Chapter 8
1157 Words
The morning after her showdown with Celeste, Calla awoke to the sound of muted voices outside the penthouse door.
She padded to the hallway, still wrapped in Damian’s dress shirt, and cracked it open.
Damian stood there, tense and controlled, speaking in a low tone to someone she couldn’t see.
A woman.
Celeste.
“Leave,” he was saying. “This isn’t your home.”
“It was,” Celeste whispered. “And it will be again.”
Calla stepped into view.
Celeste’s smile vanished. “Oh. Wearing his clothes now?”
“I’m wearing my husband’s shirt,” Calla said, cool and unbothered. “Is that a problem?”
Damian stepped between them. “Celeste, I’m asking you one last time.”
“You never said goodbye, Damian. You just vanished. Don’t I deserve closure?”
“You got it,” he said flatly. “The day I chose Calla.”
Celeste flinched.
Calla reached for Damian’s hand, threading their fingers together. The look Celeste gave her could’ve shattered glass.
“This isn’t over,” she hissed.
“No,” Calla said. “But you are.”
Celeste turned and left without another word.
Damian exhaled like he hadn’t breathed in weeks. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Calla said. “I’m getting really good at slamming doors in her face.”
He looked at her—really looked—and this time, something inside him melted.
The next few days were oddly quiet.
Too quiet.
Which meant something was coming.
Calla could feel it in the way Damian started checking his phone more often. In the way his eyes lingered on her just a beat too long—like he was trying to memorize her before it all fell apart.
On Friday night, she got her answer.
Damian showed her a news article—scheduled to publish Monday morning.
“Vale Heiress Speaks Out: Celeste Kingsley Claims Contract Marriage Behind Billion-Dollar Merger”
Calla’s throat dried. “She’s going public.”
“She’s smart. Knows how to twist things.”
Calla dropped the paper. “Let me guess—she’ll paint me as the social climber and you as the lovesick CEO who got manipulated?”
Damian gave a dry smile. “Something like that.”
“Then let’s show them what real manipulation looks like.”
He raised a brow.
Calla grinned. “We give them a scandal of our own. Something that buries hers in seconds.”
It started with a party.
A very public party.
An elite gala hosted by one of Damian’s investors—complete with press coverage, red carpets, and flashing cameras.
Calla wore a crimson silk dress with a slit to her thigh and a neckline that left little to the imagination. The second they stepped out of the limo, Damian’s jaw locked like he wanted to kill anyone who looked twice.
“Is it too much?” she asked sweetly.
He leaned in. “It’s not enough.”
They posed for photos. They danced. They whispered and laughed and acted like a couple completely, irrevocably in love.
And when Celeste arrived—because of course she did—she found them in the middle of the ballroom, Damian’s hand on Calla’s hip, his lips brushing her ear.
It was perfect.
Until Calla caught a flash of a phone camera aimed directly at her.
She turned.
A man in a tailored black suit smiled at her, then vanished into the crowd.
“Did you see that?” she asked Damian.
He nodded. “Celeste’s new pet journalist. Looks like he’s collecting ammo.”
“Then let’s give him a headline.”
Before she could ask what that meant, Damian spun her back into him and kissed her.
Right there in the center of the ballroom.
It wasn’t staged.
It wasn’t for the cameras.
It was deep and possessive and wild.
By the time they pulled apart, the room had stopped breathing.
Calla’s heart raced. “Was that part of the plan?”
Damian grinned. “No. That was just for me.”
The next day, headlines exploded:
“Calla Monroe: Not Just a Pretty Face”
“The CEO and His Secret Weapon”
“Celeste Who?”
Celeste’s carefully crafted expose drowned under photo after photo of Damian and Calla—the couple that had taken over every gossip site, finance column, and red carpet.
But not all attention was good.
By Sunday, Calla received a package.
No sender.
Inside: a single photo.
Her. As a child.
Taken from her orphanage records.
And a message scrawled in ink across the back:
“Does he know who you really are?”
Calla’s hands trembled.
She hadn’t told Damian everything.
Not about her past.
Not about why she really took his offer.
And now, someone else had that information.
She shoved the photo deep into her desk drawer—but the damage was done.
She could lie to Damian.
But she couldn’t lie to herself.
Her secrets were no longer safe.
That night, they sat on the penthouse balcony, wine untouched, the city glowing beneath them.
Damian broke the silence.
“I know you’re hiding something.”
Calla froze. “What makes you say that?”
“You got quiet after the party. You flinched when that package arrived.”
She said nothing.
“I’m not asking for a perfect wife, Calla. I’m just asking for the truth.”
She looked at him.
Really looked.
“I lied about who I was,” she said finally. “I wasn’t just some desperate temp who needed a favor. I knew who you were before I walked into that office. I researched you. I planned it.”
Damian’s expression didn’t change—but something behind his eyes shifted.
“I thought if I got close to you, maybe… maybe I could build something real.”
He exhaled. “And did you?”
Calla swallowed. “Yes.”
A long pause.
Then he stood and walked toward her, pulling her into his arms.
“I already knew,” he murmured.
Her heart stuttered. “What?”
“About your past. The orphanage. Your fake references. All of it.”
Her breath caught. “Then why—”
“Because I wanted you to tell me when you were ready.”
She stared at him, tears threatening. “You knew and you still chose me?”
Damian brushed a thumb across her cheek. “Calla, I didn’t fall for your resume. I fell for you.”
And just like that, the lies shattered—and something real took their place.
But the peace didn’t last.
Because the next morning, Calla’s phone buzzed with a message that froze her to the core.
“You may have his heart. But I have his life.”
Attached: a photo of Damian at a construction site, circled in red.
And beneath it: a countdown.
48 hours.
- Writer
