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.

ARIA'S POV 

Monday came without warning...no soft sunrise, no gentle easing into the day. Just a slap of cold reality and the echo of my heartbeat in Kane Callahan's too-perfect penthouse.

I stepped out of the bathroom, towel snug around my body, steam curling behind me like smoke and I froze.

There it was.  

The dress.  

Laid out on the bed like it belonged there.

Emerald green; deep, rich and defiant.

I blinked. Then smiled-thin, crooked, not quite real. He listened, apparently, he remembered.  

"Any color but white."

Still, I didn't move. Something twisted low in my stomach. Not though excitement. No, it was heavier than that, oddly familiar.

I used to dress like this for someone else.  

For Zane.  

"Look presentable.." he'd said.  

Translation? "Be what I want you to be."

My fingers brushed the embroidery, it was soft and stupidly expensive. And yet all I could feel was that old chokehold.

Is this what I signed up for?

Three years ago, I promised myself I'd make them pay. Zane. Sibil. I carved that vow into every scar they left behind.

But how?  

How do you avenge a baby you never got to hold?  

How do you repay betrayal so deep it rots you from the inside out?

I sat beside the dress, still clutching it like it might disappear. The mirror caught me in its frame...this version of me I barely recognized.

No tears, atleast not today.

I reached for the hairdryer and turned it on, the noise filling the silence in my head. My reflection rippled slightly from the heat, but she stayed.

I was playing wife again, I knew the role well. But this time, I was the one holding the script.

I'd sit among the powerful now, peel back everything Zane thought he built, inch by inch.  

As for Sibil-she was just another pawn...a shadow I'd outshine.

Today was Monday and the headlines would call me a Callahan.

But I'd always know better.

Few minutes later a knock was heard on the door. Three sharp taps and no hesitation or warmth to it. The door creaked open, and in walked a woman who looked like she ironed her soul along with her blazer.

She was tall, thin, and clinically neat. Her bun looked like it was spun from tension, and her heels clicked with precision.

Every step she took radiated the type of energy that scared interns and silenced boardrooms. 

I'd bet money her calendar was color-coded down to her breathing schedule and if caffeine were a person, it would be her-sharp, bitter, and unsettlingly efficient.

"Ms. Aria"  she said, her voice crisp, sterile, and lacking any unnecessary syllables. "Mr. Callahan sent me to assist." 

Of course he did.

I gave her a slow once-over, lifting a brow. I wasn't in the mood for any kind of "assisting", but I nodded anyway, mostly out of curiosity to see just how far her professionalism would go before she cracked.

She approached, holding the dress up like it was a fragile national treasure instead of a tool in a high-stakes game. 

"You're to wear this, with your hair styled down, makeup bold but tasteful. The press will be in attendance."

Naturally. A Callahan wouldn't dare miss a good headline.

She stepped behind me and began helping me into the dress with all the emotion of a tax audit. Her fingers were quick and precise, like she was working with a mannequin and not a woman with a pulse.

"You'll need to smile, engage, appear approachable but untouchable," she continued. "As his wife, you are expected to-"

"What's your name?" I cut in, flat and quiet.

She hesitated, probably not used to being interrupted mid-script. "Anna" 

"Anna" I repeated, tasting it slowly like it was a foreign flavor I hadn't decided to like yet. "Who's going to be at this event? What am I walking into?"

Because if you have to play the game, you gotta know the game.

She paused, visibly weighing how much to say. "I don't have direct access to the full guest list, but I know it's a Callahan-hosted internal celebration. Majority of the family will be there."

The Callahans.

The air shifted.

I didn't move, but something in me folded, my stomach churned.

Even after three years, after all the work I'd done to build this steel version of myself, my chest tightened with the kind of dread that doesn't announce itself-it just arrives and settles. 

Zane could be there. That name alone was enough to make the polished surface I'd worked so hard on crack at the edges.

He might see me. The new me. Or maybe he'd just see her again-the girl who bled on cold marble. 

I swallowed hard, the lump forming too fast to hide. My breathing slowed, restricted.

You're fine, Aria...you've survived worse, I always told myself.

I stared ahead, unblinking. My reflection caught in the mirror. This version of me wore emerald and armor, but under it, the scar boiled. 

Then she snapped her fingers close to my face.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

I nodded fast.

Anna kept talking,listing things,outlining my role, naming expectations and movements like they were chess pieces.

But I wasn't listening anymore.

Her voice had faded to background noise, just another layer of static in a room already too full of ghosts.

Now I'm dressed, my hair curled, makeup soft...minimal, just the way I liked it. I've never been one for layers of foundation or blinding highlighter. 

It always made me feel like I was on a stage I didn't audition for. I didn't need to be a spectacle...I just needed to be seen enough. 

Y'know, precision over parade.

Anna, Kane's assistant, led the way through the long corridor, her voice flat and factual as she rattled off the rest of the day's schedule. 

I wasn't really listening-something about walking exactly seven seconds behind Kane, nodding at specific board members, avoiding eye contact with a certain cousin who apparently bites with his eyes.

Her voice droned like a hallway monitor who took her job too seriously.

