Chapter 60
Chapter 60
The air in the safehouse office was tense with smoke, half-drunk whiskey, and a silence none of them wanted to break. Callum sat at the head of the table, eyes narrowed on the black screen of his phone, jaw tense. Julian leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, while Alex stood pouring himself another drink, his features unreadable.
“We need to confirm whether Rafe’s information was a plant,” Julian said finally, voice low. “And there’s only one person who benefits if we start a war with the Prestleys without proof.”
“I think the only way to find out would be to ask Milanna herself.” Alex said, not missing a beat.
Callum looked up. “Then I’ll call her.”
Julian gave him a look. “You really think she’ll tell you anything straight? She’s been twisting the narrative from the second she found out about Ariana.”
“She wants something from me,” Callum muttered. “She always does.”
“So what’s the plan?” Alex asked, sipping the whiskey. “Charm her? Threaten her?”
Callum unlocked his phone, thumbing through his contacts until he landed on Milanna Prestley. “Both.”
He pressed Call, and the line rang twice before she answered—velvet wrapped in smoke and poison.
“Well, well. Callum Guerrero finally calls me back.”
“I want to know if Rafe was yours.”
A dramatic pause. “Is that how we’re starting this conversation?”
“I’m not in the mood for your games.”
“Oh, but I’m always in the mood for yours,” she purred. “I’ll tell you what you want, but only in person.”
“Milanna—”
“I’m flying into L.A. tomorrow for a gala. It’s a charity thing, high society, you know the type. Wear something black. Be at my hotel by seven. I want you on my arm.”
Callum didn’t answer immediately. Julian was already shaking his head from across the room.
Milanna added sweetly, “Unless, of course, you don’t care if the Prestleys come after your precious little redhead.”
His grip tightened on the phone.
“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ll be there.”
She laughed, low and triumphant. “I knew you missed me.”
The line clicked off.
Julian cursed. “Tell me you’re not doing this.”
Callum stood, sliding the phone back into his pocket. “She’s the only lead we have. If she wants to play, I’ll play.”
Alex sighed. “Just don’t let her win.”
⸻
The Next Evening, at Milanna’s hotel suite, Milanna opened the door herself, dressed in a champagne satin robe and a satisfied smile. Her long legs were crossed as she stepped back to let Callum in. The suite was lavish—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking L.A., a table set with champagne, and a black tuxedo laid out for him on the bed.
“You didn’t think I’d let you wear just anything, did you?” she teased.
Callum ignored the robe and the exposed skin underneath it. “Where’s the information?”
She walked past him, her perfume clinging to the air like sin. “Patience, baby. We’ll talk after the gala.”
“I didn’t come to play dress-up.”
She looked over her shoulder. “And yet you’re still here.”
She got dressed and they left for the gala.
The gala was held at a private estate tucked into Beverly Hills, shielded from the street by walls and manicured hedges. Callum’s presence at Milanna’s side turned every head. She wore a blood-red gown that clung to her like second skin, and the photographers loved it—especially when she kept leaning in, whispering things into his ear, her fingers brushing his lapel like they belonged there.
They posed for photos together. She pressed herself into his side, smiled sweetly, laughed like they were lovers in a second-chance romance. And Callum, for the sake of the game, let her.
“You’re doing well,” she murmured during a slow dance, her fingers brushing down his chest. “You almost look like you still want me.”
He stared down at her. “Give me the name, Milanna.”
“Oh, baby,” she purred, “I’ll give you everything… when the night is over.”
By the time they left the ballroom and the flash of cameras, she leaned in and placed a slow, intimate kiss on his jaw—calculated, perfectly angled for the press.
Click.
And then another one. She whispered something into his ear and wrapped her arm around his neck like a lover clinging to a long-lost flame.
Click.
Callum didn’t flinch. But behind his eyes, something coiled tightly.
He was playing a role—but he hated every second of it.
⸻
The Next Morning, The headlines hit before dawn.
“CALLUM GUERRERO & MILANNA PRESTLEY: BACK ON?”
“SPOTTED: Billionaire Nightclub King Rekindles Romance With Prestley Heiress”
“Kiss, Whispers, and A Night Out: Where’s The Wife?”
The pictures were damning—him looking down at her during the dance, her lips grazing his jaw, their arms around each other, her pressed flush to his chest in front of a hundred flashing cameras.
They were everywhere—TMZ, Page Six, gossip blogs. Every headline screamed betrayal.
And across the country in Manhattan, Ariana opened her laptop to a picture of her husband being kissed by the woman who had once threatened her life.