Chapter 62

Chapter 62
The hours dragged.

Ariana sat on the edge of the couch, legs curled under her, the silk robe she wore barely remembered as she stared through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Callum’s penthouse. The city outside buzzed like a living thing—horns, sirens, laughter, engines—but inside, it was a suffocating silence.

The headlines wouldn’t stop spinning in her mind. “Manhattan’s Kingpin and Heiress of the West: Callum Guerrero and Milanna Prestley Spark Dating Rumors in L.A.”

That one had a picture of Milanna’s manicured hand resting on Callum’s chest. Her head tilted toward his like they shared a secret.

Ariana had seen enough.

She didn’t cry. Not yet. Maybe not at all. Instead, she had gone eerily still, choosing silence over reaction. Choosing to feel… nothing. Because feeling anything else would mean admitting she had allowed herself to fall.

That morning, when she woke and reached for Callum—still half asleep, still believing he was beside her—only to find the bed cold and empty, she had instinctively picked up her phone to call. And then she saw the headline. The photos. Milanna’s knowing smile. Callum’s hand on her back.

Something inside Ariana quietly splintered.

Now, night was creeping in, Manhattan painted in gold and cobalt shadows, and she hadn’t left the penthouse. She hadn’t eaten. Had barely spoken. Elena had tried to coax her into having lunch, then tea, but Ariana had waved her off gently and locked herself in the guest room just to breathe.

Charlie had called once—her voice still groggy from medication—and Ariana had held it together just long enough to keep her reassured. “Everything’s okay,” she had lied. “Callum’s out of town for business. I’m just a little tired.”

Tired didn’t cover it.

She was drowning under the weight of not knowing. Not knowing why Callum had gone. Not knowing why he was with Milanna. Not knowing if he had touched her the way he touched Ariana, kissed her with the reverence that still haunted Ariana’s lips.

Why didn’t he call?

She paced now, barefoot, arms folded tightly over her chest. Her phone buzzed once, and she lunged for it like a lifeline—only to find a text from Elena, checking if she wanted dinner.

She didn’t reply.

Instead, Ariana drifted to Callum’s study. She had only been in there once before, when he’d shown her some old family photos tucked into the corner of a dusty bookshelf. Tonight, the room felt heavier. Dimmer. Full of shadows and secrets.

She ran her fingers along the mahogany desk. The scent of his cologne lingered faintly in the air, and it nearly undid her.

Was I just another secret to him?

That question had been clawing its way into her thoughts ever since she saw the photos. Her hands trembled slightly as she picked up a leather-bound journal from the shelf. It was blank inside, a decoy—or a forgotten gift—but it reminded her just how much she still didn’t know about the man she was beginning to love.

A man who had married her under the pretense of protection. A man who had sworn to keep her safe, but had told her only half-truths about the enemies that lurked beyond the glittering walls of their world.

And now he was halfway across the country with a woman whose father had orchestrated the first major crack in their fragile peace.

Ariana didn’t know how long she stood there before her phone buzzed again.

This time, it was Callum.

Callum: Landed in Manhattan. On my way home. Please wait for me.

Her heart lurched. She read it twice, three times. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, but she didn’t respond. She couldn’t—not yet. Not until she saw his face.

She turned off the lights in the study and returned to the living room, standing in the center of the space that had once felt like a safe cocoon but now felt unfamiliar and cold.

Did he expect things to go back to normal?

Did he think showing up would erase the image of Milanna’s lipstick-stained smirk and Callum’s hand at her waist?

Ariana hugged herself tighter.

The sound of the elevator chimed down the hall.

Her heart skipped.

She didn’t move.

A second later, the penthouse door opened with a quiet click.

Footsteps. Heavy. Measured. Familiar.

Callum stepped into view, wearing a black suit still wrinkled from travel, tie undone, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His eyes locked on her immediately—relief, worry, and something darker flashing across his face.

“Ariana…”

She didn’t speak. Just watched him.

He crossed the room slowly, as if approaching something delicate—something breakable. “I was going to call you. I meant to, I—”

She lifted a hand, silencing him.

“Don’t,” she said softly. Her voice cracked, and she hated that it did. “Don’t lie. Don’t try to protect me from what I already saw.”

Callum stopped a few feet away from her, jaw clenched.

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

The words were a low vow, quiet and rough like gravel.

“I don’t care about her,” he added. “It was a move. A play. That’s all it was.”

Ariana’s throat tightened. “You didn’t even tell me you were going out with her knowing fully well that there’s no way the media wouldn’t create a frenzy around you both.”

“I couldn’t,” he said, stepping closer. “It wasn’t safe. I didn’t know who was watching. Julian and Alex both thought—”

“I’m not asking for clearance,” she snapped, the pain finally bubbling to the surface. “I’m not some fragile porcelain doll you get to put on a shelf while you do damage control.”

Callum’s gaze softened, guilt etched deep in every line of his face. “You’re right.”

Silence.

The city buzzed around them, oblivious to the war unraveling in the space between two hearts.

“You made me care,” she whispered. “You pulled me into this world and made me trust you. And I did, Callum. I trusted you. But when I saw those pictures… I felt stupid. Like I was the only one who didn’t realize what this really was.”

He stepped forward and cupped her face in his hands. “This is real. You are not a pawn. You are the one good thing in my life that doesn’t come with blood on its hands.”

Tears burned her eyes, and she closed them, trying to breathe.

“I just needed you to tell me the truth,” she said.

“I will,” he promised. “Everything. I just wasn’t thinking in the right direction at that point. No more lies.”

Ariana opened her eyes and searched his face, looking for any crack, any sign that he meant it.

But all she saw was exhaustion and remorse—and something like love, buried deep.

She nodded once, barely.

“I won’t.”

He pulled her into his arms, and for the first time in what felt like days, she let herself fall into him, aching and fragile, but still holding on.

Still hoping.