Then she stopped talking.

I looked up and met his gaze.

Kane stood ahead of us, still as a statue. Framed by the golden light from the massive chandelier above him. Dressed in a tailored white suit so sharp it could've cut glass.

White.

My stomach twisted, I felt nauseous and just stopped walking.

It was subtle, just one step back-but I felt it in my whole body like an alarm bell.

I couldn't breathe.

His brow creased slightly. "You're alright?"

My voice came out quieter than I expected. "Why are you wearing white?"

He didn't miss a beat. "You said you wouldn't wear white and I agreed. I didn't say I wouldn't. It's my favorite color."

Of course it is.

Of course it's his favorite. Because why wouldn't a man like him wear the color of ghosts and innocence and blood? He could wear it because it didn't haunt him.

My ears rang so hard,I felt like it could burst, I blinked-and suddenly the world wasn't the hallway anymore.

It was white marble floors stained red.

It was my body curled on them, bleeding.

It was a scream stuck somewhere between my lungs and my throat.

The hallucination struck so fast, I couldn't stop it, I couldn't reason it away.

The white suit wasn't white anymore.

He stepped forward, a quiet movement, and reached out, probably to steady me. But the moment his fingers neared mine, I slapped his hand away.

Hard.

He looked surprised, but didn't step back.

"Water..." Anna said curtly, rushing to get it.

I stood there trying to ground myself...to claw my way back to reality. My breath came in short, shallow waves. My vision blurred just enough to make everything feel unreal. I counted the seconds in my head...five in...hold...seven out.

Then he had the audacity to smirk.

"Maybe you're not fit for the job," he said, like it was some clever observation and not a calculated dig.

I took the water Anna handed me. My grip was tight enough to crack the glass if I pushed harder. I wanted to throw it at him, drench that smug suit, then he'd go change. But I didn't, he might have more white suits to taunt me with so I swallowed instead.

Straightened my spine and smoothed my dress.

Then I nodded to Anna like nothing had happened. "I'm fine, thank you"

I turned back to him and smiledcool and contained, just enough to make it look natural.

"Apologies. I have a condition sometimes. The air-" I waved a dismissive hand "gets too tight."

He didn't buy it, I couldn't care less, I wasn't trying to convince him, but myself.

He nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on me. "Professionalism suits you," he said, voice flat. "Most of the time."

I looked him square in the face, then tilted my head.

"Nothing will go wrong, Mr. Callahan" I said, calm as ever. "I'll make sure of it."

ARIA'S POV 

His hand rested just behind my back, not quite touching just hovering there with practiced poise. Everything with Kane was always calculated.  

We descended the grand staircase like two perfectly sculpted mannequins on display.

At the entrance, the limousine waited.

And then the chaos began.  

Flashes burst like tiny explosions. The moment the doors opened, we were swallowed by the frenzy.  

Reporters' voices clashed like a choir of vultures, mics jutted toward us like weapons, and bodyguards swarmed around us in tight formation.  

I kept my face steady. Kane did too.  

But then inside the car, everything softened. Not emotionally-just acoustically.  

He sat beside me in that damned white suit, like sin wrapped in virtue, and stared out the opposite window.

I leaned against my own window, forehead resting on the cool glass. I still hadn't forgiven myself for almost breaking down earlier. Over a color, a flipping suit, a damned memory.

Oh how pathetic.  

If white could disarm me, what would happen when I saw Zane and Sibil?  

Would I fold in front of them? Would they see the cracks in my skin, the old blood beneath my nails?

I rubbed at my temple. A headache brewed behind my eyes.  

Without a word, I leaned forward and popped open the minibar, fingers curling around a glass bottle.  

"Care for one?" I asked without looking at him.

A pause...then he nodded.  

I poured two. We sipped in silence.

Then I cleared my throat and tilted my head toward him. "You know..." I said, tone dry, "usually I don't have to ask my clients what to expect at these little charades. It's supposed to be in the brief."

He turned slightly toward me, still impassive. "Expect anything" he replied.

"Helpful" muttered, then took another sip. "And who's going to be there? Anyone worth making eye contact with?"

"Most of the core Callahan board..." he said. "Some family and few people who think they matter more than they actually do."

I nodded slowly, glass still pressed to my lips.  

But that wasn't the real question.  

The real one was lodged in my throat. I swallowed hard. The alcohol burned a little on the way down.

Then I exhaled, and before I could stop myself I blurted "Is Zane going to be there?"

"Yes." 

My heart dropped, like something important I couldn't retrieve anymore.  

My stomach flipped literally, that nauseating roll of dread, memories spiraling behind my eyes.  

I closed them, just for a second.  

⁠•⁠•⁠ 

KANE'S POV 

The dress looked better on her than I'd imagined when I picked it. An emerald bold dress, it matched her eyes.  

Her insistence on no white had amused me more than it should've. Though frankly, she would've looked just as stunning in a white floral gown-if not more. But I followed instructions...this is business anyways.

But then she almost fainted.  

Because I wore white.  

That... was a new one.  

I've known high-strung women, sure. I've entertained flings with actresses, heiresses, women with ten-step skincare routines and God complexes. But I've never had one try to collapse over my wardrobe.  

