Chapter 4
1294 Words
The contract said “move in immediately.”
Calla hadn’t realized “immediately” meant a driver would show up at dawn the next day, bags already packed by a maid she didn’t know existed.
She sat in the back seat of the Bentley, arms crossed, watching Manhattan blur past. This wasn’t her world—this world of high-rises and black cards and custom-tailored lives. It was cold. Polished. Scripted.
And she was the unscripted chaos in the middle of it.
The penthouse was everything she expected from Damian Vale—and then some.
A private elevator opened into a marble foyer large enough to be an apartment on its own. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city skyline, casting everything in soft gold light. The furniture was sleek, minimalist, expensive. The kind of home that whispered power and distance.
“This is yours now,” Damian said, appearing behind her.
Calla turned, startled. “Do you live here?”
“Sometimes.”
She frowned. “That doesn’t sound like a yes.”
“I have another property uptown.”
“So this is the one you bring your fake wife to.”
“Exactly.”
She wandered further into the space, trying to ignore the weight of his eyes on her. “Where do I sleep?”
He pointed. “Guest wing. Second door.”
Calla followed his direction until she found a sprawling room bigger than her old apartment. The bed was king-sized. The sheets Egyptian cotton. A vase of fresh lilies sat on the side table.
Too perfect. Too empty.
Like no one had ever really lived here.
She ran her fingers over the vanity, the mirror, the closet full of designer clothes—all her size.
“You had all this prepared?” she asked when he joined her in the doorway.
“Of course.”
“Creepy.”
“Efficient.”
She turned to face him. “Is this how you play house? Dress up the girl, give her a room, and call it a marriage?”
“I told you—this isn’t a marriage. It’s a contract.”
Calla stepped closer, her voice low. “Then why do I feel like I’m being caged?”
Damian didn’t move. “Because for the next twelve months, you are.”
The days that followed blurred into a strange, glittering routine.
Breakfast at 8:00 a.m.
Media meetings by 10.
Public outings with Damian—always hand in hand, always under watchful eyes.
Calla played the role with unsettling ease, which only seemed to frustrate Damian more. She smiled when required. Laughed on cue. Kissed his cheek like they were high school sweethearts.
Behind closed doors, they barely spoke.
Until the night everything shifted.
It started with wine.
The kind that came in a bottle worth more than her rent for a year. Calla poured herself a glass after a long day of pretending to be something she wasn’t. Damian had retreated to his office, as always, working in silence behind frosted doors.
But tonight, he emerged.
“Is that my Bordeaux?” he asked.
She lifted the bottle with a lazy smirk. “Want to sue me?”
“I’d lose more than the wine is worth.”
She poured a second glass and handed it to him.
They sat in silence on opposite ends of the velvet couch, Manhattan glittering outside the window behind them.
“You hate this,” he said after a moment.
“I’m surviving it.”
“That’s not the same.”
Calla looked at him. “Why did you really choose me?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then: “Because you weren’t begging for a place at my side. You weren’t trying to get in.”
She tilted her head. “And yet, here I am. Playing your fake wife. Drinking your real wine.”
He watched her, eyes dark and unreadable. “You’re good at it.”
“Lying?”
“Surviving.”
They sat in silence again, the distance between them crackling with something that wasn’t quite attraction, but wasn’t not either.
“I don’t like you,” she said softly.
“I know.”
“But I’m starting to understand you.”
“That’s more dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Because once you understand me,” he said, finishing his glass, “you’ll hate me.”
The next morning, the headlines were worse than usual.
The Billionaire’s Bride: Real Love or a PR Fantasy?
Exclusive: Celeste Blackwell Speaks Out About Damian Vale’s Sudden Marriage
“He’ll Regret This,” Says Former Fiancée
Calla stared at her phone, breath catching.
The article featured a full-length photo of Celeste in a red silk dress, looking heartbreakingly stunning. The quote beneath it made her blood run cold.
“I loved him for years. He proposed. Then suddenly he replaced me with someone no one had ever heard of. What does that tell you about his judgment… or hers?”
Calla dropped the phone.
Damian appeared in the doorway of the dining room, dressed in black slacks and a silver tie, reading something on his tablet.
“You saw it?” he asked.
Calla nodded. “She’s not going to stop, is she?”
“No.”
“You really hurt her.”
He didn’t respond.
“Did you love her?”
A pause.
“No,” he said. “I respected her. That was the mistake.”
“Because you don’t respect me?”
“I don’t trust you enough to,” he replied calmly. “Yet.”
She exhaled. “Do you think this is going to work?”
He looked up. “It already is. Stock is stable. Press is buzzing. My father’s board hasn’t challenged me in three days.”
“And me?”
“You’re doing fine.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He stepped closer. “You want one?”
“Yes.”
He studied her like she was part of an equation he hadn’t solved yet.
“You’re starting to look like a Vale,” he said.
She blinked. “Is that a compliment?”
“It’s the highest one I give.”
That night, as Calla stood brushing her teeth, she stared at her reflection—flawless skin, expensive robe, hollow eyes.
She didn’t recognize herself.
She stepped into the hallway and paused.
Damian stood at the far end, unbuttoning his shirt. The top of his chest was exposed—ink curling across his collarbone, something ancient and angular. His hair was slightly tousled, jaw sharp in the low light.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
Neither spoke.
Something thick and heavy stretched between them.
Then, slowly, he walked toward her.
One step. Then another.
She didn’t move.
He stopped just inches away.
“You should be asleep,” he said softly.
“So should you.”
He reached up—slowly—and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.
Calla’s breath hitched.
“Go to bed,” he murmured.
Her voice was barely a whisper. “Tell me you want to kiss me.”
He stared at her. “That’s not part of the contract.”
“I don’t care.”
His fingers lingered on her jaw.
Then dropped.
“I want to kiss you,” he said quietly. “But if I do, you’ll think this is more than it is.”
“Isn’t it?” she whispered.
He leaned in, just enough for her to feel the heat of him.
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
Then he turned and walked away.
Leaving her standing there, heart thundering.
And realizing that maybe—just maybe—she was in danger after all.
Not from Celeste.
But from him.
- Writer
