ARIA'S POV

THREE YEARS LATER

I stood behind the shadows, observing the devils suited in gold, the highest of men and women clad in jewels. They chatted, displaying their fake smiles, their pretentious attitudes, too good to be true.

Tsk. It takes one to know another.

"Sweetheart." My supposed husband called out, his hand slid down my back and held my waist in a gentle grip.

I smiled back, ignoring the lust that swirled through his eyes. "You look delicious."

I wasn't food, still I smiled harder.

Unlike the rest, I wore a simple black sleek gown, which hugged my waist with a little slit from my lap to my ankle, exposing a little more than it should. A diamond necklace sat on my neck with matching earrings. My hair was packed into a bun and clipped still with a diamond-coated hair clip.

His wish, not mine.

"Let's go." I glided in, my black heel clicking against the floor, eliciting a faint sound.

"Mr. Salvatore." Someone called out as the hall fell into a deafening silence. Their gazes latched on me as I walked in, my head held high like the queen I was.

Who is she??

So the rumor is true??

Is that his wife??

She looks so beautiful.

She looks unreal.

A little smile ghosted my lips.

"Ah! Greetings, my fellow friends." He said heartily. "Sweetheart, I will be back."

"Sure." I smiled. "It's your day. Go and shine."

"This is why I love you." He laughed, rushing to the stage while I stayed back, grinning at him. 

"Thank you all for honoring my invitation. I must say I didn't expect it." The crowd laughed. "It was a tough journey, but today we are here to celebrate, to dance merrily. It wasn't easy, I lost hope a thousand times, but my sweetheart was there." He threw an air kiss at me. I recoiled, my cheeks pinked in embarrassment, and with that, the crowds cooed. "She never gave up on me and always said, 'Darling, you are the perfect person for this. Yes, all are good, but what separates you is what you do in secret: the effort and the intention."

I never said such.

"Awwwwn." They gushed.

"And today I am here as the vice president of Macro Jewels. I won. I have to say I wouldn't have done it without you; you were my anchor."

"Literally." I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes.

He continued his speech, showering himself with praise and a little to me. The crowd hushed even more, laughed at his unnecessary jokes, agreed to his nonsense, side-eyed me, drank, and were merry. Finally, the party ended. I would have gnawed off my skin if I were forced to hear any of his boring jokes or their stupid compliments.

Ass-kissers.

He held my hand as we walked out, like the couple we appeared to be.

I remained quiet till we were far off, out of their prying gaze. I snatched my hand away from his grip and slid into the black limo up front.

He joined as the driver sped off.

"That was great."

A sigh escaped from my lips before I could hold it in. I was in for another long drive with his constant talking, his annoying and boring jokes.

There was no escape for you, Aria.

"You were amazing out there, Miss Aria."

"I'm glad you think so."

"You know, even I, at one point, believed we were truly a lovely couple."

"We aren't," I said. "It was just a deal, Mr. Salvatore. A deal that ended today."

"I know, but still..."

"Seven days."

"Harsh."

"My manager will resend the account details to you."

"I understand. But..." I chattered. "I would like to thank you formally, maybe a coffee or tea date."

"I would have." Lies! I would have rather chopped off my hands and legs to avoid it. "But I have other things to do. Like I said, business always comes first."

The car came to a halt.

Finally.

"Thanks for the ride." I slipped out, my phone beeped, and I didn't bother to check. It must be Ava asking me how it went.

"I guess this is it, Miss Aria. It was fun when it lasted."

It wasn't.

"Goodbye, Mr. Salvatore." I turned and headed into the 'MoonVilla', a hostel. It wasn't a famous five-star hotel. It was a local inn, a hostel meant for people like me, people who wouldn't want to be seen by the world.

I slumped onto my bed, relishing its softness.

Finally, I'm back!!!

Gosh, I ached everywhere, especially my cheeks. Who knew smiling so long could hurt? I kicked off my heels, and my hands made their way to my neck as I peeled off the jewelry.

It felt good to be back home, away from the prying gaze. Only hell knew how hard I tried to ignore it all.

