Stacy pushed open the office door, already mid-sentence. "So the Milan supplier just confirmed delivery, and we'll need to—"
She halted, blinking.
Celine sat behind her desk, eyes on a document but lips curved, softly, subtly, into a smile.
A real one.
"Wait…" Stacy narrowed her eyes, stepping fully in. "Is that a smile?"
Celine glanced up, smooth as ever. "Is it?"
"Oh, it is." Stacy folded her arms, grinning. "Spill."
"There's nothing to spill," Celine replied, reaching for her tablet.
Stacy smirked. "You never smile unless it's about money or a limited-edition collection. So who is he?"
Celine's gaze lingered on the screen, but the ghost of that smile remained.
"I just had a good lunch," she said simply.
"Mhm," Stacy said, drawing the curtains with a dramatic flourish. "And I'm the Queen of England."
Celine shook her head, amused. "Focus, Stacy."
Stacy leaned on the edge of the desk. "I am focused. Focused on figuring out what man made the Ice Queen smile."
Celine gave her a pointed look but said nothing.
Stacy's eyes widened. "Wait, don't tell me it's the chef from that restaurant?"
Celine finally looked up, arching a brow. "You made the reservation."
"I did. I didn't know he'd be that good-looking!" Stacy gasped. "And charming too? Girl, what was in that pasta?"
"Just food," Celine said coolly, but her tone was softer than usual.
Stacy pointed a finger. "If you go back there and don't take me, we're no longer friends."
Celine rolled her eyes. "You're dramatic."
"And you're glowing." Stacy winked. "Anyway, Milan shipment confirmed. The Chanel dealer also requested a call-back. And the PR team needs your final word on the winter campaign concept."
"Send it all to my tablet. And tell the PR team I'll meet them in twenty."
Stacy turned to leave, then peeked over her shoulder with a grin. "So… when's your next lunch?"
Celine didn't answer, just smiled again.
This time, wider.
***
August POV:
The private bar was dimly lit, with leather chairs and low jazz humming from hidden speakers. A warm amber glow reflected off the whiskey glass in August's hand as he sat in a corner booth, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. His other hand held his tumbler, the ice clinking softly as he swirled the golden liquid.
Across from him, little Liam sat contentedly with his tablet, fingers swiping through a racing game, tiny giggles escaping every few seconds.
The bartender gave them space. This was August's usual place. Private. Quiet. Safe.
A sharp voice broke the hum of calm.
"August!"
He looked up to see a tall man in a tailored coat, waving with a grin and crossing the room.
"Julius," August said, standing as they clasped hands in a firm shake before Julius slid into the booth beside him.
Without asking, Julius grabbed the bottle of whiskey on the table and poured himself a generous drink. He hadn't even sat fully when he said, "Marissa came into your restaurant."
August's jaw tensed, but his voice stayed even. "Said she wants to see her son."
Julius slammed back the whiskey in one gulp and hissed through his teeth. " That bitch walking in like she owns the place? She's trouble."
August chuckled dryly, but there was no humor in his eyes. "Tell me about it."
Julius leaned in, dropping his voice. "She up to something?"
August took a slow sip, watching Liam out of the corner of his eye. "If she is… she picked the wrong time to try me."
Julius leaned slightly across the table, reaching to tickle Liam's side. "Hey, buddy. You still beating everyone at that game?"
Liam didn't even glance up. He swatted Julius's hand away with the dramatic flair only a child could muster. "You adults talk too loud," he muttered, eyes glued to the screen.
August snorted into his glass.
Julius raised a brow, then laughed. "He's still got that mouth, I see."
"How have you been, Liam?" he asked, ruffling the boy's hair playfully.
Liam immediately squirmed, letting out a sharp squeal. "I am fine," he said, dramatically fixing his tousled hair like a prince robbed of his crown. "But Dad refuses to give me ice cream."
Julius feigned a gasp. "The horror!"
August shook his head, amused. "I gave him one yesterday and he bounced off the walls for two hours."
Liam looked up then, eyes wide with mischief. "I like bouncing."
August sighed, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before setting it down with a soft clink. "The doctor said he can't handle too many sweet things. Sugar spikes his energy too high and crashes him hard."
Julius nodded, taking a sip of his whiskey. "Makes sense."
"Tell that to him," August muttered, glancing at his son.
Liam, still tapping on the tablet, spoke without looking up. "I'm not talking to you. You're mean."
Julius chuckled, hiding his grin behind the rim of his glass. "Oof. Cold treatment."
August leaned back in the booth with a resigned groan. "He's been holding this grudge since Tuesday. Refused to eat dinner, said it was protest."
Liam finally looked up, eyes narrowed."ice cream is joy. You took my joy."
Julius burst into laughter. "He sounds like Marissa."
August shot him a glare. Liam blinked. "Who's Marissa?"
"Someone you don't need to know," August said quickly, finishing the rest of his drink in one go.
Julius let out an awkward laugh as he tries to change the topic
"Ice cream, huh? I'll buy you a lot of ice cream," he said with a grin.
Liam's eyes brightened like he'd been handed a treasure chest. "Lots? Like… a whole mountain of scoops?"
"Whatever you want," Julius replied, already reaching for his drink and setting it down.
"Thanks, Uncle Julius! You're the best ever!"
Before Julius could blink, Liam launched himself into a proud, triumphant hug. Julius froze for a heartbeat, surprised, amused, and completely disarmed, then wrapped his arms around the boy, careful and gentle.
August watched it unfold with that rare, small smile slipping across his face. The tension that usually clung to them, about routines, appointments, and responsibilities, dissolved in the simplicity of that moment.
"Alright then," Julius said softly as he lifted his glass again. "Mountain of scoops it is. Cookies and cream with extra fudge."
Liam giggled and tightened his hug, already imagining the towering cones.
And for the first time that day, August felt something lighter than strategy or restraint: a little warmth. A little normal. And maybe a scoop or two of hope, if he let himself believe in simple things again.