The CEO’s redemption

CAMILLE. The grand ballroom glittered in the warm light of a thousand crystals; each chandelier cast a golden glow over the sea of society's finest. I stood near the center of the room, my hand resting lightly on my growing belly, the other clutching a champagne flute filled with water. I nodded politely as yet another socialite gushed over me. "You're absolutely glowing tonight, Camille," she exclaimed, her lips curving into a too-practiced smile. "That pregnancy glow suits you beautifully. Kian must be taking such good care of you." My own smile didn't falter. "He's been very attentive," I said, the lie rolling off my tongue with ease. My voice was soft, melodic, and betrayed none of the turmoil that bubbled beneath my practiced calm exterior. Beside me, Kian stood stoic and silent, his sharp gray eyes scanning the room, not even bothering to hide his acute disinterest in being present at the event. "Of course he has," another woman added, her tone dripping with envy. "Kian Calloway is known for getting what he wants, after all. You’re one lucky woman, Camille." Lucky. The word stung like a barb, though I didn’t let it show. I laughed softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "I certainly am." Kian gave nothing back: not a smile, not a glance, not even a grunt of acknowledgment. My fingers tightened on my flute, but I kept my expression serene, the perfect image of a doting wife. Just as another round of small talk began, a commotion at the entrance of the ballroom shattered the carefully tailored atmosphere. Gasps filtered throughout the crowd as a man in a wrinkled suit muscled his way past a security guard stationed at the door. "Kian Calloway!" the man shouted, his voice cutting through the hum of low conversation. All eyes turned toward us, and my stomach knotted as the reporter strode purposefully in our direction, clutching a notepad in one hand and a microphone in the other. "Mr. Calloway," the reporter said, his voice razor-sharp and accusatory, "can you comment on your recent visits to St. Mercy's Hospital? You've been spotted there multiple times, and always without your wife. Are these visits work-related, or is there something more personal going on?" My breath hitched, my head snapping toward Kian. Hospital visits? Without me? Kian's jaw tightened, but his face was impassive. "I don't owe you an explanation," he said, coldly and curtly. The reporter continued to press him. "And what about the rumors of an affair, Mr. Calloway? Is there truth to the claims that you're seeing another woman? That there's another child?" A wave of whispers rippled through the crowd. I felt their stares prickling against my skin like needles. I clenched my hands to keep them from trembling, willing myself to maintain my composure. "Get him out of here," Kian said flatly, gesturing to the security guards who had finally arrived. He was dragged off quickly, his protests echoing through the grand room. "The public deserves answers, Mr. Calloway! You can't ignore this forever!" My mind racing, I forced myself to keep calm as the eyes of high society were still on me, waiting to see how well the pregnant wife would take such a public scandal. "Excuse us," Kian said, his hand settling on my back in what might have resembled a protective gesture. Truthfully, it felt more like a push. I followed him out of the ballroom, down a quiet hallway where the buzz of speculation couldn't reach us. The moment we were alone, I turned to him, my voice low but firm. "What was that about, Kian? Hospitals? Rumors of another—" "Drop it," he interrupted, his tone colder than the marble beneath our feet as he whipped out his phone, his fingers flying over the keyboard. "Drop it?" I repeated, my voice rising despite myself. "How am I supposed to drop something like that?" "This isn't the time or place, Camille," he said, his eyes narrowing. "You've said that before," I shot back, my chest tightening with frustration. "And somehow, there's never a time or place to talk about anything that matters." He didn’t respond. Instead, he offered me his arm, his expression daring me to make a scene. I glared at him, but after a moment, I slipped my hand through his arm. I had no choice. We reentered the ballroom, the glittering masks now fixed tightly upon our faces. The remainder of the night flowed into a vortex of forced smiles and words with no weight behind them. My questions lay simmering, repressed in my depths, or else bitterness would let them bubble to the surface and cause a huge scene. By the time we left, the tension between us was palpable. The drive home was a silent battle of wills. Kian sat beside me, scrolling through his phone, answering emails as though the world hadn't just turned on its head. I stared out the window, my mind churning with every possibility, every unanswered question. When we finally arrived at our sprawling mansion, Kian stepped out first, striding toward the front door without so much as a backward glance. I followed, my heels clicking sharply against the stone driveway. As soon as we entered the house, Kian began heading toward his private wing without a word. My blood boiled. "Kian, wait." He stopped but didn't turn around. "What did that reporter mean?" I demanded, my voice shaking with held-back anger. "Hospitals? Another child? An affair?" "Reporters spew a lot of bullshit," he said without turning to face me. I stepped closer, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. "Have you been going to hospitals?" Kian's shoulders stiffened. For a moment, I thought he might ignore me completely. Then he said, "No." "Don't lie to me," I snapped, my voice breaking. "You have never even come to a single one of my appointments or scans, Kian. Why would you—" "Enough," he said, finally turning to me. His eyes were unyielding, his jaw clenched. "I said no. Let it go, Camille." But I saw the flicker of something in his eyes-guilt, or maybe anger that I'd pushed him. And I knew he was lying. My voice rose, sharp and cutting. "You're lying to me. Why are you lying to me?" He stepped back, his face colder than ever. "Go to bed, Camille," he said icily. Before I could get out a word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the silent hall. I stood frozen, anger, grief, and heartbreak swirled together inside me, choking me. As I stared after him, my hands trembling, one thought kept echoing within me mind: What is he hiding?