I curled up on my sheet, but I bothered to change; all I needed was sleep. Not like I could get any; those memories never allowed me to.

Those haunting pair of green eyes, the blood.

No!! Snap out of it. I wasn't going down that memory lane today.

I pulled out my phone.

"Another client is satisfied," I whispered. The chime from my phone confirmed the wire transfer.

The money was in, and the deal was closed, and I should have felt something more. Relief. Maybe even joy.

But all I felt was a flicker of pride. Like a small, cold pat on the back for a job well done.

Happiness?

That was a luxury I'd stopped chasing long ago. Not since...

No.

I shook my head, shutting the thought down before it swallowed me whole once again.

I wasn't going down that road. Not tonight.

Today had been long, and all I wanted now was rest or the closest thing to it.

Sleep didn't come easily anymore. Hasn't in years.

I squeezed my eyes closed, hoping for some solace.

Three hours of sleep, if I was lucky.

I lay back, eyes wide open as the darkness crept in, and I welcomed it like an old, bitter friend.

It wasn't her, it wasn't her. I told myself every single morning for three years, but that didn't change anything. The memories didn't vanish; hell, they multiplied, creating fake ones.

A five-year-old Christabel was standing in the middle of a highway, covered in blood and screaming at me to save her. No matter how fast I ran, how hard I tried, I couldn't. I just watched as the truck rammed into her, crushing her into a billion pieces, covering the oddly white-floored road in blood.

"Momma!!!!!" And yet again, I watched her get crushed beneath the gruesome tires.

My eyelids flung open. I rolled off the bed, slipped into the flip-flops, and headed to the bathroom.

And yes, there was no need for me to act like I had seen a ghost, no need to scream. You could say I was used to watching my child being killed in the worst way possible. I was used to the hallucinations, to this madness.

I hauled myself into my bathroom. I could reminisce on my dreadful nightmare later; for now, I needed to catch up on Mario's early morning coffee.

Trust me when I say it is to die for.

I hurried into the bathroom, ignoring my reflection in the mirror as I brushed my teeth.

Although I still wore the ten-thousand-dollar gown, I looked nothing like the sophisticated heiress.

I looked empty, eye bags marred my blue eyes, my face hardened by years of mystery, my brown hair entangled.

Keep it together, Aria. You wouldn't want to scare your supposed husband.

My stomach lurched at the word.

"Client." I corrected. They were people who needed an escort, a wife to attain their height.

I was the illusion they paid for when they needed to look respectable for Daddy's board or Mommy's will.

I became a seven-day rental for those rich, spoiled second-generation heirs.

A tool for them to break into their trust funds.

They needed a wife. I needed money.

And I was damn good at it.

No strings attached, no questions asked, and I never, NEVER repeated the same client. No matter how much they begged.

Last week's client had been some shy tech prodigy with an overbearing mother and a trust fund the size of Brazil.

He had needed a poised, elegant wife to flash at a family reunion so the inheritance talks could go smoothly.

So I played the role.

I allowed him to hold my hands even when my palms were sweaty and I was disgusted by it.

I smiled for the cameras, and I even told lies to his aunt that she looked stunning in Chanel, when in fact, she looked like a stuffed duck.

At least he wasn't as depraved as this week's one.

A day contract that ended with $300,000 wired into my account.

Easy.

I took a short bath, dressed in a black flare dress, my hair packed into a ponytail, as I scurried out to the "Mario-de-Latte" coffee shop.

Trust me, here was perfect.

I sank in, and after a few minutes, my usual order lay on my table: two cups of coffee-don't judge-and a strawberry pie.

Excellent.

I dug in, relishing its sweet taste. I ate faster; I was expecting a new job today, and the sudden chime of my phone told me I didn't need to wait that long.

Couldn't have waited for a bit. I groaned, but I still picked up my work phone and saw the message flash across the encrypted app that I used for my business.

Unknown Number. One unread message.

"I need a wife urgently. I heard that yours is a seven-day contract. I'm willing to pay 1.5 million dollars. Not a penny more."

