Professionalism Suits You.

ARIA'S POV

Monday came without warning...no soft sunrise, no gentle easing into the day. Just a slap of cold reality and the echo of my heartbeat in Kane Callahan’s too-perfect penthouse.

I stepped out of the bathroom, towel snug around my body, steam curling behind me like smoke and I froze.

There it was.

The dress.

Laid out on the bed like it belonged there.

Emerald green; deep, rich and defiant.

I blinked. Then smiled—thin, crooked, not quite real. He listened, apparently, he remembered.

"Any color but white."

Still, I didn’t move. Something twisted low in my stomach. Not though excitement. No, it was heavier than that, oddly familiar.

I used to dress like this for someone else.

For Zane.

"Look presentable.." he’d said.

Translation? "Be what I want you to be."

My fingers brushed the embroidery, it was soft and stupidly expensive. And yet all I could feel was that old chokehold.

Is this what I signed up for?

Three years ago, I promised myself I’d make them pay. Zane. Sibil. I carved that vow into every scar they left behind.

But how?

How do you avenge a baby you never got to hold?

How do you repay betrayal so deep it rots you from the inside out?

I sat beside the dress, still clutching it like it might disappear. The mirror caught me in its frame...this version of me I barely recognized.

No tears, atleast not today.

I reached for the hairdryer and turned it on, the noise filling the silence in my head. My reflection rippled slightly from the heat, but she stayed.

I was playing wife again, I knew the role well. But this time, I was the one holding the script.

I’d sit among the powerful now, peel back everything Zane thought he built, inch by inch.

As for Sibil—she was just another pawn...a shadow I'd outshine.

Today was Monday and the headlines would call me a Callahan.

But I’d always know better.

Few minutes later a knock was heard on the door. Three sharp taps and no hesitation or warmth to it. The door creaked open, and in walked a woman who looked like she ironed her soul along with her blazer.

She was tall, thin, and clinically neat. Her bun looked like it was spun from tension, and her heels clicked with precision.

Every step she took radiated the type of energy that scared interns and silenced boardrooms.

I’d bet money her calendar was color-coded down to her breathing schedule and if caffeine were a person, it would be her—sharp, bitter, and unsettlingly efficient.

"Ms. Aria" she said, her voice crisp, sterile, and lacking any unnecessary syllables. "Mr. Callahan sent me to assist."

Of course he did.

I gave her a slow once-over, lifting a brow. I wasn’t in the mood for any kind of "assisting", but I nodded anyway, mostly out of curiosity to see just how far her professionalism would go before she cracked.

She approached, holding the dress up like it was a fragile national treasure instead of a tool in a high-stakes game.

"You’re to wear this, with your hair styled down, makeup bold but tasteful. The press will be in attendance."

Naturally. A Callahan wouldn’t dare miss a good headline.

She stepped behind me and began helping me into the dress with all the emotion of a tax audit. Her fingers were quick and precise, like she was working with a mannequin and not a woman with a pulse.

"You’ll need to smile, engage, appear approachable but untouchable," she continued. "As his wife, you are expected to—"

"What’s your name?" I cut in, flat and quiet.

She hesitated, probably not used to being interrupted mid-script. "Anna"

"Anna" I repeated, tasting it slowly like it was a foreign flavor I hadn’t decided to like yet. "Who’s going to be at this event? What am I walking into?"

Because if you have to play the game, you gotta know the game.

She paused, visibly weighing how much to say. "I don’t have direct access to the full guest list, but I know it’s a Callahan-hosted internal celebration. Majority of the family will be there."

The Callahans.

The air shifted.

I didn’t move, but something in me folded, my stomach churned.

Even after three years, after all the work I’d done to build this steel version of myself, my chest tightened with the kind of dread that doesn't announce itself—it just arrives and settles.

Zane could be there. That name alone was enough to make the polished surface I’d worked so hard on crack at the edges.

He might see me. The new me. Or maybe he’d just see her again—the girl who bled on cold marble.

I swallowed hard, the lump forming too fast to hide. My breathing slowed, restricted.

You’re fine, Aria...you’ve survived worse, I always told myself.

I stared ahead, unblinking. My reflection caught in the mirror. This version of me wore emerald and armor, but under it, the scar boiled.

Then she snapped her fingers close to my face.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

I nodded fast.

Anna kept talking,listing things,outlining my role, naming expectations and movements like they were chess pieces.

But I wasn’t listening anymore.

Her voice had faded to background noise, just another layer of static in a room already too full of ghosts.

Now I'm dressed, my hair curled, makeup soft...minimal, just the way I liked it. I’ve never been one for layers of foundation or blinding highlighter.

It always made me feel like I was on a stage I didn’t audition for. I didn’t need to be a spectacle...I just needed to be seen enough.

Y'know, precision over parade.

Anna, Kane’s assistant, led the way through the long corridor, her voice flat and factual as she rattled off the rest of the day’s schedule.

I wasn’t really listening—something about walking exactly seven seconds behind Kane, nodding at specific board members, avoiding eye contact with a certain cousin who apparently bites with his eyes.

Her voice droned like a hallway monitor who took her job too seriously.

Then she stopped talking.

I looked up and met his gaze.

Kane stood ahead of us, still as a statue. Framed by the golden light from the massive chandelier above him. Dressed in a tailored white suit so sharp it could’ve cut glass.

White.

My stomach twisted, I felt nauseous and just stopped walking.

It was subtle, just one step back—but I felt it in my whole body like an alarm bell.

I couldn’t breathe.

His brow creased slightly. "You’re alright?"

My voice came out quieter than I expected. "Why are you wearing white?"

He didn’t miss a beat. "You said you wouldn’t wear white and I agreed. I didn’t say I wouldn’t. It’s my favorite color."

Of course it is.

Of course it’s his favorite. Because why wouldn’t a man like him wear the color of ghosts and innocence and blood? He could wear it because it didn’t haunt him.

My ears rang so hard,I felt like it could burst, I blinked—and suddenly the world wasn’t the hallway anymore.

It was white marble floors stained red.

It was my body curled on them, bleeding.

It was a scream stuck somewhere between my lungs and my throat.

The hallucination struck so fast, I couldn’t stop it, I couldn’t reason it away.

The white suit wasn’t white anymore.

He stepped forward, a quiet movement, and reached out, probably to steady me. But the moment his fingers neared mine, I slapped his hand away.

Hard.

He looked surprised, but didn’t step back.

"Water..." Anna said curtly, rushing to get it.

I stood there trying to ground myself...to claw my way back to reality. My breath came in short, shallow waves. My vision blurred just enough to make everything feel unreal. I counted the seconds in my head...five in...hold...seven out.

Then he had the audacity to smirk.

"Maybe you’re not fit for the job," he said, like it was some clever observation and not a calculated dig.

I took the water Anna handed me. My grip was tight enough to crack the glass if I pushed harder. I wanted to throw it at him, drench that smug suit, then he'd go change. But I didn’t, he might have more white suits to taunt me with so I swallowed instead.

Straightened my spine and smoothed my dress.

Then I nodded to Anna like nothing had happened. "I’m fine, thank you"

I turned back to him and smiledcool and contained, just enough to make it look natural.

"Apologies. I have a condition sometimes. The air—" I waved a dismissive hand "gets too tight."

He didn’t buy it, I couldn't care less, I wasn’t trying to convince him, but myself.

He nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on me. "Professionalism suits you," he said, voice flat. "Most of the time."

I looked him square in the face, then tilted my head.

"Nothing will go wrong, Mr. Callahan" I said, calm as ever. "I’ll make sure of it.”