Chapter 2 His Fiancée Arrives
Calista’s POV
The studio reeked of electricity and unfinished arguments.
Calista slipped back into her chair.
She forced her mind into work mode, as if nothing had happened, no café incident of any sort, no coffee-soaked CEO. The team was already gathered. Headphones on. Eyes forward. Waiting.
Waiting for him.
She adjusted the console, hands steady despite the faint echo of Damian’s voice still ringing in her head.
Timing did.
Timing always mattered to men like him. Precision. Control. The illusion that nothing slipped through their fingers unless they allowed it.
The studio door opened again.
This time, there was a warning knock. Brief. Performative.
Damian Westwood stepped inside holding his jacket.
That was the first thing she noticed.
The second was the shirt.
Clean. Fresh. Crisp white cotton clinging effortlessly to a frame that made tailors rich and men insecure. No trace of coffee. No trace of restraint.
Which meant he’d changed.
Which meant he’d thought about it.
Calista swallowed.
“Let’s proceed,” Damian said, voice neutral, eyes already scanning the room. “We’re behind schedule.”
No glance at her. No acknowledgment.
It felt deliberate.
She focused on the screen instead.
The track loaded, unfinished, raw, fragile. An artist’s voice trembled softly through the speakers, emotion leaking through imperfect control. Calista closed her eyes briefly, listening not to the notes but to what hid between them.
Fear.
Promise.
“Pause,” she said suddenly.
The sound cut.
A few heads turned.
Damian’s gaze followed last. Slow. Measuring.
“The bass is still too polite,” she continued, unbothered. “It’s supporting the vocal instead of challenging it. This artist doesn’t need comfort. She needs tension.”
Silence.
Then Damian leaned against the console, arms folding loosely.
“And you’re certain?” he asked.
That tone again.
Not doubt. A test.
“Yes,” Calista said. “If you want the song to survive beyond first listens.”
A beat passed.
Then Damian nodded once. “Proceed.”
Permission granted.
She made the adjustments quickly, fingers moving with quiet confidence. The bass deepened, not louder, but heavier. It pressed against the vocal instead of cushioning it.
The song breathed differently.
Someone behind her exhaled in appreciation.
Calista leaned back.
Damian straightened.
“That’ll do,” he said. “We’ll revisit after mastering.”
The team dispersed. Chairs rolled back. Conversations resumed in low murmurs.
Calista remained seated.
So did Damian.
That unsettled her.
When the only sound left was the air conditioner, the silence between them grew denser.
She felt him before she heard him.
“You didn’t apologize at all,” he said.
Her ribs locked up.
“For the coffee?” she asked, not turning. “I did. Twice.”
“For the assumption,” he corrected.
She finally faced him.
“Which assumption?”
“That I was angry.”
His eyes held hers now. Steel-gray. Unreadable.
“You weren’t?” she asked.
“No.”
That answer unsettled her more than anger would have.
“Wait, what?”
“But you seemed...”
“You acted angry. Or am I being gaslit?”
Damian pictured her head tilting slightly, as if she were a sound he was yet to discover.
“Underwhelmed,” he said.
Her jaw tightened. “In me?”
“In myself.”
The words landed heavier than intended.
She studied him now. Really studied him. The controlled posture. The careful distance.
“You switched shirts,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
The air between them felt too intimate for a professional studio. Too charged.
“You’re impeccably good at what you know how to do,” Damian said finally. “Which is why I tolerate your… excesses.”
She sneered softly. “Tolerate?”
“Yes.”
“That’s generous of you.”
“I’ll take that as a joke, sir.”
His mouth quivered. Not quite a smile.
“You challenge authority,” he continued. “But you don’t sabotage outcomes. That makes you useful.”
She leaned forward. “Careful.”
“Why?”
“You’re mistaking usefulness for the ability to be replaced.”
His gaze enhanced.
“What makes you feel irreplaceable?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said peacefully. “I just believe I’m worth more than you pay me. I’m also costly to replace.”
That did it.
A real smile surfaced then. Brief. Gone before it could soften him.
“Point taken.”
The door opened hastily.
“Mr. Westwood,” the receptionist said politely, “Your fiancée is here.”
Calista froze.
Fiancée?
Did I miss something?
How?
Damian didn’t.
“Send her in,” he said smoothly.
The door opened wider.
Serena Brooke entered like she owned the air.
Tall. Immaculate. Blonde perfection sculpted to precision. She wore white—not soft white, but commanding white. The kind that announced intention.
Her eyes found Damian immediately.
Then Calista.
They lingered there.
Calculating whatever had happened before she came in.
“Darling,” Serena said, caressing and kissing Damian’s cheek. “There was no information that you’d be working late.”
“I wasn’t aware I would be,” he replied.
Her hand slid possessively from his collar to his tie leaning in for a massive make-out session.
“And this must be…” Serena went quiet, eyes shifting back to Calista.
“Calista Dorian,” Damian supplied. “Senior sound engineer.”
Serena smiled.
To mask the office romance detector signals her brain transmitted to her.
“I’ve heard an earful about you,” she said. “You’re very much quite… indispensable.”
“That’s the best word, right, Damian?”
Calista returned the smile, matching its sharpness. “So they say.”
Serena’s gaze flipped briefly through Calista’s hands. Her posture. Her calm confidence.
Threat spotted.
“Well,” Serena said. “I’ll leave you two tech geniuses to it,” she said, adjusting a piece of equipment in the room.
She bombarded him with her lips again. Longer this time.
Claiming.
Then she turned to Calista.
“Try not to overwork my baby,” she said sweetly. “He forgets to rest.”
Calista inclined her head. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, biting her lower lip.
Serena exited.
The door closed.
The silence returned, but it was different this time. Heavier. Tainted.
“Genuinely speaking, sir, that was so unnecessary,” Calista said.
“What was?”
“The introduction.”
“And let me guess...”
“Everything.”
“You could have asked for space or simply gotten a room.”
Damian raised his shoulders. “Now she knows you exist. Why should that matter?”
“Lucky me.”
He studied her again.
“You don’t exactly like her.”
“Hello, sir, I don’t even know her.”
“You assessed her,” he corrected.
“So did she.”
A pause.
“That’s unusual, you’re not intimidated,” Damian observed.
“Never,” Calista said honestly. “Why should I be?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he picked up his jacket from the table, sliding it on slow and steady.
“Please be careful,” he said finally. “People find it hard to forgive when they feel insecure.”
She watched him.
“What does that even mean?”
“Or wait, is that advice or a warning?”
“I think I should Google it.”
Their eyes caught each other’s at the door.
“Both.”
Then he left.
Calista sat alone in the studio, with the hum of the lifeless equipment filling the space.
Her phone beeped.
A new message.
Unknown Number:
Be careful where you stand. Your comfort around what’s mine might cost you, your life.
Calista stared at the screen.
She realized timing, wasn’t just about minutes.
It was about moments.
And something had just begun.