My eyes widened.

W-what??

I blinked several times.

One-point-five?

The highest I had gotten paid was from this guy who paid me $300,000.

Desperation reeked through that message louder than the money. He needed me more than I needed his money.

I took a sip of my lukewarm coffee and replied to his text like I did to all.

"Non-negotiable terms:

No intimacy.

No extensions.

No repeats.

Payment upfront.

I DON'T ever wear white."

His response came almost immediately.

"Agreed. My assistant will send the contract and itinerary."

He was fast. And efficient too. I kind of respected that.

A few minutes later, the email pinged in my inbox. I skimmed through the attached contract, scanning the location, terms, and expected appearances.

Manhattan, Upper East Side private penthouse, separate rooms...

Nothing new. Just the same old stuff.

And then I saw the name at the bottom of the document.

Blood drained from my face.

Kane Callahan.

I froze.

ARIA'S POV

My jaw clenched as I stared down at the name on the contract again, just to be sure I hadn't hallucinated it the first time.

Kane Callahan.

Not just any client. Not some rich boy with daddy issues or a seasonal inheritance itch.

Callahan. That name was a knife in my gut.

The contract didn't lie. Neither did the itinerary. Nor the penthouse address that screamed Old Money with new PR polish.

Zane's family.

I let out a bitter laugh, the kind that scratched your throat on the way up. Of course. Of course, the universe would make me sign a fake marriage contract with Zane Callahan's half-brother. 

The same man who stood like a god over my deepest trauma, the same man who had cared as I bled out alone and still managed to humiliate me afterwards.

Fate didn't pull punches. It threw them bare-knuckled and straight to the gut.

Still, I signed the NDA.

Still, I packed my bag and entered the town car that arrived exactly when the assistant said it would.

Because that's who I was now.

Aria Whitmore: Professional Wife-for-Hire.

Trauma survivor.

Expert in emotional detachment.

And now? Future Mrs. Kane Callahan, if only for seven cursed days.

But the car wasn't heading toward the Callahan Holdings tower.

I knew Manhattan well enough to clock every turn. The driver didn't speak-thankfully-and the screen separating us stayed firmly up.

I rechecked the itinerary. The contract had listed "Callahan Holdings, 32nd floor office."

Instead, the car took a hard right off Park Avenue and kept climbing north, weaving into quieter blocks, past doormen and polished limestone buildings with gold plaques and names like The Vesper and La Rivière.

By the time we pulled up in front of the penthouse tower, I already knew.

This was no office meeting.

"Sorry for the sudden change of plans. But take the elevator up to the top floor, Miss Aria. Don't keep me waiting."

The concierge opened my door, and as the elevator climbed, my gut clenched.

I'd been through worse.

Hell, I was worse: scarred, steel-hearted, calculated to the bone. But something about the sudden change in plans made every alarm in my system blare at full volume.

He knew.

Kane Callahan already knew who I was.

The elevator opened directly into the living room. Of course, it did. I rolled my eyes.

His penthouse was all glass walls and marble floors. A view of the skyline that screamed generational wealth and strategic detachment.

He stood at the far end, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of bourbon like it had been poured exactly three minutes before I arrived.

"Kane Callahan," I said without greeting, stepping in with my coat still on and with bitterness laced in my voice that I couldn't seem to hide.

"Funny. I thought we were meeting at your office. Why the sudden change in plans?"

He set his glass down.

"Do you want to talk about logistics in a boardroom under fluorescent lights? Or here, where no assistants or security cameras get in the way?"

I crossed my arms. "You could've just said that upfront. You didn't need to play cloak and dagger."

"I've found that most people show their true selves when they're caught off-guard.".

"And what did you learn about me, Mr. Analytical?" I asked, stepping farther into his lion's den.

"That you don't rattle easily." His eyes moved over me, clinical, not lustful. Strategic. Like he was assessing an asset, not a woman. Or a person. "That's a good thing. It'll... sorry, my bad. You will be a great asset."

I gave a short laugh. "You don't know the half of it."

