Chapter 3 — Departure

Third Person

Celeste Marlowe sat upright in her first-class seat, the faint hum of the plane’s engines vibrating through her. She adjusted the precise folds of her graphite-gray blazer, her fingers lingering on the lapel as though smoothing an imperceptible crease. Outside the window, the New York City skyline blurred against the warm hues of a setting sun, its grandeur fading as the plane taxied down the runway. She inhaled sharply, her thoughts already leaping ahead to Paris, to the Château de Lumière, to the stakes of a project that could cement her place as one of the most respected names in design.

This wasn’t just another competition. It was a proving ground. To Margaux. To the industry. To herself. Winning meant more than professional prestige; it meant validation. The château wasn’t just a building—it was a monument to everything she had worked toward. Yet, as her mind raced through blueprints and restoration strategies, an undercurrent of doubt rippled through her. She glanced at her tablet on the tray table, its display glowing with the château’s intricate original floor plans. The symmetrical hallways and gilded details demanded her focus, but her eyes kept darting to the carry-on bag tucked neatly beneath the seat in front of her.

The Midnight Sketchbook was inside. Its weight wasn’t physical but psychological, tugging at the edges of her thoughts. Her hand twitched toward the bag before she caught herself, folding her fingers tightly in her lap. That sketchbook represented risk—the kind she meticulously avoided. Her mentor’s voice whispered in her memory, urging her to embrace creativity, but the sting of past failures kept her cautious.

“Let me guess, you’re already redesigning the entire château in your head,” came a familiar, teasing voice.

Evander Kane slid into the seat across the aisle, his frame effortlessly filling the space. His open-collared shirt and tailored blazer gave him the polished look of someone who belonged in first class but didn’t bother to act impressed by it. There was a boyish charm to his disheveled chestnut hair, and his hazel eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned back, settling in as though the flight were an impromptu holiday.

Celeste didn’t look up, though her fingers stilled on the tablet. “Some of us like to be prepared.”

“Prepared?” he repeated, reclining even further with an expression of mock incredulity. “Is that what you call staring daggers into a blueprint for fifteen minutes straight?”

“I’d rather stare at blueprints than wing it,” she replied briskly, adjusting the brightness of her screen. Her tone was clipped, but the slight furrow in her brow betrayed her distraction.

Evander leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Come on, Marlowe. You’re telling me you don’t leave any room for inspiration? You know, the kind of brilliance that strikes when you least expect it?”

Her gaze snapped to him, sharp and unyielding. “Improvisation leads to mistakes. Mistakes lead to mediocrity. I’m not interested in either.”

“Ah, mediocrity,” he mused, brushing his fingers over the strap of his Promenade Watch—a gesture so habitual it seemed unconscious. For a brief moment, his expression shifted, a flicker of tension tightening the corners of his mouth as the watchface caught the fading sunlight. “The great enemy of Celeste Marlowe. But sometimes, the best designs come when you break a few rules.”

Rules. The word stuck in her mind, unwelcome and unnerving. Rules were her armor, the structure that kept chaos at bay. Without them, there was only uncertainty—a lesson drilled into her during a childhood of instability. She turned back to her tablet, her fingers moving across the screen with deliberate precision, as though controlling her work could banish his words.

The plane jolted slightly, and Evander shot her an exaggerated look of alarm. “Relax, Marlowe. Just a little turbulence. It’s not the end of the world.”

“I am perfectly relaxed,” she replied, her tone icy enough to chill the air between them.

He grinned, leaning back with an infuriating air of confidence. “Your posture says otherwise.”

Before she could retort, a burst of energy barreled into their row. Theo Carter, all sandy curls and infectious enthusiasm, dropped into the seat beside Evander. His grin was wide enough to rival the sun, and he carried the kind of boundless energy that seemed immune to time zones or altitude.

“Okay, this is it,” Theo declared, rubbing his hands together like a magician about to reveal a trick. “I’ve already drafted my love letter to Paris—croissants, cobblestones, and a slow-motion montage of me twirling under the Eiffel Tower. Oh, and work. Obviously work.”

Evander raised an eyebrow. “That’s your version of professional focus?”

“Don’t underestimate the power of Paris,” Theo shot back, pointing a finger at him. “The whole city is like one giant creative spark. I mean, even the lampposts are inspirational. Right, Celeste?”

Celeste barely glanced up from her tablet. “Inspiration doesn’t design buildings, Theo. Dedication and discipline do.”

Evander snorted quietly. “You should add ‘sleepless nights’ to that list.”

Theo wasn’t deterred. “Sleepless nights are fine as long as they come with a side of Parisian pastries. Speaking of which, do you think they serve pain au chocolat on this flight? It feels relevant.”

“They don’t,” Celeste replied sharply, closing her tablet with an audible snap.

“See? She’s already checked,” Evander said with a laugh. His grin softened as he turned to her, his tone dipping into something quieter, almost sincere. “You really don’t leave any room for surprises, do you?”

Her lips pressed into a firm line, but before she could respond, Theo clapped his hands together. “All right, enough with the subtle digs. You know what I love about this team? Balance. Celeste brings the precision, Evander brings the chaos, and I tie it all together with charm. We’re like… the design world’s Avengers.”

“Avengers,” Celeste repeated coolly, arching a brow. “Hardly.”

“Actually,” Evander said, his grin widening, “there is something heroic about what we do. Or at least, what I do.”

Theo laughed. “And there it is. The Evander Kane ego. Don’t worry, I’ll keep it in check.”

For a moment, the banter softened the tension between them. Celeste’s gaze flicked toward Evander, catching the faintest hint of something beneath his bravado—a restlessness, a need to prove himself. Her own unease mirrored it, though she wouldn’t admit it aloud. She resisted the urge to glance at her bag again, to let her fingers brush the leather cover of her sketchbook.

“Okay, seriously,” Theo said, leaning back. “Am I the only one sensing the tension here?”

“No,” Evander replied lightly, his tone edged with amusement. “But it’s good for the creative process.”

Celeste exhaled sharply, turning her attention to the window. The plane was ascending now, the cityscape below shrinking into a quilt of lights. The cabin dimmed as the crew adjusted the lighting, casting a warm glow over the passengers. Celeste closed her eyes briefly, willing herself to focus on the task ahead. Paris wasn’t just a destination—it was a battlefield. Margaux, Maison Duval, the château itself… they were all waiting.

Opposite her, Evander shifted in his seat, his gaze fixed on the growing darkness outside the window. His fingers brushed the strap of his watch again, and she wondered what memories it held. He caught her looking and smirked, his voice low. “Careful, Marlowe. Too much thinking can dull even the sharpest edge.”

She didn’t respond, but something in her posture softened, her lips twitching as though resisting a smile.

Paris awaited. And with it, the château, the competition, and the challenge of merging history with innovation.

It was going to be a long journey.