Chapter 11
1519 Words
The kiss haunted her.
Not the public one. Not the carefully curated, camera-perfect display they’d orchestrated on the gala steps.
No, it was the second one.
The one in the hallway. Away from the crowd. Away from the pretenses. The kiss that stole her breath, shattered the wall between arrangement and emotion, and made her forget every reason she was supposed to keep her heart out of this.
Damian Vale didn’t kiss like a man in a contract marriage.
He kissed like a man who was trying not to fall apart.
And Calla hadn’t known how much she wanted to be the one holding his pieces together until then.
Now, hours later, that kiss echoed in her memory like a drumbeat, pounding in rhythm with the questions she couldn’t silence.
What was he to her?
What was she to him?
And why did her heart lurch every time he looked at her like she was more than just a name on a legal document?
She didn’t sleep that night.
Neither did Damian.
She heard his footsteps pacing down the hallway outside her bedroom sometime around 2 a.m., followed by the faint sound of his office door clicking shut.
By morning, the air was heavier than ever.
The housekeeper, Ruth, tried to keep things light—she brought in Calla’s favorite blend of tea and placed it gently by her vanity.
Calla didn’t touch it.
She was still staring at the photo on her phone.
Her father, alone. Vulnerable. Used as leverage.
It made her sick.
Celeste had crossed a line.
Now it was Calla’s turn.
When Damian entered the kitchen, freshly showered and dressed in a steel-gray suit, his expression was unreadable.
But Calla didn’t wait for pleasantries.
“She followed him,” she said simply.
Damian looked up.
“My father. She sent someone to follow him. To scare me. To remind me she knows how to hurt me without ever raising her voice.”
Damian’s jaw tightened. “That ends now.”
She stood from the marble stool. “How?”
“I’ve already hired someone. Security. Discreet but capable. Your father won’t even know he’s being protected.”
“And Celeste?”
His lips curled into something colder than a smile. “I’ll make her regret ever touching what’s mine.”
Calla’s breath caught.
Not because of the possessive phrasing.
But because she wanted to believe it.
That she was his. Not out of a legal agreement, not because of the name she wore, but because she mattered.
“Damian…”
“I need to ask you something,” he said before she could finish.
His voice was low. Strained. Different.
“Anything.”
He looked at her, and for once, he didn’t look like the billionaire who ruled boardrooms.
He looked like a man who had something to lose.
“If I told you everything,” he said slowly, “if I gave you the truth about what happened between Celeste and me… would you believe me?”
Calla blinked. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because some truths are uglier than lies.”
Her stomach twisted. “Try me.”
He stared at her for a long, quiet moment.
Then turned away.
“Not yet,” he said. “Soon.”
Calla stepped into her boutique later that afternoon to find a floral war had broken out.
Bouquets everywhere.
Roses, peonies, orchids—extravagant and overwhelming.
Each one was signed:
“To the most stunning Mrs. Vale the world has ever seen. Let them choke on your shine.
—D.”
Her assistant, Rina, was nearly hyperventilating.
“Calla, what did you do? Do you know how much some of these arrangements cost? We could feed a village.”
Calla laughed. “You think that’s excessive? You should’ve seen the dress he sent me last week.”
Rina blinked. “I’m starting to think you married the wrong billionaire. Or the right one. Or the one who has a thing for fairy tales.”
Calla tried not to smile.
But it felt good—this attention, this support—even if half of it was meant to shove a knife deeper into Celeste’s pride.
Let her choke.
Let her burn.
Let the world see that Calla Monroe wasn’t someone you could threaten without consequence.
Still, she couldn’t shake the words Damian had left her with.
If I told you everything… would you believe me?
That evening, they hosted a dinner.
It was Damian’s idea.
A “strategic” gathering of allies and business partners—people who had been Celeste’s friends once, who now drifted toward Damian like moths to the more powerful flame.
Calla dressed the part.
A fitted white gown. Diamond earrings. Red lips and steel in her eyes.
She smiled as she greeted guests, made toasts, played the dutiful wife. But underneath it all, she watched Damian.
He was perfect in public.
Gracious. Magnetic. Focused.
But there was something else tonight.
A tension in his smile. A sharpness to his laugh.
It wasn’t until dessert that it all cracked open.
Celeste arrived.
Uninvited.
She walked in like the house still belonged to her, her long gold dress shimmering under the chandelier light.
Calla saw Damian go still beside her.
“Bold of her,” he muttered.
“She wants a reaction,” Calla said. “Let’s not give her one.”
But Celeste made sure she got it anyway.
She walked directly to the head of the table, lifted a glass from a nearby server, and smiled with terrifying calm.
“Cheers, everyone,” she said. “To old friends, new faces, and marriages built on things stronger than secrets.”
Calla stood slowly.
Her voice was cool as crystal. “To women who still mistake desperation for power.”
Laughter rippled around the table.
Celeste’s face twitched.
But she wasn’t done.
She placed her glass down and pulled a file from her bag.
A folder.
Manila.
Thick.
She tossed it onto the table. “I hope you read fast, Damian. Before your little fairytale turns into a very public nightmare.”
And then she turned and left.
Silence fell like a curtain.
Damian didn’t touch the folder for a long time.
Then—finally—he opened it.
Calla watched as the blood drained from his face.
Inside were photos.
Documents.
Receipts.
And a birth certificate.
She leaned closer. “What is it?”
Damian’s voice was hollow.
“She’s not bluffing.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked up at her, pain shadowing his eyes.
“I have a son.”
The room blurred.
Calla’s breath stalled.
Everything she thought she knew tilted sideways.
“You what?”
“It was a one-night mistake,” he said quietly. “Years ago. Before Celeste. Before anything serious. I didn’t even know. She never told me. And now—Celeste got the file. Somehow. She’s going to use it.”
Calla sat down.
Hard.
A son.
A living, breathing child somewhere out there—and Damian had just found out the same time she had?
“What do we do?” she whispered.
“We find him. We make it right. We get ahead of the press.”
“And Celeste?”
“She thinks this will destroy me,” he said. “But it won’t. It just means I finally stop hiding.”
He looked at her then—really looked at her—and something raw flickered in his expression.
“I need you with me, Calla.”
She nodded slowly.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Later that night, long after the guests were gone and the wine glasses cleared, Calla sat beside Damian on the terrace. The city lights glittered far below.
He held the file in one hand, a tumbler of scotch in the other.
“I always knew she’d come back to haunt me,” he murmured. “I just didn’t think she’d come for you.”
“She came for both of us,” Calla said.
He looked over at her. “You’re not scared?”
“I am,” she said honestly. “But not of her. I’m scared of what happens if we keep lying to each other.”
Damian was quiet.
Then: “I want this marriage to be real, Calla.”
Her heart stuttered.
She hadn’t expected him to say it. Not tonight. Not now.
“I want to stop pretending,” he said. “Even if this started as business. Even if we didn’t mean to fall into this… I did. Somewhere along the way, I started falling. For you.”
She swallowed hard.
And whispered the truth that had been sitting on her tongue for weeks.
“Me too.”
He reached for her hand.
Held it like it was the only solid thing in his unraveling world.
And for the first time, they didn’t feel like strangers, or partners, or even allies.
They felt like a real couple.
Standing on the edge of a storm.
But for the first time, neither of them was alone.
- Writer
