Chapter 12
1135 Words
The penthouse was too quiet.
Calla stepped barefoot onto the cold marble floor, her silk robe brushing her knees as she padded into the living room. Damian was gone. Again.
He’d left a note—one line scrawled on thick stationary.
“Early meeting. Don’t wait up. —D.”
Liar.
She’d overheard him on the phone last night. He wasn’t going to any meeting. He was meeting her.
Celeste.
Calla sank into the plush couch and exhaled slowly. Her fingers toyed with the ruby pendant at her throat—a gift from Damian, meant to replace the black choker Celeste had sent anonymously.
But every time Calla touched it, she was reminded.
She wasn’t the first.
And Celeste was never far.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. She hesitated… then picked up.
“Calla Monroe,” the voice on the other end purred. Smooth. Female. Poison in silk.
“You’ve been wearing my ruby,” Celeste said.
Calla stood. “It’s not yours anymore.”
“You think he’s giving you pieces of himself?” Celeste’s voice hardened. “He gave me promises too. Want to know how long they lasted?”
“Do you always harass the woman your ex is pretending to love?”
A pause.
Then a low, mocking laugh. “Oh, sweetheart. Pretend? He doesn’t even know what he’s pretending anymore.”
Click.
Calla dropped the phone onto the couch like it burned.
She was shaking—but not from fear. From anger.
And something else.
Hurt.
Damian returned just before midnight. Calla was still in the living room, arms folded tightly.
He didn’t flinch at her glare.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I told you not to wait.”
“Did Celeste tell you the same?”
His jaw clenched. “Don’t start.”
“No, Damian. Let’s start now. Where were you?”
He threw his keys down on the counter, rubbing his temples. “You don’t get to ask me that.”
“The hell I don’t. We’re married.”
“We’re pretending.”
Calla felt like she’d been slapped.
“Is that still what this is?” Her voice cracked.
His expression shifted. “Calla…”
She turned away before he could see her eyes fill.
“Forget it,” she muttered, heading to the guest room.
He followed.
“Don’t walk away from me.”
“Or what?” she snapped, spinning on him. “You’ll go running back to her?”
Damian was quiet for a moment.
Then he stepped closer.
“I went to meet her,” he said, voice low. “To end it. She’s been blackmailing board members, threatening my deals, sabotaging this entire arrangement.”
Calla blinked.
“What?”
“She wants me back. Or she wants me destroyed.”
“And you went to meet her—alone?”
“I didn’t want you in that space. With her.”
“You’re not my protector, Damian.”
“No,” he said, eyes dark. “I’m your husband.”
Before she could speak, his lips were on hers.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t sweet.
It was months of restraint snapped in half. Fire meeting gasoline.
Calla pushed against him—then pulled him closer.
Clothes were gone in moments. Breathless gasps filled the guest bedroom. The bedframe groaned beneath them as their anger turned to passion, as the lines between pretend and real melted into heat and skin.
After, silence.
Damian sat at the edge of the bed, shirtless, his chest still rising and falling. Calla pulled the sheet over her and watched him.
“You didn’t sleep with her,” she said quietly.
He shook his head. “I never touched her since the day I met you.”
“Why?”
He turned to her, eyes like stormclouds.
“Because I was afraid if I did, I’d lose the only real thing in this entire charade.”
Calla swallowed. “And what’s that?”
“You.”
The next morning, the media was a wildfire.
Calla Monroe: Damian Vale’s Pregnant Wife?
Celeste Ainsworth Spotted Leaving Vale Industries After Midnight
Insider Confirms: Marriage Not So Fake After All
Calla stared at her phone, coffee forgotten in her hand. “Pregnant?” she murmured. “Where the hell did that come from?”
Damian read over her shoulder. “Someone’s running with the image of you last night.”
She wore a fitted dress. Her hand rested on her stomach. A press photo taken at the gala.
Just enough to spark rumors.
“I can shut it down,” he said.
But Calla shook her head.
“No. Let them believe it.”
His brow lifted. “Why?”
“Because if they’re focused on the baby story, they’ll stop digging for the real one.”
He smiled faintly. “You’re thinking like a Vale.”
“Maybe I am.”
She stood, brushing past him.
“And maybe it’s time we start fighting fire with fire.”
Later that week, Calla requested a meeting with Celeste.
Alone.
Damian refused. She insisted.
So he stood outside the restaurant, watching through the tinted windows as the woman he was beginning to love went toe to toe with the one who used to own him.
Inside, Calla stirred her tea slowly, eyes locked on Celeste.
“You’re beautiful,” Celeste said. “I’ll give him that. Not my taste, but men are stupid.”
“Let’s cut the crap,” Calla replied. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Oh?” Celeste tilted her head. “Do tell.”
“You think if you dig deep enough, you’ll find a crack in us. But you won’t.”
“I already have.”
Calla smiled.
Then leaned forward.
“You’re obsessed with Damian. But he doesn’t love you. Not anymore. He can’t even stand to say your name.”
Celeste’s smile faded. “Careful.”
“No,” Calla said, voice like steel. “You be careful. Because if you come near me again, if you send another box, make another threat, or breathe my name with that smug voice—so help me, I will burn down everything you’ve ever touched.”
Silence.
Then Celeste stood. She didn’t say another word.
But Calla knew.
It wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
That night, Damian poured them each a drink. “You didn’t tell me what you said to her.”
Calla took the glass, sipped, then looked at him over the rim.
“I told her the truth.”
“And that is?”
“That you’re mine now.”
Damian’s lips parted. His eyes searched hers. And for the first time since this whole charade began… he looked like he believed it.
Maybe Calla did too.
- Writer
