Later That Day
Caliste barely left her room. She curled up in the library instead, pretending to read while her mind swirled with confusion. Her heart betrayed her—fluttering every time she remembered the way Lucian touched her. The way he said, "I'll be gentle."
A knock broke her thoughts.
"Madam?" the housekeeper said gently. "There's someone at the door... says he's family."
Caliste blinked. "Family?"
She rose and made her way to the living room—only to freeze.
"Uncle Desmond?" she gasped.
It was her father's younger brother, a man known to be tightly connected to the Winslow family board—and her father's eyes and ears.
He took one look at her, at the faint marks on her neck, the robe barely hiding the curve of her shoulder—and smirked knowingly.
"I see the marriage is finally... functioning."
Her cheeks flared. "What are you doing here?"
"Gregory sent me. The media's been buzzing about a little... scene you two made at the socialite's gathering." His eyes narrowed. "Kissing in public. Dragging her out of the party. That's not very Velmore-like."
Caliste's pulse spiked. "It was nothing."
"Nothing?" he raised a brow. "Then why are you glowing like someone very recently..."
"Stop!" she snapped, stepping back. "Please, just—don't report anything. There's nothing to tell."
Desmond gave her a long, unreadable look. "If there's 'nothing,' then you have nothing to worry about. But if it's something... Gregory will want to know."
He turned on his heel and left.
And she still didn't know what this was between her and Lucian.
A one-night storm? Or the start of something neither of them dared admit?
----
The penthouse was still.
Caliste sat by the window, a half-full glass of tea growing cold in her hands. Her mind hadn't stopped spinning since last night—the kiss, the crowd, the flash of cameras. And Lucian… the way he pulled her in front of everyone like she was his.
Her phone buzzed against the marble coffee table, interrupting her thoughts. The name that appeared on the screen made her stomach twist.
Gregory Winslow.
She knew this was coming.
She hesitated, then picked up. "Hello?"
"Caliste." Her father's voice was sharp, serious. "What is going on?"
She sighed. "If this is about the kiss—"
"I don't care about the damn tabloids," Gregory interrupted, tone cutting. "What I care about is that it's been three years and still no heir."
Caliste blinked, her breath catching.
Gregory continued. "Do you think I made this deal with the Velmores for fun? You two parading around at parties and kissing on balconies makes headlines, yes—but where is the outcome I actually asked for?"
She closed her eyes. "Father, it's… not that simple."
"It is," he snapped. "You're married. I don't need romantic drama or media noise—I need news of a child. An heir. That was the foundation of this marriage. I didn't raise you to forget your role."
Caliste's voice lowered. "I'm not a machine, Father."
"No, but you are a Winslow," he said coldly. "And our name means something. Your marriage to Lucian was a strategic decision, not a love story. Stop acting like it's something else."
Her chest ached. "We're trying."
"Try harder," Gregory said firmly. "You've had time to adjust. If I don't hear something concrete in the coming months—plans, at the very least—you leave me no choice but to get involved."
The call ended before she could respond.
Caliste stared at her phone in stunned silence.
So that was it. No concern. No question of how she felt. Just pressure. Just duty. Just... results.
The weight on her shoulders settled heavier than before.
She stood, walked to the window again, and looked out over the city. Her reflection in the glass showed a woman who looked more like a puppet than a person.
And somewhere inside, the walls she had started to let down—especially around Lucian—slowly began building back up.
----
The city lights glittered like stars fallen to the ground, and the bar pulsed with a warm hum of music, laughter, and clinking glasses. For once, it felt like the world wasn't watching.
Caliste stepped out of the sleek black car in a simple yet elegant outfit—high-waisted slacks and a silk blouse. Her hair was tied in a loose bun, soft strands framing her tired eyes. She glanced at her phone again. News alerts, gossip blogs, edited clips of that kiss were everywhere. It was exhausting.
"Over here!"
A familiar voice called from the rooftop bar's far end. A hand waved frantically. It was Leina, her childhood best friend and constant source of honest chaos.
Caliste let out a rare laugh. Just what she needed.
"Hey, stranger." Leina grinned, already halfway through her cocktail. "You look like you haven't exhaled in weeks."
Caliste gave her a small smile and slipped into the booth across from her. "That obvious?"
"Sweetheart, you made national headlines with a kiss. People are betting on your pregnancy announcement by next week." Leina raised her brows. "So…?"
Caliste rolled her eyes and reached for the wine glass waiting for her. "It was nothing."
"Nothing?" Leina leaned in. "You say that, but I've seen that man look like he wants to devour you whole. And not just on camera."
Caliste flushed and sipped her wine. "It doesn't matter. He still thinks this marriage is a contract."
"But you don't?"
"I don't know what I think anymore." Her voice lowered. "One moment he's cold, the next he's kissing me like he means it. But afterward, nothing changes."
Leina stared at her quietly, letting her breathe.
"And now my father called," Caliste added, the words tumbling out. "He doesn't care about the photos, the drama—he just wants an heir. A result. I feel like I'm suffocating between what he expects and what Lucian refuses to admit."
"You know what you need?" Leina declared, waving at the bartender. "Three things. Wine, bad karaoke, and no husbands. Tonight, you're just Caliste. Not a Velmore. Not a Winslow. Just my best friend who needs to breathe again."
Caliste smiled, eyes misty. "Thank you."
"No talk of heirs," Leina said. "No mention of Lucian unless it's to roast him."
"Deal."
The bartender returned with shots. Leina passed one to her. "To breathing room."
Caliste clicked her glass against hers. "To breathing room."
They threw them back.
Somewhere in the corner of the bar, a man was snapping a discreet photo.
And somewhere across the city, Lucian Velmore's phone buzzed with a new notification—one that would set the next storm in motion.