Chapter 3: A Nobody

Calla stared out through the rain-streaked window as the car pulled away from the mansion, a sinking feeling settling in her chest. She had a hunch this wouldn’t be the last time she saw Killian.

She didn’t know where she was headed.

Almost on instinct, she told the driver to take her to her old neighborhood.

When the car finally stopped and she stepped out, Calla came to an abrupt halt.

Her house — her house — was gone.

In its place stood a shiny new building, a brightly painted shop with large windows and a tacky banner stretched across the front.

No trace remained of the small, worn house that had once been her entire world.

Five years away had been enough for the world to move on.

No trace of Calla Calloway.

No trace of home.

Now she was an ex-convict. The orphan who had married a billionaire, then supposedly betrayed him, and paid for those sins behind bars.

She had no one.

No family.

No friends.

No future.

No one cared that Calla Calloway had finally walked out of prison.

She wandered the streets aimlessly. But the streets weren’t familiar anymore. The world had moved forward without her, and forgotten her completely.

When her legs ached and the weight of everything crushed her, Calla slipped into a narrow alley and collapsed against the cold brick wall, hugging her knees close.

Then she remembered the restaurant.

It was just a few blocks away—the place she had worked before Damien.

With nothing left to lose, she pushed herself to her feet and made her way there.

Her stomach twisted with a mix of hunger and shame as she pushed open the heavy glass door. The familiar jingle of the bell made her heart skip a beat.

Maybe, just maybe, they would give her job back.

But then she saw Mitch.

Same greasy hair. Same stained button-down shirt clinging to his beer gut.

His eyes locked onto hers and a cruel sneer spread across his face.

“Well, well, well,” he called out loudly, drawing the attention of others. “If it isn’t our little convict.”

Heads turned. Whispers slithered through the room like venom.

Calla’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “I just... I need a job.”

Mitch laughed — a harsh, ugly sound.

“Get out,” he snapped. “I don’t hire sluts and thieves.”

She took a hesitant step back, but Mitch followed, invading her space, the stench of cheap cologne and stale cigarettes making her gag.

“But,” he said, his voice dropping low and dripping with menace, “maybe I could... help you... if you’re willing to make it worth my while.”

His hand brushed against her hip.

Calla jerked away as if burned.

“Fuck off, Mitch,” she hissed, her voice trembling with rage. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

“Suit yourself,” he spat, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You won’t find work anywhere, sweetheart. Everyone knows what you are.”

She fled, vision blurred by angry tears, the sound of Mitch’s mocking laughter chasing her out the door.

Cold rain soaked through her thin hoodie instantly, chilling her to the bone as the heavy door slammed shut behind her.

Numb, she wandered the slick streets, headlights flashing past like indifferent ghosts.

The city was alive — but it was indifferent to her misery.

She found an abandoned bus shelter, its roof cracked and leaking, but it was the only cover she could find.

She dragged herself beneath it, shivering violently, curling up as tightly as possible on the icy metal bench.

Rain dripped through the broken roof, splattering cold against her legs.

She hugged her knees, pressing her forehead against them.

Hot, bitter tears spilled down her cheeks, mixing with the rain on her skin.

She cried for the girl she’d been, for the pain, the betrayal, the exhaustion.

She cried because it wasn’t fair.

Passing cars sprayed dirty water against the curb. Cold seeped deeper into her bones. Her fingers stiffened, jeans heavy and soaked against her skin. Teeth chattered uncontrollably.

No one stopped.

Calla didn’t know how long she sat there, sobbing like a broken thing. Eventually, the tears dried up, leaving her hollow, shaking, and angry.

She pressed a trembling hand against her stomach, feeling the faint ache of hunger gnawing inside her.

She hadn’t eaten all day. Maybe longer.

The rain kept falling, endless and merciless.

She curled tighter on the freezing bench, closing her eyes against the endless dark.

The rain stopped by the time she stirred, though the cold still bit into her soaked clothes.

Beside her, a crumpled newspaper fluttered in the breeze, catching on her foot.

She reached for it absently, fingers stiff with cold, barely glancing down.

Until she did.

There, splashed across the front page, was a photo that made her heart stop:

Damien Calloway.

And her.

Selene.

Perfect, polished, smiling Selene, tucked neatly against his side like she belonged there.

The headline screamed in bold, triumphant letters:

“Power Couple Seals Multimillion Dollar Deal with Monarch Industries”

For a moment, Calla couldn’t breathe.

The world tilted and spun, and she gripped the bench beneath her to stay upright.

Damien’s signature grin.

Selene’s diamond ring glittering in the sunlight, catching the photographer’s flash.

His arm, intimately draped over her shoulders.

This was why he had wanted her to sign those papers.

She had been betrayed and falsely accused.

She had done five years in prison for crimes she didn’t commit—all because of the man she had loved and called her husband.

And now?

Here he was, parading around with her.

The scheming bitch.

Calla would never give Selene what she wanted.

She had no idea what was coming.

Calla would show the world exactly who Selene really was — expose the lies and rip off her shiny masks.

She would make sure both Selene and Damien paid.

.

.

She didn’t notice the sleek black SUV at first. Her eyes were locked on the headline. Her hands were numb, and her whole body trembled, but she couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or the betrayal screaming back at her from the front page.

Then she heard it.

A car door shut softly.

She looked up.

The SUV had pulled up quietly in front of where she stood. Its engine still purred.

The burly man from before stepped out, dressed all in black. He tapped something on his earpiece.

“She’s reading the paper,” he said.

Calla froze.

A familiar voice crackled through the line.

“Bring her in.”

Her breath caught.

She didn’t move.

The man approached slowly, hands visible, non-threatening.

“Miss,” he said, voice low and calm. “You need to come with me.”

She flinched.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he added. “Killian sent me.”

“Let’s get you warm.”

Calla stared at him.

She could have run. She could have screamed.

But her limbs felt like stone, her chest hollow.

And to be honest, she needed Killian’s help — if not his protection.

She stood.

And got into the car.