Chapter 6
1069 Words
Calla didn’t sleep that night.
How could she?
One kiss—one real, lingering kiss—had cracked the foundation of everything she’d agreed to. Her pillow still smelled like his cologne. Her lips still tingled with the memory.
And Damian?
He hadn’t said a word afterward.
Just offered her his arm, walked her to the car, and rode in silence all the way back to the penthouse.
Not cold. Not cruel.
Just… unreadable.
As always.
She curled into the sheets, wondering what would happen now. What the kiss meant. What he felt.
If anything.
When morning came, so did the noise.
Her phone buzzed non-stop. News outlets replayed their kiss in slow motion. Social media hailed them as a surprise “power couple.”
Someone even compared them to modern royalty.
Calla rolled her eyes, flipping to the next article.
Then she froze.
A headline stared back at her:
“EXCLUSIVE: Damian Vale’s New Bride Was Once Arrested for Theft!”
Her stomach dropped.
She clicked it—and sure enough, her sealed juvenile record had been exposed. A shoplifting charge from when she was sixteen. One stupid mistake.
One she’d spent years trying to erase.
Now it was everywhere.
Screenshots. Threads. Speculation.
She walked straight to Damian’s home office.
He looked up from his desk, phone pressed to his ear. When he saw her expression, he held up a finger and finished the call.
“You saw it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, her voice tight. “And before you ask—yes, it’s true. I made a mistake. I was desperate. And I paid for it.”
He stood. “I’m not judging you.”
“Then stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m another headline to fix.”
Damian stepped closer. “You’re not. But we do need to respond.”
“Respond?” She laughed bitterly. “You mean spin it.”
“Yes. Because that’s how this world works. I’ll have the legal team handle the leak and—”
“No.” Her chin lifted. “This time, I’ll handle it myself.”
Two hours later, Calla walked into the studio of The Morning Spotlight, the most-watched talk show in the country.
Without Damian. Without a PR handler.
Just her.
The host smiled with a mix of curiosity and pity. “Calla Monroe, thank you for joining us on such short notice.”
She sat, calm and composed. “Thank you for having me.”
“We’ve seen the headlines. The kiss. The marriage. But now, people are talking about something else. Your past. Do you have anything to say?”
Calla nodded. “Yes. I was sixteen. I was broke. My mom was sick. I did something stupid—and I regret it every day. But I learned from it. I worked three jobs. I went back to school. I built my life from the ground up. And now? I won’t apologize for surviving.”
The studio went quiet.
She continued, voice steady. “People love to paint women who marry powerful men as gold diggers. But they never ask why she said yes—or what she gave up in the process. So let me be clear: I didn’t trap Damian Vale. I didn’t scheme my way into his world. I signed a contract. A deal.”
The host blinked. “You’re admitting your marriage was a business arrangement?”
Calla smiled faintly. “I’m saying I walked in with my eyes open. And if that makes me the villain in someone else’s story, so be it.”
The cameras zoomed in.
She held the gaze.
“I’m not here to fit your fairytale. I’m here to write my own.”
The interview aired that night—and the internet exploded.
Some called her brave. Others, a fraud. But the tides were turning.
Damian watched the footage from his office, eyes glued to the screen. When it ended, he replayed it.
Then again.
The door opened behind him.
Calla stepped in, heels clicking against the marble.
“You saw it?”
He turned slowly. “I did.”
“And?”
“I’ve never seen anyone handle the media like that.”
She crossed her arms. “That’s not what I asked.”
Damian rose from his chair and closed the space between them. “You were brilliant. Fierce. Honest. You reminded everyone—including me—that you’re more than just my wife on paper.”
Calla’s breath caught.
“But that’s all I am, right?” she whispered. “On paper?”
Damian didn’t answer.
Instead, he leaned down, brushing a kiss to her temple.
Then her cheek.
Then hovered just over her lips.
“I’m starting to forget where the paper ends,” he murmured.
She closed the distance.
This time, the kiss was fire.
Desperate. Tangled. Real.
She pulled at his shirt. He lifted her onto the desk. The contract between them fluttered to the floor, forgotten.
But just as his mouth found her neck—his phone rang.
And rang.
And kept ringing.
He cursed, breath ragged, and checked the screen.
His jaw tensed. “It’s Celeste.”
Calla stiffened. “Don’t answer.”
He hesitated.
“Please,” she said. “Just this once. Choose me.”
He stared at the phone. Then let it ring.
Later, as they lay tangled in each other beneath the sheets, Calla traced the inked lines on Damian’s forearm.
“You never talk about your mother,” she said quietly.
“She left when I was a kid.”
Calla blinked. “Why?”
“She couldn’t handle my father. The power. The lies. She walked out without saying goodbye.”
“I’m sorry.”
He looked at her. “You remind me of her.”
She arched a brow. “That supposed to be romantic?”
“She didn’t take s**t from anyone, either.”
They smiled.
And for the first time, it didn’t feel like pretending.
But the morning peace shattered with a single envelope.
Delivered by hand. No return address.
Damian opened it with a frown.
Inside was a single photo.
Calla. Kissing him. At the gala.
But behind them—barely visible—was Celeste.
Smiling.
A note was scribbled in red across the image:
“You don’t know what she’s capable of.”
- Writer
