Men In Power.

ARIA'S POV

The city lights bled into each other like watercolors behind the tinted glass, too soft for a city that never really softened. Manhattan pulsed outside, loud and dirty and alive but in here? In the backseat of this luxury hearse Kane Callahan had arranged, I was insulated. Cushioned in leather, silence, and my own thoughts.

Convenient, really. That we didn’t ride together. Probably thought it’d be too much to share a car with his rented wife. Or maybe he just didn’t want to ruin the leather with my perfume.

Either way, I wasn’t complain, I liked the quiet. I liked knowing I had a few more minutes to pretend I still had control.

The car pulled up to a building that looked like it had been designed by someone allergic to warmth. All sharp angles, steel, and tall glass.

Kane Callahan’s penthouse loomed above it all, a gleaming tower of cold power.

Nothing like Zane’s home, which had always felt like a trap pretending to be a castle. This place didn’t pretend. It told you straight up—you didn’t belong here unless you came with blood on your hands and money in your veins.

I stepped out into a marble lobby that smelled like money and barely-disguised elitism.

Of course the elevator had its own security system.

Of course there was a man at the desk who barely blinked when I walked in, like women in designer heels and emotional ruin showed up every night.

The ride up was fast, way too fast. I needed longer to breathe or brace. Or lie to myself better.

When the elevator doors opened, it was like stepping into a museum curated by someone who hated comfort; clean lines, dark wood.

One very expensive looking sculpture that probably meant nothing. It was all too pristine, like if I touched anything, it’d shatter. Or I would.

Power lived here. It throbbed beneath the surface, through the walls, in the bones of the place. You didn’t walk into Kane Callahan’s penthouse, you entered his territory.

I exhaled slowly, like maybe that’d help with the way my chest suddenly ached.

Don’t think about Zane.

Don’t think about that house.

Don’t think about the nursery you never finished painting.

Don't think about....Christabel.

The echo of it clawed at the back of my throat anyway.

This wasn’t love and it wasn't healing either. This was business.

But the thing about cages–even gilded ones? They still lock from the outside.

And right now, mine was forty floors above Manhattan, owned by a man I didn’t trust, paid for with pieces of myself I hadn’t realized I was still selling.

Then I decided to explore.

Not out of curiosity—God no—but survival. If I was going to be locked in here for the week playing house with a Callahan, I needed to know my battlefield.

The place was eerily quiet. There were no ticking clocks, no hum of appliances, just silence so deep it pressed against my ears. Weirdly calming, like the quiet before a hurricane touches down.

My fingers skimmed along the edges of an oak desk that looked hand-carved and offensively expensive. A vase stood next to it—delicate, probably antique. I could swipe it and sell it for enough to ghost this whole city if I wanted to.

Would he notice? Would anyone?

My eyes lifted to the art on the walls. No faces, just lines, and shapes, and angry little attempts at meaning. Pretentious, like most men in power. They don’t want to be reminded of people—just of concepts; control, minimalism, superiority. And whatnot..

I kept moving. The place was a labyrinth of glass and silence and very masculine trauma, and it made me feel… small. Like I was wandering the inside of a beast that hadn’t quite decided if it wanted to eat me yet.

Then I saw it—a door.

Of course.

Every expensive home had one. The door you’re not supposed to open....which obviously meant I would.

I wrapped my fingers around the knob and just as I twisted..

It opened from the other side.

And there he was.

Kane.

Tall, buttoned-up, and looking at me like I was a puzzle he hadn’t quite decided whether to solve or shatter.

His face was unreadable—stoic, still—but up close like this, I noticed something I never gave any of my clients a chance to. A small blemish near his jawline, a pimple. A very human flaw on a man sculpted like a threat. That's how close we were...

It was funny. He was the first one I’d ever gotten close enough to notice something like that. And I thought most men like him don’t want to be seen.

His gaze didn’t move from mine.

Neither did I.

Tomorrow, I’d be his wife.

And I hated Mondays.

••⁠

KANE'S POV

I opened the door and found her there—Aria.

Exactly where I expected her to be.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, just stared up at me like she’d been caught picking a lock and didn’t particularly care if she was arrested for it.

"Exploring already?" I said, my tone even.

Her gaze swept over me, unimpressed. "Didn’t realize welcoming your wife required so much… restraint."

God her sarcasm, she's also defensive, and predictable.

I took a step forward, she stepped back...just one. Not from fear but from instinct and whilst at it we didn’t break eye contact. I reached behind me and shut the door.

"What’s in there?" she asked, nodding toward the room I’d just exited.

"Nothing that should concern you."

Which was the truth, and also a lie.

I walked past her. She didn’t move at first—deliberately—but then I heard the soft click of her heels behind me. She lingered, the way someone does when they want to prove they’re not following, even when they are.

She commented on the apartment. Something dry and biting about modern cathedrals and cold shrines to capitalism.

I didn’t respond.

I didn’t need to.

We reached the main hall, the quiet pressing between us like a third presence. I stopped.

So did she.

"We begin tomorrow..." I said without turning around. "Press coverage starts at noon. You’ll be photographed leaving this building. They'll be subtle affection. And there's a diamond already delivered to your room. You’ll wear it."

I turned then, meeting her eyes again.

"There will be interviews, curated events, joint appearances. You’ll be styled accordingly. The Callahan aesthetic is… intentional."

Her eyes narrowed just slightly. "You mean manicured."

"I mean precise."

She took a step closer, arms crossed now. "I’ll play the role, Mr Kane. But let’s be very clear—I’m not something you dress up and parade around, I’m not yours to own."

That struck something, but it wasn't anger, nor resistance.... Admiration, maybe. Or amusement. It was hard to tell where those lines blurred.

I almost smiled.

"Duly noted" I said.

And it was.

⁠•⁠•

Aria's POV

I watched him walk away, that clean, calculated stride of someone who’d always been listened to.

Kane Callahan.

Of course he envisioned the same boundaries and rehearsed affection. We were disturbingly aligned but the only difference?

He was a Callahan.

A goddamn Callahan.

My jaw tightened around the taste of the name. I hated how it sat in my mouth—heavy, familiar, like rusted metal.

My lungs felt too small for this space suddenly, like Manhattan air had thickened just to mock me.

Kane hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t threatened me, hadn’t touched me. But standing in this glass kingdom, with his voice echoing like a script I once knew too well, I felt the weight of what I was stepping into all over again.

I was in the Callahan den once more.

Wearing their name....again.

But this time, I wasn’t the girl who wore it like a badge of belonging. I wasn’t the naive bride who clutched ultrasound pictures with trembling fingers and whispered promises to a child who’d never take a breath.

I wasn’t the girl who bled on marble floors while her husband fucked her sister.

I was something else now.

I was sharper, colder and very much more calculated.

The week began tomorrow, and the curtain would rise. My part was written, rehearsed, sealed with a signature.

This just might be my call to redemption...or rather revenge.

If so...then the stage was set for a performance they’d never recover from.