Chapter 10
1387 Words
The mansion was quiet when they got home.
Too quiet.
Calla walked in first, heels echoing against the marble, Damian right behind her. Neither said a word until the door shut behind them. The tension followed them like a third presence.
She turned to him. “We need to talk.”
Damian slipped off his jacket and tossed it onto the nearest armchair. “You’re right. We do.”
They stared at each other.
She folded her arms. “Celeste sent me a photo of my father. Sitting on a park bench. A threat.”
“I know.”
“She’s crossed the line.”
“I know.”
“Then what are we going to do about it?”
Damian exhaled sharply, his jaw tight. “I’ve already made a call. I’ve got someone watching him now.”
“That’s not enough.”
“She won’t touch him,” he said. “Not if she knows I’m serious.”
“Are you?” Calla challenged. “Because you’ve spent weeks pretending this isn’t as bad as it is. You keep saying she’s dangerous, but you’re still playing chess while she’s already pulled out the knives.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed. “You think I don’t know what she’s capable of?”
“I think you underestimate what she’ll do to keep you. Or ruin you.”
His silence was confirmation.
Calla stepped closer. “We can’t play defense anymore. Not when she’s threatening my family.”
He looked at her, really looked at her, and something shifted behind his expression.
“She thinks you’re weak,” he said finally. “She doesn’t see you coming.”
Calla arched a brow. “Then let’s prove her wrong.”
A small smirk tugged at Damian’s lips. “You’re dangerous when you’re angry.”
“I’m dangerous when someone messes with my heart,” she said. “And like it or not, Damian, you’re in it.”
He froze.
She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. It slipped out—a raw truth between all the pretending.
His voice was softer when he replied. “Calla—”
“I know this was never supposed to be real,” she interrupted quickly, pulse racing. “But it is now. For me. At least a little.”
He was silent for so long she regretted every word.
But then he said, “It’s not just you.”
And her heart did a stupid, dangerous flip.
By morning, everything had changed.
They sat at the breakfast table together for the first time since they moved in. Coffee. Toast. Silence thick with unspoken promises.
Damian scrolled through his phone. “Celeste is working with someone. I’ve seen her lawyer’s name pop up in private meetings with our family board members.”
“She’s trying to take Vale Holdings,” Calla guessed.
“Worse. She’s trying to blackmail her way into an executive seat. She wants power. Control.”
Calla took a sip of coffee, thinking. “So take it from her first.”
He glanced at her.
“I know people,” she continued. “Girls I went to school with. They work in PR. Image clean-up. Scandal management. The kind of stuff that can destroy reputations overnight.”
“You’re talking about dragging her into the spotlight.”
“No,” Calla said. “I’m talking about pushing her off her pedestal and letting gravity do the rest.”
Damian stared at her for a long moment. “Remind me never to cross you.”
Calla smiled coldly. “You’d never survive.”
Later that day, she made her first move.
She called Harper Lin, a media contact from university.
“Calla Monroe,” Harper greeted, surprised. “Or should I say Calla Vale now?”
“Depends on what kind of article you’re looking to write,” Calla replied.
Harper laughed. “I’m listening.”
Calla leaned back in her chair. “I have a story for you. But I want something in return.”
“Go on.”
“Do you remember Celeste Stone?”
“Oh, the Celeste? The one who tried to sue a charity for using her ‘likeness’ on a poster of a blonde child?”
“That’s the one,” Calla said. “I want her image shattered. Not publicly. Just enough that her credibility wavers.”
Harper’s tone changed. “Are you saying you want me to tank her behind the scenes?”
“I’m saying I want the truth to come out. Slowly. With enough pressure to make her squirm.”
Harper whistled. “You’ve changed, Monroe.”
“Marriage will do that to you.”
And with that, the plan began.
That evening, Damian invited Calla to dinner in his study.
Candlelight flickered across the table. The space that usually looked so severe—dark wood, bookshelves, walls that whispered secrets—now looked almost romantic.
Calla sat across from him, quiet at first.
He poured her wine.
“You’ve gone soft on me,” she teased.
He shrugged. “I thought we could use one night without strategy.”
She softened. “We could.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes. But the tension between them wasn’t gone—it had just changed flavor. Softer. Heavier.
At one point, she said quietly, “Do you think we’ll ever stop pretending?”
Damian’s eyes met hers. “I stopped pretending the day I kissed you for real.”
Her heart stuttered.
Then he said, “Come here.”
She rose and walked around the table slowly, stopping just in front of him.
He reached for her hand, then pulled her down onto his lap.
“You’re not just part of the plan anymore,” he murmured, his lips brushing her temple. “You are the plan.”
Calla pressed her forehead against his. “Then let’s finish what we started.”
Their lips met, slow and hungry, like they’d both been starving.
The next week brought fire.
Harper’s article didn’t name Celeste outright—but it described an “anonymous socialite with a history of manipulation, false lawsuits, and suspicious charitable donations.” The readers weren’t stupid. Everyone knew who it was.
The backlash was instant.
Online, Celeste’s team scrambled.
She released a statement calling the article “slander.”
But it was too late. Doubt had been planted.
Calla watched it all unfold with quiet satisfaction.
She wasn’t just surviving anymore.
She was winning.
Until the package arrived.
It was delivered to the mansion’s gate with no return address.
A white envelope.
Inside: a USB drive.
Calla hesitated.
She plugged it into Damian’s laptop.
A video opened.
Grainy footage of Damian—six years ago—arguing with an older man outside a hospital. His father.
Their voices were raised. Heated. There was pushing. Shouting.
Then silence.
The man collapsed.
Damian backed away, horrified.
The clip ended there.
Calla sat frozen.
Damian came in moments later, saw the screen, and stilled.
“You never told me,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“It wasn’t what it looks like.”
“Then what was it?”
He closed the laptop and sank into a chair. For the first time, he looked… vulnerable.
“My father was dying,” he said. “Cancer. He refused treatment. He wanted to hand the company to Celeste’s father. Said he didn’t trust me to lead.”
Calla listened, heart pounding.
“I confronted him,” Damian continued. “We argued. He collapsed. It wasn’t my fault—but I didn’t stop it, either. I froze. And afterward, I let everyone believe he died peacefully. I didn’t correct them.”
Calla felt sick.
Not because of what he said.
But because of how much he trusted her with it.
“I kept it buried,” he said. “If that video gets out—Vale Holdings is done. I’m done.”
Calla stood slowly.
She walked over and reached for his hand.
“You’re not done,” she said. “You’re just getting started.”
He looked at her, broken and grateful.
Then he kissed her like she was his last breath.
They were a mess.
But they were their mess.
And now they had a war to win—together.
- Writer
