Blackwell.

She was his.

And he was hers.

Ethan pulled back just enough to brush his thumb over her lower lip, his blue eyes dark with something unreadable. "You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured.

Celia's breath hitched.

Even after all these months, he still had this effect on her. The slow, teasing words. The way he looked at her like he was the only one who truly saw her.

She smiled, tilting her chin up slightly. "I think I have some idea."

His smirk was pure arrogance, but it only made her heart race faster.

Before he could kiss her again, the balcony doors swung open.

"Ethan."

The voice was sharp, authoritative.

Celia turned just as James Blackwell stepped outside, his expression unreadable but his presence commanding as always. Even in his sixties, the Blackwell patriarch was an imposing figure, his greying hair neatly combed back, his tailored suit flawless.

Celia straightened instinctively.

Ethan, however, remained perfectly relaxed, swirling the champagne in his glass as he turned to face his father. "We were just enjoying some fresh air."

James' gaze flicked between them, lingering on Celia for a fraction longer than necessary. "There will be plenty of time for that after the wedding," he said smoothly. "For now, there's someone I'd like you to meet."

Ethan's jaw tightened, but it was barely noticeable-just the slightest shift, the briefest flicker of something behind his otherwise controlled expression.

Celia noticed, though.

She had spent enough time studying him to catch the small things.

Still, Ethan nodded, offering her a small smile before pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. "I won't be long."

And just like that, he was gone, disappearing back into the party with his father at his side.

Celia exhaled, gripping the railing as she watched him go.

She knew Ethan's world was demanding. That being a Blackwell meant obligations, power plays, carefully orchestrated moves that kept the family's empire thriving.

But tonight was supposed to be theirs.

And yet, as she stood alone on the balcony, champagne in hand, she couldn't shake the feeling that something had just shifted.

That something was coming.

Something she didn't see yet.