KANE'S POV
The room buzzed with low laughter and conversations, but none of it reached me fully. I stood there, half-listening to some minor shareholder ramble about growth charts and quarterly figures, but my eyes followed her.
Aria.
I hadn’t meant to say that much about how we "met." I planned to keep the fake story short, crisp, strategic—like everything else I do.
But the moment the ladies turned to me with that amused sparkle in their eyes, expecting charm, warmth, love... something slipped.
She looked at me with that grin, practically daring me to talk. So I did. And I overspoke. Rambling, even. I don’t ramble.
She knew exactly what she was doing, tossing the story back to me like that. And I took the bait, like an idiot. My brain still relished the memory of her eyes widening just slightly when the old women started "aww"-ing over my fake sentimental ramblings.
Then she stood. "I need a drink.." she’d said lightly, brushing my hand off her back as she slipped away. I didn’t miss the tension in her smile, or how the moment her back turned, her shoulders slumped ever so slightly. She was exhausted from the performance, hell so was I.
I watched her weave through the crowd with grace that wasn’t entirely practiced—some of it was just who she was. She didn’t belong in this world, not really. And yet, she wore it like second skin...maybe too well.
I took a slow sip of my champagne. Tonight was just the beginning. We still had the stockholders meeting, the next few public appearances, and the inevitable storm that would follow once the real Callahan devils slithered out of the woodwork.
Zane was already watching and I knew it.
My jaw clenched.
I’d said what I said because I meant for him to hear it. Because this time, Aria wasn’t someone’s pawn.
••
ARIA'S POV
Sibil’s smile was thin, her tone soaked in fake warmth.
"Oh hey, sister..." she cooed, her voice light and laced with mock surprise. "Didn’t see you there."
A splash of red, cold and sticky substance hit my dress, crawling down the emerald fabric like shame. I sucked in a breath, but it caught halfway, stuck in the back of my throat.
My jaw clenched as I looked down at the stain, then up into her smug little face.
It wasn’t the drink, not really. It was what it stood for.
It was the echo of my past bleeding back into my present, in the form of a girl who once stood beside me, promising sisterhood. Then she buried a dagger in my spine while climbing into my husband’s bed.
Sibil stepped forward with faux concern. "Oh no, here, let me—" Her fingers reached for my dress and I snapped.
I slapped her hand away without thinking.
"Don’t touch me." The words came out cold, more breath than voice.
She gasped like I’d slapped her face. "I was just trying to help.." she said, her eyes round and innocent. But I saw the curl in her lips, the little twitch that meant she’d already won.
My heart thundered in my chest, my palms itched. The room swayed gently, but not from movement, but memory.
I didn’t want to be here, not anymore. I need air, I need distance and I need my fucking walls back.
"God, you’re still so dramatic" she muttered, just loud enough.
I shoved her, not even enough to leave a bruise or make her fall.
But she fell.
Like a performance she’d rehearsed in her mirror for years, she let herself tumble back into a table and glass clattered, a centerpiece toppled.
Gasps erupted, the sharp inhale of an audience.
Suddenly there were arms helping her up, hands patting her back, murmurs of concern floating in the air.
"She— I accidentally poured my drink over her dress, I apologized–” Sibil stammered, her eyes glistening, voice quivering, pointing up at me like I was a monster. "And then she pushed me. I told her it was an accident—"
I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe even.
The room turned on me, quick and quiet.
I felt the burn of their stares, their murmurs. Judgement swirled like perfume in the air.
I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
My cheeks burned from fury. The helpless kind that sinks its claws in your chest.
It was happening again. The public spectacle. The whispers.
Only this time I wasn’t bleeding on cold marble floors at least not visibly.
But inside, I was bleeding all over again.
I remembered the moans, the way their bodies moved in rhythm on the bed I picked out. I remembered lying alone, my womb torn open, my child dying quietly inside me.
The pain never left.
Three years, and it still shredded me open like it happened yesterday.
Sibil sniffled, then dropped another fake tear.
And I?
I just stood there.
I didn’t cry, I didn’t run, there was no chance for me to even.
And then, the man of the night arrived.
Zane Callahan.
My heart clenched before my brain could form the thought. It was like the room folded into itself, time lurching forward and dragging me by the throat. And there he was; towering, confident and composed.
God, he looked the same. That same self-righteous stride, that polished smugness painted across his face like it was art, like it was deserved. The devil in a tux, slick as ever.
And the moment his eyes landed on the scene...on me—I felt it all crash back in waves. Every echo of pain, of blood, of betrayal.
He walked over to Sibil, concern in his expression. "Baby, are you okay?" he asked her, soft and fake, as if the world hadn’t seen his fangs. He tucked her hair behind her ear, and I watched his fingers, those same ones that once traced promises into my skin—play the part of protector to the woman who shredded me.
I wanted to scream.
To claw him open, to ask him why, to spit in his face and ask if he remembered me bleeding.
But I stood frozen.
Sibil leaned into him like a damn actress, whimpering, her mascara untouched and perfect. Her eyes darted to mine just once, just long enough to twist the knife—and then the performance resumed.
And then he turned.
Our eyes locked.
The space between us? It could’ve been two inches or two galaxies—it still wouldn’t have stopped the way his stare punched through me. And I stared back, mouth dry, pain pulsing behind my ribs like a war drum.
Then the finger came, pointing and accusatory.
"You’ve got some fucking nerve showing up here" he said, voice loud enough for every pair of ears to lean in. "What the hell are you even doing here? What are you looking for, you whore?"
The word cracked through the room like lightning. I flinched inwardly but kept my body still.
My breath caught in my chest, sharp and ragged, a silent sob that never made it out.
The tears welled and I blinked once and slowly they fell.
I didn't scream and breakdown. I just felt my soul leaking out through my eyes.
And all I could do was look at him.
This same man.
This man I loved.
This man I waited for...prayed for.
This man I built a future with, dreamt of nurseries, laughters and quiet mornings in bed, this man whose child I carried.
Whose child I lost.
He looked at me like I was filth.
And maybe I was, or maybe I just became what he made of me.
The noise blurred, my chest heaved and my fingers trembled.
And then a voice came.
"Step away from her."
Zane froze for a second, and I knew without turning that it was Kane. That voice was carved from ice, cold and detached.
Kane stepped closer, posture composed like always, but his eyes were steel and deadly quiet.
"Your manners..." he said, each word like a knife, "continue to disgust me to this very day."
Zane turned as their eyes locked, a silent battle.
He didn’t break me.
But God, did he come close to doing so.