Forty eight

Forty eight
Fallon
The energy of a launch event was electric — bright lights, loud music, and the hum of conversations between the who’s-who of the industry. It was the kind of night where everything sparkled: the clothes, the jewelry, the champagne — even the air itself felt charged with anticipation.
And as I stepped into the sprawling venue for Lumière’s highly anticipated product launch, I felt something I hadn’t in weeks.
Excitement.
This was my world.
Not the cold marble floors of Reid’s mansion. Not the high-stakes dinner parties or whispered conversations about mergers. Not the pressure of being the perfect wife in a marriage built on carefully constructed lies.
Here, I was Fallon Prescott Callahan — the influencer. The brand. The woman everyone wanted to know.
And tonight? I was ready to shine.
My phone buzzed nonstop with notifications as soon as I posted my fit check.
The dress was a showstopper — soft gold silk that draped like liquid, the hem brushing my ankles while the thigh-high slit made sure no one dared call it too modest. Paired with strappy heels and a sleek, low bun, I looked like I belonged on the red carpet.
I knew how to make an entrance. And the cameras knew it too.
Flashbulbs burst the second I stepped onto the carpet, my signature smile already in place. I posed with practiced ease — a tilt of the head, a flash of teeth, a subtle shift of my body so the slit in my dress caught just the right amount of attention.
The cameras loved me.
And I loved them right back.
Inside, the venue was transformed into a dream. The space glittered with golden light and soft, ethereal decor — illuminated product displays and towering floral arrangements that looked like art installations. Servers glided through the crowd with crystal glasses of champagne, and the air buzzed with laughter and the steady click of heels on marble floors.
I spotted familiar faces immediately. Fellow influencers. Brand reps. Even a couple of celebrities pretending not to watch the rest of us.
It was a dance we all knew well — see and be seen. Smile and sparkle. Capture everything, but make it look effortless.
“Fallon!”
I turned to see Riley making her way toward me, her pastel pink suit a bold contrast in a sea of gowns. She looked stunning, her platinum waves perfectly tousled and her makeup sharp enough to cut.
We hugged, already pulling out our phones for a quick selfie before we even finished saying hello.
“You look insane,” she whispered as we posed, both of us already perfecting our angles.
“So do you,” I shot back, laughing. “Let’s find the best light and make some magic.”
For the next hour, I was in my zone.
We filmed product unboxings and gushed over the new collection, found every aesthetically pleasing corner of the venue for impromptu photoshoots, and swapped tips on the best filters for golden-hour lighting. I did a quick walkthrough on my stories, my voice animated and bright.
“Okay, guys, Lumière did not come to play with this launch,” I said, twirling so my dress caught the light. “I’m obsessed. The packaging? The vibe? 10/10.”
The comments poured in instantly.
“You’re glowing!!!”
“Living for this dress!!”
“Ugh, take us with you!”
It was a rush — the instant feedback, the flood of validation. This was where I thrived. The connection, the creativity, the control.
Here, no one cared about mergers or power plays. No one was waiting for me to slip.
Here, I knew who I was.
But even in the middle of it all, reality had a way of creeping in.
It happened when Riley and I took a break in one of the lounge areas, sipping champagne and scrolling through the flood of comments and mentions.
“Where’s Mr. Callahan?” Riley asked, eyebrow raised as she skimmed through the replies on my latest post. “Your fans are obsessed with you two. #CallahanGoals is trending again.”
I kept my face perfectly neutral, even as my stomach twisted.
“Busy with work,” I said lightly, taking a slow sip of my drink. “You know how it is.”
She nodded, distracted by another incoming notification. But the question lingered, settling into my skin like an itch I couldn’t quite scratch.
Even here — where I was supposed to be free — he still found a way to invade my thoughts.
By the time the official event wrapped up, the crowd had thinned — but the night was far from over. An invitation-only afterparty had already started at a private rooftop lounge, and Riley was practically bouncing with excitement.
“Come on,” she pleaded, tugging on my arm. “It’s gonna be epic. And you need to be there.”
For a second, I wavered. The idea of more drinks, more music, and more chances to forget the weight of everything waiting for me at home was tempting.
But the ache in my feet — and my heart — told me it was time to call it a night.
“You go,” I said, squeezing her hand. “I’m wiped. But take lots of pictures, so I can live vicariously through you.”
She pouted but didn’t push. “Fine. But next time, you’re not getting off so easy.”
Hours later, as my driver navigated through the slow crawl of LA traffic, I scrolled through the day’s content — and for the first time in weeks, my smile felt real.
It had been a good day.
A reminder of who I was outside of this marriage. Outside of the deals and the expectations and the carefully staged moments.
But when I opened my DMs and saw the flood of messages — the questions about Reid, the comments on our relationship, the endless mentions of “#CallahanGoals” — the ache crept back in.
Because even in my world, I couldn’t escape his shadow.
And I wasn’t sure I wanted to.