He didn't deny it. Just motioned to the chair across from him.

I didn't sit. I just stood with my arms crossed and my chin tilted just enough to let him know I wasn't intimidated.

Not even close.

"You should've told me who you were," I said.

"I didn't lie about it, though."

"Zane Callahan's brother or half-brother. Whatever," I said, voice flat. "That name should've been in bold at the top of the contract."

"Do you need to know the name of every guy who contracts you?" he replied coolly.

That calm tone. God, it made me want to throw something.

I stepped closer. 

"You think this is funny? You think dragging me into your little CEO fantasy while casually omitting that you're related to the man who ruined my life is a joke?"

"No," Kane said. "I think it's an opportunity. For both of us."

I stared at him. "Excuse me?"

He took a step toward me now, slow and deliberate. "You want money. You've made a rather good business out of wearing rings that aren't yours. I need a wife, for a short window, to solidify my position on the board. You were the best option."

"And Zane?"

"What about him?"

"You're seriously going to sit there and act like this has nothing to do with him?"

Kane's jaw ticked. Just for a second. "Zane doesn't run this family. And he sure as hell doesn't run me."

I couldn't stop the bitter laugh that slipped out. "He sure had a way of ruining lives, though. Specifically mine."

"I know what he did," Kane said quietly.

That silenced me.

There was something in the way he said it. Like he'd seen the aftermath. Like he hadn't just read about it in tabloids or overheard it during company gossip, but knew. Lived it.

But he didn't. Nobody did.

"I hated him long before he broke you," Kane added.

A beat passed. And then another.

"You expect me to believe that aligning myself with the Callahan name again is somehow smart?"

"No," Kane said. "I expect you to do the math. You walk away now, you'll still make six figures next time. But stay? You walk away with seven. And something Zane could never erase, his past, hand-delivered to his door, wearing my last name."

He was good, and I was intrigued.

I hated that I didn't hate him more.

I looked away, stared out the glass walls at the New York skyline, glittering little stars.

Everything in me said to walk away, to run even. To disappear and leave the Callahans, all of them, in my rearview.

But...

The photo of my baby's ultrasound still lived in a box I hadn't opened in two years.

The hospital bills were paid, but the grief never was.

Zane still walked around like I hadn't stood there, watching him f-k my stepsister in the bed I lost my child in.

Some ghosts just can't stand to be alone.

I pivoted back to face Kane, who was looking at me with that perpetually serious expression of his.

"One week," I declared, trying to sound more resolute than I felt.

"Seven days," he echoed, his tone confirming that he was just as serious about this as I was.

But there were some ground rules I needed to lay out. "No intimacy," I insisted, raising a finger for emphasis. "No emotional manipulation. And absolutely, no more surprises."

He nodded thoughtfully. "You'll get the same in return," he replied, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, as if he found this whole arrangement amusing in some way.

With that, my back straightened, almost as if I could feel a spark of defiance coursing through my spine.

"Then congratulations, Mr. Callahan. You just bought yourself a wife," I said, letting the weight of those words sink in.

He stepped closer, extending his hand as if we were sealing some kind of deal. His palm was open and inviting, but I hesitated.

I mean, who in their right mind would shake hands on something like this? I looked at his hand, every inch of me screaming to take it, but reason held me back. Because let's be real, if the devil you know is bad, the one who despises your demons just as fiercely as you do?

Well, that could be a whole different level of hell.

But maybe, just maybe, that kind of "worse" is what I needed right now.

I nodded.

Let the game begin.

★

KANE'S POV

Change was the only thing constant.

Tsk. I never believed that saying.

Certain events can't change, certain people whom you couldn't change no matter how hard you tried, and Aria was one of them.

Was. The woman who stood in front of me was a shadow of what Aria was.

I could still remember the glow in her eyes, her wide smile, which warmed everyone up; she was like sunshine, spreading cheerfulness whenever she got it. The woman who glared daggers at me didn't exude such qualities.

Hell, she looked like she would shatter whatever she touched.

