Chapter 70

Chapter 70
The morning sun filtered through gauzy curtains, casting pale gold shadows across the penthouse floor. Ariana stood by the expansive window in her robe, coffee growing cold in her hand, the faintest tremor in her fingers betraying the whirlwind in her chest. Her phone buzzed again—another message. The same number. No name. No contact.

You don’t learn, do you?.

She’d stared at those five words for almost ten minutes before locking the phone again and slipping it into her pocket.

She hadn’t shown Callum the first message. She didn’t show him this one either.

Down the hallway, she heard him humming softly under his breath as he emerged from the bathroom, toweling his hair dry. There was a calm to him this morning—a rare calm. It was the first time in weeks he hadn’t woken up already on edge, already planning a dozen things at once. Last night, he had come undone in her arms. This morning, he was quieter, softer, pulling her into his arms and murmuring something against her shoulder about being exactly where he wanted to be.

She didn’t know how to shatter that peace.

So she didn’t.

Not yet.

“Charlie’s appointment is at noon,” Ariana said after a moment, glancing over at him. “She asked if we’d both come.”

Callum’s eyes met hers. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything sweetie.”

He stepped closer and pressed a kiss to her temple, then her cheek, then her lips. Ariana closed her eyes and leaned into it. She wanted to freeze that moment, to pretend they weren’t standing at the edge of something neither of them could name yet.

Her phone buzzed again. Another message.

You should’ve walked away when you had the chance. I won’t keep warning you.

Callum didn’t see. He was already stepping away, already pulling on a shirt, already moving toward the kitchen to grab the breakfast Elena had left out for them. Ariana stood rooted in place, chest tightening.

She slipped the phone into her drawer, face down.

⸻

The visit to the hospital was warm, emotional—almost normal. Charlie lit up the moment they walked into her room, teasing Ariana about how she should’ve worn something other than “emotional damage on your face” as makeup.

“You look like you’ve been crying for a week,” Charlie said bluntly, patting the bed beside her. “Which I would normally ignore, but you’re kind of bad at hiding stuff.”

“I haven’t been crying for a week,” Ariana lied, sitting down with a shaky smile. “Maybe… just a day or two.”

Charlie narrowed her eyes. “Do I need to kick Callum’s ass?”

Callum, who had been leaning against the doorframe smiling at them both, raised a hand. “If I’ve earned it, I’ll take it.”

Charlie pointed a warning finger at him, half-joking. “You better not hurt her again. I’ve seen what she looks like heartbroken, and I don’t like it.”

Ariana blinked back tears. “He didn’t… He’s not the reason I look like this.”

But she didn’t explain. She couldn’t. Not with Callum in the room. Not with the messages sitting in her drawer, waiting to suffocate her.

Later, after a light lunch and a visit from the physio team to begin preparing Charlie for her therapy schedule, they returned to the penthouse. Julian called Callum away before they even got to the elevator, something about a new shipment at the club that needed his immediate attention.

Ariana kissed him goodbye. He held her longer than necessary, his fingers threading into her hair. “I’ll only be a couple hours. Don’t go anywhere without telling someone, okay?”

She nodded. “I’ll be here.”

She wasn’t.

⸻

Some minutes later, Ariana stepped into her room for the first time in over a week. Dust lay in a thin film across the countertops. The quiet was oppressive, yet familiar.

She stood in the doorway of her bedroom and allowed the silence to settle around her like armor.

Only then did she take the phone from her purse and scroll back through the messages. There were now five.

You think love will save you?

It won’t.

He can’t protect you.

Run.

Enjoy your last days and leave Callum alone. You both don’t belong together.

Her fingers tightened around the phone.

Something told her that if she showed Callum now, he would burn the entire city down to find who was behind it. And maybe that was what they wanted.

A reaction. To distract him.

Chaos.

She needed time to think.

Time to figure out how far this threat really extended.

She sent one message.

Whoever you are, If you’re watching, know this—I’m not afraid of you.

⸻

Across the city, Callum stood behind the bar of Cage, staring at the message Julian had just received from one of their inside men near the Prestley compound.

He handed the phone to Julian, jaw tight. “Read that.”

Julian scanned the message, then looked up slowly. “They’re trying to bait you.”

Callum nodded. “They don’t think I’ll retaliate while Ariana’s still in the picture. They think she makes me soft.”

Julian’s voice lowered. “They’re not entirely wrong. She’s your weakness. Everyone knows it now.”

Callum’s knuckles whitened on the edge of the bar. “She’s not my weakness, Julian. She’s the only reason I haven’t buried every last one of them.”

“Then you better figure out your next move fast,” Julian said grimly. “Because this war? It’s not waiting for you to catch up.”

⸻

Back at the apartment, Ariana sat on the edge of her bed and replayed the moments in her head—the gala, the kiss with Milanna, the fight with Callum, the tears, the truth.

She had never been this deep before. Not with Liam. Not even with herself.

And now, with the shadows creeping closer, she didn’t know how to protect any of it.

Her phone lit up again.

This time, it wasn’t a message.

It was a video.

She pressed play.

The screen showed her stepping out of the hospital earlier that day.

And Callum.

Walking right beside her.

From across the street, zoomed in.

A single line of text appeared as the video ended:

Soon all these smiling will turn to premium tears.

Ariana’s breath caught in her throat.

Her first instinct was to call Callum.

Her second was to delete the video and pretend none of this was happening.

She did neither.

Instead, she saved the video.

Then reached for the burner phone she had taken from the drawer.

She dialed the only number she knew might give her answers.

The phone rang once. Twice.

Then someone answered.

“You shouldn’t be calling this line,” came a female voice.

Ariana’s voice didn’t shake. “Then you shouldn’t be sending me death threats.”

There was silence.

Then a soft, amused chuckle.

“Oh, sweetheart,” the voice said. “We haven’t even started yet.”

The threat isn’t just closer—it’s personal.