Chapter 3 Fault Lines
Calista’s POV
The message stuck.
And that was the problem.
Calista stared at her phone uninterrupted even after the screen dimmed, long after the low hum of lifeless equipment stopped sounding like the usual unscripted chaos and started sounding like a ticking time bomb.
Your comfort-around what’s mine-might cost you your life.
My life?
Who’s this?
What exactly is yours?
Cost me?
Not poetic.
Not dramatic.
Just precise enough to mean it.
No emojis. No theatrics. No attempt to soften the edge. Whoever sent it didn’t need flair. They needed clarity.
She quickly locked the screen and slid the phone into her bag immediately, like it might just be the time bomb.
Her pulse was too steady. That surprised her.
This wasn’t panic. It was calculation. The kind that took notes and waited.
She pushed her chair back and stood, shoulders squaring on instinct. If fear wanted space, she wasn’t giving it one. She reached for her headphones, fingers familiar with the weight, the ritual.
Work first.
That was her rule. Always had been.
Because if she let herself think about whose number that was, or why Serena Brooke’s perfume still lingered faintly in the room, sharp and floral and deliberate, she’d lose momentum. And momentum, once lost, was expensive to recover.
The next track loaded into the system.
Different artist. Different problem.
This one was overproduced. Polished until it forgot what it was supposed to feel like. Technically perfect. Emotionally vacant. Like a smile held too long.
Calista sighed softly and got to work.
She stripped the chorus first, peeling back layers like she was undoing a lie. Muted the backing vocals. Lowered the synth. Let the rawness breathe. Music, when done right, didn’t need armour.
She was halfway into rebuilding the bridge when the studio door opened again.
No knock this time.
She didn’t turn. And she didn’t want to.
“You’re still here.”
Damian’s voice.
Low. Controlled. Too close.
Her back straightened in reflex, but her fingers didn’t stop moving. She slid one airpod off slowly, intentionally, that alone signalled that she could hear him but she didn’t want to see him.
“The last time I checked, sir,” she said, “this is where I’m paid to be and paid to do.”
A pause.
“Paid?” he repeated.
She turned then, brows lifting slightly. “Oh, are we going to pretend compensation is generous now?”
“Considering what my work earns you, I’m underpaid,” she said.
“Is this a setup?”
“So this is what actually rage-bait looks like,” he said, his voice cool and cutting.
“Do you want to start job hunting?”
On hearing this, all the loosened screws, bolts and nuts merged back in Calista’s brain.
“I’m absolutely sorry, sir,” she said. “It’s just that I received...”
“I don’t care what message you received. The moment you step into this building you focus on work.”
“I hope I’ve made myself very clear,” he said in a tone that allowed no room for argument.
Calista turned in her chair.
Their eyes locked, unreadable, but something paused beneath all that. Neither irritation nor amusement.
Assessment.
“You should go home,” he said instead.
That caught her off guard.
“I’m not done.”
“I am.”
She gestured at the screen. “That track is bleeding personality. Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll stop the haemorrhage.”
“No.”
The word landed flat. Final. Unnegotiable.
She sat comfortably in her chair like she was ready to challenge him on every point. “You definitely don’t get to override my process because your day didn’t go as planned.”
His jaw locked, just a small fraction. Controlled irritation. The kind men like him hated acknowledging.
“You have zero to no knowledge on how my day went.”
“Oh, I do,” she said, “You brought your fiancée into a studio during work hours for a make-out session,” she shot back. “I’d say that works.”
The moment went quiet.
Then, out of the blue, Damian laughed.
Not loudly. Not fully. Just a short, rough exhale that caught her completely off guard.
“You’re audacious,” he said. “Are you always like this?”
She crossed her arms. “I prefer the word efficient.”
“No,” he corrected. “Audacious. You say what you think without calculating consequences.”
“And I still get everything done on time and professionally.”
His gaze darted, briefly to her hands. Steady. Sure. Untrembling.
“That’s what troubles me.”
Her chest grew tighter.
“About me?” she asked.
“No,” he said quietly. “About myself.”
There it was again.
That subtle self-indictment. The crack he never explained. The admission he never expanded on.
Before she could make sense of it, his phone vibrated.
Once.
He peeked at the screen.
Serena.
Calista didn’t need to see the name to recognize the energy shift. His expression went off like a power outage. Like a door she hadn’t known was open.
“I’ll have the security walk you out,” he said, already turning away.
Her irritation flared sharp and immediate. “I don’t need an escort.”
“Tonight,” he replied without looking back, “you do.”
That made her pause.
“Why?” she asked.
He stopped at the door.
For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Thought he’d leave her with nothing but implication.
Then he said, “Because attention has a way of curdling.”
And left.
The hallway felt longer than usual.
Security kept a respectful distance, professional, silent, eyes scanning corners instead of her. That should have reassured her.
It didn’t.
She felt exposed. Seen. Not in the flattering way.
Outside, the night air hit her like a reset. Cool. Sharp. Real.
She inhaled slowly, grounding herself.
Nothing followed her.
No footsteps. No shadow. No sudden sound.
Still, she didn’t relax until she was inside her car with the doors locked and the engine humming beneath her.
Her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number.
This time, she didn’t hold back.
Unknown:
You shouldn’t let him look at you like that.
Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
Calista:
You shouldn’t be watching me.
The response came immediately.
Unknown:
Be smart. Curiosity gets women hurt.
She stared at the message.
Then smiled.
Not pretty. Not soft.
A slow, sharp thing.
Calista:
So does insecurity.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then:
Unknown:
You think you’re special?
She didn’t reply.
She didn’t need to.
Across the city, Damian Westwood stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, jacket discarded, tie loosened just enough to breathe.
Miami glittered beneath him. Gold. Power. Noise.
None of it settled him.
Serena paced behind him, heels clicking like punctuation marks on marble.
“You were cold,” she said. “In front of her.”
He didn’t turn. “Was I supposed to be warm?”
“Yes,” she snapped. “To me.”
Silence stretched.
“You’re imagining things,” he said finally.
She laughed, sharp yet strained. “Don’t insult me.”
He faced her then.
Really faced her.
“You walked into a professional space and marked territory,” he said evenly. “That wasn’t imagination.”
Her smile didn’t waver. “And did it work?”
He didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
Her eyes glittered. “She doesn’t belong in your world.”
“She belongs where she’s useful.”
Serena’s nails dug into her palm. “That’s not how you look at pawns.”
Something dark crossed his face.
“Careful,” he warned.
“No, Damian,” she said softly. “You be careful. People notice patterns. And women like her forget their place.”
That did it.
Damian stepped closer, voice dropping. “Don’t threaten my staff.”
“Then stop giving them reasons to think they matter.”
The silence between them cracked.
Calista didn’t sleep.
She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying moments she hadn’t realized mattered until now.
Damian’s restraint.
Serena’s smile.
The message.
Fault lines.
That was the word.
Everything looked stable until pressure revealed where it would break.
Her phone buzzed just before dawn.
Different number.
Damian:
Did you get home safely?
She stared at the screen longer than she should have.
Then typed.
Calista:
Yes.
A pause.
Damian:
Good.
Nothing else.
She set the phone down, heart doing something irritatingly unprofessional.
Outside, the city woke up.
And somewhere between silence and sound, Calista understood one thing with undeniable clarity:
This wasn’t about jealousy.
It wasn’t even about love.
It was obsession.
It was about control.
And someone had just realized she wasn’t easy to contain.
