Five years ago, Callie ran —pregnant and terrified, with a secret that could destroy him. Now Damien Ashford, billionaire CEO and the man she once loved, is back in her life... and he has no idea he’s a father. He thinks she used him. She thinks he’s heartless. They’re both wrong. All Callie wants is to protect her son and keep her crumbling bakery. All he wants is revenge—or so he thinks. But secrets don’t stay buried forever… and neither does love.
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The music was too loud. Not loud enough to drown out my thoughts — just enough to make them feel like background noise. I wasn’t supposed to be here. Clubs weren’t my thing. Not the strobe lights, or the sticky floors, or the guys who thought buying you a drink meant buying your time. But Clara — my best friend and self-appointed life coach — had insisted. “You need to get out of your own head, Callie,” she’d said, dragging me out of my hoodie and into a little black dress I wasn’t sure I could breathe in. She wasn’t wrong. Between my dad’s chemo appointments, double shifts at the diner, and chasing rent like it owed me something, my head was kind of a war zone. Still, I was already regretting this. I nursed my cheap cocktail like it was a lifeline, leaning against the bar and counting down the minutes until I could go back into obscurity. And then I saw him. He stood near the far end of the bar. Hoodie. Clean sneakers. Handsome, but in a quiet way that made you do a double-take. The kind of guy you only noticed if you were paying attention — and I wasn’t trying to. But my eyes found him anyway. He caught me looking. One brow arched, amused. Then he raised his glass in a silent toast. I looked away, heat creeping up my neck. Clara appeared at my side, grinning like a cat who’d spotted a mouse. “He’s cute.” “I’m not here to flirt.” “Good,” she said, “because he’s coming over here right now.” “What?” Too late. He slid up next to us at the bar, his cologne subtle but clean, like cedarwood and something unfamiliar. “Hi,” he said, voice low and warm. Clara gave me a quick wink and melted into the dance floor, leaving me with him. I could kill her later. I cleared my throat. “Hey.” “I don’t usually do this,” he started, which was exactly what guys who usually did this always said, “but I noticed you weren’t having the time of your life.” “That obvious, huh?” He smiled — and it was devastating. “You look like you’ve got better places to be.” “I do. My couch. Sweatpants. N*****x.” He chuckled. “Fair. I’m Damien.” “Callie.” “Nice to meet you, Callie. Want to ditch the noise?” I blinked. “You mean, like—” He held up both hands. “Just outside. Quieter.” My gut said no. But my heart? My heart said: he’s different. So, I followed him. We ended up on the fire escape behind the club, the night air cool against my skin. The city buzzed around us. Distant horns. Someone laughing. Somewhere in the building, the bass still thudded faintly. He leaned on the railing, looking out at the skyline. “So, what’s your story?” he asked. “You first,” I said. He shrugged. “I move around a lot. Freelance gigs. I don’t stick in one place too long.” “That sounds lonely.” He glanced at me. “Sometimes. But then I meet someone who makes it feel like I could stay a while.” I looked away. Damn him. I don’t know how it happened after that. One conversation blurred into another. Then laughter. Then my hand in his. Then— We ended up in my apartment that night. No promises. No pretences. Just two people who needed to feel something real for a little while. I thought that would be it. But it wasn’t. Three months later, we were still... whatever we were. I never pressed too hard. He didn’t offer much. But he made me laugh, and he listened, and when things with my dad got worse, he was just there. I was happy. I was falling. Life hadn’t been great before I met him, I’d admit. I was struggling. But it wasn’t like all my problems went away; his presence just made it easier to bear. We were quite similar. He was an orphan, I was on the brink of becoming one. My dad was going through chemotherapy, and my mom passed away during childbirth. I held down a shitty waitress job, he didn’t talk much about his work but I gathered it was something boring and remote. Things were going fairly well until one particular day. It was a Monday. I had just finished a shift at the diner when a woman in a black trench coat stepped in. She looked to be in her forties, and by the way she was dressed, I could tell she was out of place here. She didn’t order anything. She didn’t sit. She just looked at me like she already knew me. “Callie Evans?” she asked. “Yes?” “I’d like a word.” We stepped outside, under the diner awning, drizzle clinging to the edges of my hair. She handed me a business card. No name. Just a number. And then she pulled out a slim white envelope. “A cheque for a million dollars,” she said. “Take it. Under one condition. Leave my son alone.” I stared at her. “Your... son? I’m sorry, you must have me mistaken for someone else.” I made to walk away, but she continued. “Damien. You didn’t know his last name, did you? His real last name?” she smiled. “That’s the first clue. You’re just a phase. A distraction.” I froze. Damien had told me he was an orphan, but then here was this woman who he shared a striking resemblance with, calling him her son. “He never—he never said—” “No, he wouldn’t,” she said, voice low. “Because you don’t matter.” “I’m not taking your money.” I didn’t understand what was going on, but I wasn’t going to be a part of it. Part of me was still reeling in hurt. Why would he lie about being an orphan? What else was he lying about? She tilted her head. “How noble. I can see why he would get himself distracted by your sweet little act.” “Damien and I are—“ “In love?” She laughed. It was a laugh of mockery. “Your dear Damien —my son— isn’t who you think he is. I’d advise you to listen. Take the money. It’s a plus. I won’t be so generous the next time you have to hear from me.” It sounded like a threat. I was shaking. “Who are you?” “I’m the person who decides what happens next. You have my card. If you've had enough time to think about it, make the right choice and give me a call.” And with that she was gone. Just like that. I didn’t go home that night. I walked the city until my feet hurt, Damien’s texts lighting up my phone, over and over again. ‘Where are you?’ ‘Everything okay?’ ‘Callie, talk to me. Please.’ I wanted to answer. I wanted to run into his arms and cry and ask him why the hell he’d lied to me. Why did he let me believe he was just some guy? When that wasn't the case. What was he hiding? But I couldn’t. I stared at my phone. Then I turned it off, walking the short distance to my apartment in the cold all alone.Callie I was at Clara's apartment helping her pack her things. The sound of packing tape ripping across cardboard had become the new soundtrack and gradually the place was starting to look emptier, less lived in. Boxes lined the living room like tired soldiers, each one labeled in Clara’s neat handwriting — Kitchen, Donate, Storage. The air smelled faintly of old takeout, dust, and the lemon cleaner Clara always used when she was stressed.“You sure you don’t want to keep this one?” I held up a ridiculous gold cat figurine, its paw frozen mid-wave.Clara shot me a look over her shoulder. “That thing? Absolutely not. It creeps me out.”I grinned and carefully tucked it into the Donate box anyway. “Someone out there’s going to love it.”She laughed softly, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. The moment passed, and I glanced toward the window. The late afternoon sun cast pale light across the floor, and I felt a strange tightness in my chest, like we were packing up something more than
Damien Emma was watching one particular cartoon show for the third time in a row.I had no clue what was going on. The characters sang too much, and every ten minutes, she turned around with wide eyes like I was supposed to be following along. Every time she did that, I gave her a half-smile and nodded.She seemed content enough. Cross-legged on my living room rug, surrounded by a graveyard of juice boxes, cracker crumbs, and that stuffed blue unicorn she wouldn’t let out of her sight.This wasn’t exactly how I pictured my Tuesday night.I scrubbed a hand down my face and leaned back into the couch. Work had been a mess of meetings and half-answered emails. Anderson was hounding me about final signatures on the Sweet Haven acquisition, and I hadn’t even touched the file since the last time I opened it. And that was also the day I saw his name on her profile.Cassian. Her son.I still hadn’t decided what to do with that information. It sat in my chest like a stone, heavy and unmoving
DamienI hadn’t stopped thinking about that file since the moment I closed it.It was the kind of thing that settled in your head. Quiet, but sharp. Every time I tried to move on, it was there again. And of all the things I'd found out, the most jarring was that she'd had a son.Cassian.The name stuck with me, like a distant memory. I'd never imagined Callie as a mother, but now that she was one, it seemed like a perfectly normal thing to hear.And about her being unmarried, I didn’t know what exactly I was feeling. I was angry, sure. She’d lied to my face. Played along when I assumed she had a husband. I thought all this while that she'd been trying to make me feel like the villain in our story, but she hadn't actually done anything. Everything I'd felt was of my own accord. Maybe she was right to keep her life under wraps, away from me.But there was this other thing —something heavier. Guilt, maybe. Or just confusion that had curdled into frustration.She had left me. Vanished. An
Callie The “Closed for Renovations” sign hung crooked in the front door, a silent nod to a truth I hadn’t yet said aloud. It was easier than “Closed Forever.” Less final. Clara stood on a step stool by the pantry shelves, pulling down the last of the bulk containers and calling out over her shoulder, “Do we still want to keep the convection oven parts or donate them?” I wiped my hands on a towel, eyeing the steel parts already disassembled. “We'll keep it. That thing cost more than my first car.” She chuckled. “Fair enough.” Cass sat cross-legged on the floor, crayons scattered around him, carefully drawing on the back of a cardboard box. Every so often, he’d glance up at us, his little brow furrowed with a seriousness far beyond his age. He hadn't said much since we started packing. Just watched. I took it all in. I knew he had questions, he was just waiting for the right time to ask them. The air smelled like coffee and cinnamon, remnants of our last real baking batc
Damien Anderson was the first person to come into my office that morning. He walked with a gait that was much too funky for his age, and he had a smug look on his face. I hadn’t signed the documents yet —not until I reviewed the case owner profiles. From the looks of it, he was walking in with them now. Trust Anderson to always do the most in situations like this. It's why he was the leader of the legal team. I trusted him to get the job done, sometimes he did so a little too well. "Sir, I have the case files here," he said as I gestured for him to sit. "A simple email would've sufficed, Anderson," I said, taking the file for him and placing it on the desk in front of me. "You know me, I'm more of a traditional man." "Less talk about cultural preferences and more on efficiency." He sighed and then spoke. "Well, we won't be needing this anymore." "What do you mean?" "Their representative reached out. They're pulling out. They want to take the deal." "What?" "Th
Callie Life had a way of going on as if things were normal. As if the past week hadn't been terrible for us. People moving about their normal businesses, the sun still rising and setting despite the emotional turmoil we’d been facing. It was in the small things, like the hum of the fridge, the smell of cereal in the morning, Cass asking for the blue cup instead of the red one. Again. Because apparently, the red one made the juice taste weird. Cass had colour in his cheeks again. His appetite was back. After some slight adjustments to the medications he was taking he was doing just fine. The worst of it had passed. At least for now. Today was his first day back at daycare. “You remember what to do if you feel funny right?” I asked as we walked in. Cass nodded solemnly, backpack slung across both shoulders like a little soldier reporting for duty. The familiar smell of finger paint and carpet cleaner hit me the moment we stepped into the main hallway. The walls were
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