It took my brother a year to wipe out her smile and two more years of whatever hell he made her go through to strip her of her goodness.

That bastard.

When she stormed into my office like she owned the fucking place, at first, I was willing to pay double to know who gave her the audacity to walk into my office like that.

The look in her eyes told me she would kick back. She wasn't the little toy, used and treated like a slave.

As I stated my offer, she calmed, although I wasn't stupid enough to think she had let her guard down.

She could whip out a dagger from her black purse and plunge it into my heart at any time.

I won't blame her.

I wasn't that bastard, Zane, but I still bore the same surname as him. I was his brother.

Half-brother, but I don't think she would reconsider her plans based on that fact. We continued as I made a deal I knew she wouldn't refuse, one she saw as an opportunity, not just for money, but for revenge.

I stared at her; she looked weak, ridiculous with her glow, her long hair packed into a simple ponytail revealing the contour of her face, her blue ocean eyes flared with anger and pain, her lower lip captured by her teeth. She wore a simple off-shoulder gown.

She looked more like a little devil.

And yet I leaned in, awaiting her approval.

ARIA'S POV 

The city lights bled into each other like watercolors behind the tinted glass, too soft for a city that never really softened. Manhattan pulsed outside, loud and dirty and alive but in here? In the backseat of this luxury hearse Kane Callahan had arranged, I was insulated. Cushioned in leather, silence, and my own thoughts.  

Convenient, really. That we didn't ride together. Probably thought it'd be too much to share a car with his rented wife. Or maybe he just didn't want to ruin the leather with my perfume. 

Either way, I wasn't complain, I liked the quiet. I liked knowing I had a few more minutes to pretend I still had control.

The car pulled up to a building that looked like it had been designed by someone allergic to warmth. All sharp angles, steel, and tall glass. 

Kane Callahan's penthouse loomed above it all, a gleaming tower of cold power. 

Nothing like Zane's home, which had always felt like a trap pretending to be a castle. This place didn't pretend. It told you straight up-you didn't belong here unless you came with blood on your hands and money in your veins.

I stepped out into a marble lobby that smelled like money and barely-disguised elitism. 

Of course the elevator had its own security system. 

Of course there was a man at the desk who barely blinked when I walked in, like women in designer heels and emotional ruin showed up every night.

The ride up was fast, way too fast. I needed longer to breathe or brace. Or lie to myself better.

When the elevator doors opened, it was like stepping into a museum curated by someone who hated comfort; clean lines, dark wood. 

One very expensive looking sculpture that probably meant nothing. It was all too pristine, like if I touched anything, it'd shatter. Or I would.

Power lived here. It throbbed beneath the surface, through the walls, in the bones of the place. You didn't walk into Kane Callahan's penthouse, you entered his territory.

I exhaled slowly, like maybe that'd help with the way my chest suddenly ached.

Don't think about Zane.  

Don't think about that house.  

Don't think about the nursery you never finished painting.

Don't think about....Christabel.

The echo of it clawed at the back of my throat anyway.

This wasn't love and it wasn't healing either. This was business.

But the thing about cages–even gilded ones? They still lock from the outside.

And right now, mine was forty floors above Manhattan, owned by a man I didn't trust, paid for with pieces of myself I hadn't realized I was still selling.

Then I decided to explore. 

Not out of curiosity-God no-but survival. If I was going to be locked in here for the week playing house with a Callahan, I needed to know my battlefield. 

The place was eerily quiet. There were no ticking clocks, no hum of appliances, just silence so deep it pressed against my ears. Weirdly calming, like the quiet before a hurricane touches down.

My fingers skimmed along the edges of an oak desk that looked hand-carved and offensively expensive. A vase stood next to it-delicate, probably antique. I could swipe it and sell it for enough to ghost this whole city if I wanted to.  

Would he notice? Would anyone?

My eyes lifted to the art on the walls. No faces, just lines, and shapes, and angry little attempts at meaning. Pretentious, like most men in power. They don't want to be reminded of people-just of concepts; control, minimalism, superiority. And whatnot..