And now I had to live with her for a full week. Not just live but appear beside her, parade her, play husband.  

To a woman who, frankly, talks too damn much for someone claiming to be "professional."

Compliments are unnecessary; they invite expectation...she didn't need to know I noticed.  

No makeup, now that surprised me. In this world, it's a weapon. Most women use it as shield. She walked out bare-faced, confident and defiant like she wanted to be studied, not adorned.  

And then she asked about Zane.

The moment she did, the air shifted, I felt it. Like she'd been holding her breath this entire time and finally cracked open the seal.  

"Yes" I answered.

She stiffened, it was subtle, but I caught it. Her grip tightened around her glass... And then-mask.  

That carefully rehearsed, stoic expression, as if my answer hadn't rattled something in her ribcage.  

For someone hired to be untouchable, she's got a lot of buried fire.  

The moment the limo door opened, the sound hit us like a wave-shutters clicking, voices rising, that chaotic hum of flashing cameras and greedy questions. New York's elite, as always, feeding on the spectacle.

I stepped out first, unfazed. I'd done this more times than I could count.

Aria didn't hesitate. She stepped out like she'd been born for this...elegant, composed, her chin lifted with that performance polish she wore like a shield. That green dress? It clung to her like second skin, every movement fluid and rehearsed, her smile was poised.

Then someone spoke.

"That's Zane Callahan's ex-wife."

It hit like a match to gasoline. Another voice picked it up...then another. And within seconds, it was the only thing anyone could hear.

"Zane Callahan's ex-wife-"

"She was married to Zane-"

"Is that her?"

Their attention snapped onto her with a vicious intensity. Every camera turned, every mic lunged toward her mouth. They swarmed like they'd been starved for blood, and she just froze.

I saw it.

The pink bloom of embarrassment painted her cheeks. She tried to keep walking, but they boxed her in. Their words weren't questions anymore; they were accusations.... y'know prods. Like she'd committed some sin simply by showing up.

And maybe she had.

Her shoulders dipped, not much, but enough. Her eyes flicked from flash to flash, mouth pressed into a tight, unreadable line. She wasn't breathing right-short, sharp inhales like she was choking on the attention.

My security tried to step in. But they were seconds behind.

So I stepped in.

"Let's be clear," I said, my voice slicing through the chaos. "Aria Callahan is no one's ex. She is my wife now. Whatever fantasy you've all clung to-let it go."

Silence, then a low ripple of shifting attention.

That was all I needed.

The guards surged forward, surrounding her. She gasped, barely audible-but I heard it. Her chest rose sharply, and her eyes snapped to mine, startled. Like she hadn't expected me to say it.

"Why marry your brother's ex-wife?" a reporter shouted.

I glanced at him, calmly. "Because she upgraded."

The cameras flashed harder at that.

I slipped my hand behind her back, firm, guiding her forward. She moved, barely, her legs stiff like her knees didn't trust her.

I didn't look at her again.

I just walked, the guards tight around us. Reporters still screaming for a piece.

And Aria?

She was unraveling beneath that perfect smile.

•⁠•⁠ 

ARIA'S POV 

The doors shut behind us with, sealing us into the quiet opulence of the event's entrance hall. The low hum of voices, clinking glasses, and the occasional flash of a camera faded into the background, but the heat burning in my chest didn't.

I turned to him sharply.

"What the hell was that?"

My heart was pounding from the rush outside, the flashes, the swarm, their voices - Zane Callahan's ex-wife, like a label burned into my skin.

Kane didn't blink, he just stood there, perfectly put together in that immaculate white suit.

"Why shouldn't I have?" he said, voice flat, almost bored.

I stared at him. I mean really stared at him, like maybe if I looked hard enough, I'd find the screw loose behind his god-tier composure.

"Are you-? Do you even realize what you just did?" I hissed. Some people paused, eavesdropping, others pretending not to stare.

"This isn't just some power move, Kane" I said, lowering my voice. "We have a contract, a fucking countdown. In less than seven days, this ends. So explain to me...how exactly do you plan to walk this back?"

He finally looked at me.. "Whether I spoke or not, your face would've been plastered on every magazine cover by dawn," he said.

I opened my mouth to reply, but he continued, calm and calculated.

"Now they know," he said. "Zane knows."

And just like that, my anger hit the wall.

His name still felt like bile in my mouth.

My fingers curled against the smooth fabric of my gown. I didn't say anything for a second. I just turned my face away and adjusted the bodice of the dress like it mattered, like it could give me back even an inch of control.

I took a deep breath, then I nodded.

And maybe... maybe it was a good thing that Zane knew.

I inhaled slowly, squaring my shoulders, and allowing myself a small, fleeting smile. No one would take this moment away from me, not the cameras, not the whispers, and definitely not the ghost of a man I buried three years ago.

Slowly I slipped my hand into Kane's, and we walked in together.

Besides...

Kane was richer, smarter. And God forgive me for admitting it-even better looking than Zane ever was. That alone should be enough for tonight.

That had to count for something.

That had to sting.