I kept moving. The place was a labyrinth of glass and silence and very masculine trauma, and it made me feel... small. Like I was wandering the inside of a beast that hadn't quite decided if it wanted to eat me yet.

Then I saw it-a door.

Of course.

Every expensive home had one. The door you're not supposed to open....which obviously meant I would.

I wrapped my fingers around the knob and just as I twisted..

It opened from the other side.

And there he was.

Kane.

Tall, buttoned-up, and looking at me like I was a puzzle he hadn't quite decided whether to solve or shatter.

His face was unreadable-stoic, still-but up close like this, I noticed something I never gave any of my clients a chance to. A small blemish near his jawline, a pimple. A very human flaw on a man sculpted like a threat. That's how close we were...

It was funny. He was the first one I'd ever gotten close enough to notice something like that. And I thought most men like him don't want to be seen.

His gaze didn't move from mine.

Neither did I.

Tomorrow, I'd be his wife.

And I hated Mondays.

••⁠ 

KANE'S POV

I opened the door and found her there-Aria.

Exactly where I expected her to be.

She didn't flinch, didn't blink, just stared up at me like she'd been caught picking a lock and didn't particularly care if she was arrested for it.

"Exploring already?" I said, my tone even.

Her gaze swept over me, unimpressed. "Didn't realize welcoming your wife required so much... restraint."

God her sarcasm, she's also defensive, and predictable.

I took a step forward, she stepped back...just one. Not from fear but from instinct and whilst at it we didn't break eye contact. I reached behind me and shut the door.

"What's in there?" she asked, nodding toward the room I'd just exited.

"Nothing that should concern you."

Which was the truth, and also a lie.

I walked past her. She didn't move at first-deliberately-but then I heard the soft click of her heels behind me. She lingered, the way someone does when they want to prove they're not following, even when they are.

She commented on the apartment. Something dry and biting about modern cathedrals and cold shrines to capitalism.

I didn't respond.

I didn't need to.

We reached the main hall, the quiet pressing between us like a third presence. I stopped.

So did she.

"We begin tomorrow..." I said without turning around. "Press coverage starts at noon. You'll be photographed leaving this building. They'll be subtle affection. And there's a diamond already delivered to your room. You'll wear it."

I turned then, meeting her eyes again.

"There will be interviews, curated events, joint appearances. You'll be styled accordingly. The Callahan aesthetic is... intentional."

Her eyes narrowed just slightly. "You mean manicured."

"I mean precise."

She took a step closer, arms crossed now. "I'll play the role, Mr Kane. But let's be very clear-I'm not something you dress up and parade around, I'm not yours to own."

That struck something, but it wasn't anger, nor resistance.... Admiration, maybe. Or amusement. It was hard to tell where those lines blurred.

I almost smiled.

"Duly noted" I said.

And it was.

⁠•⁠•

Aria's POV

I watched him walk away, that clean, calculated stride of someone who'd always been listened to. 

Kane Callahan.

Of course he envisioned the same boundaries and rehearsed affection. We were disturbingly aligned but the only difference?

He was a Callahan.

A goddamn Callahan.

My jaw tightened around the taste of the name. I hated how it sat in my mouth-heavy, familiar, like rusted metal. 

My lungs felt too small for this space suddenly, like Manhattan air had thickened just to mock me. 

Kane hadn't raised his voice, hadn't threatened me, hadn't touched me. But standing in this glass kingdom, with his voice echoing like a script I once knew too well, I felt the weight of what I was stepping into all over again.

I was in the Callahan den once more.

Wearing their name....again.

But this time, I wasn't the girl who wore it like a badge of belonging. I wasn't the naive bride who clutched ultrasound pictures with trembling fingers and whispered promises to a child who'd never take a breath. 

I wasn't the girl who bled on marble floors while her husband fucked her sister.

I was something else now.

I was sharper, colder and very much more calculated.

The week began tomorrow, and the curtain would rise. My part was written, rehearsed, sealed with a signature.

This just might be my call to redemption...or rather revenge.

If so...then the stage was set for a performance they'd never recover from.