His Cold Revenge, A Hidden Love

Callie Fry POV: The days bled into a torturous routine. By day, I was a ghost in my own home, a servant to Kane and his perfect girlfriend, Astrid. I fetched their drinks, endured their silent, judgmental meals, and cleaned up after them like a paid housekeeper. By night, I was Kane's property, my body a battleground for his confusing mix of anger and what felt terrifyingly like desperate need. I couldn't stand it. Not just the humiliation, but the gnawing guilt. Every time he touched me, I saw Astrid' s polite, smiling face. It felt sordid, immoral. I was the other woman, the home-wrecker, living under the same roof as the woman he supposedly loved. One night, in the middle of one of his punishing, silent assaults, he was surprisingly gentle. His hand stroked my hair, his lips were soft against my skin. It was a fleeting moment of tenderness that made the whole situation a thousand times more confusing. I seized the opportunity. "Kane," I whispered into the darkness. "Doesn't this bother you? Astrid is right down the hall." He froze above me. "Does it bother you, Callie?" I let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "What right do I have to be bothered? I'm the mistress. She's the one you should be worried about. She's the one you love." "I want you to leave," I begged, my voice cracking. "You've had your revenge. You've humiliated me, you've broken me. Isn't it enough? Please, just let me go." I tried to appeal to his self-interest. "She's going to leave you if you keep this up. No woman would tolerate this." The change was instantaneous and terrifying. The sliver of warmth vanished, replaced by an arctic chill that seemed to radiate from him, dropping the temperature of the entire room. His body went rigid, and the hand in my hair tightened, pulling slightly. I held my breath, terror coiling in my stomach. What did I say? What line had I crossed? He said nothing. He just continued, his movements now rough, detached, and utterly cold. I had learned my lesson. Silence was survival. The next afternoon, Astrid found me by the pool. "Let's have a drink, Callie," she said, her smile as bright and empty as the summer sky. I was wary, but I agreed. We sat in lounge chairs, a pitcher of iced tea between us. The silence was tense. Suddenly, Astrid stood up, walked to the edge of the pool, and with a small, theatrical gasp, fell in. She came up sputtering, flailing her arms. "Help! I can't swim! Callie, help me!" I stared at her, completely bewildered. The water was only five feet deep. She could have stood up. Just then, Kane burst through the patio doors, followed by a frantic-looking maid. He dove into the pool without a second's hesitation and pulled a coughing, weeping Astrid into his arms. She clung to him, shivering. "It wasn't her fault, Kane," she sobbed, pointing a trembling finger at me. "I slipped. Callie tried to warn me." I braced myself for his fury. But instead of yelling, I just said, my voice flat and devoid of emotion, "I'm sorry, Kane. It was my fault." There was no point in arguing. In the soap operas my mother loved, the heroine always tried to explain, and the hero never believed her. I was tired of playing the game. Astrid's eyes widened in surprise. Kane's expression was unreadable. He simply lifted Astrid into his arms and carried her inside, his powerful strides eating up the distance. He didn't look back at me once. I sank onto the hot concrete, wrapping my arms around my knees. A memory surfaced, sharp and painful. A trip to the Hamptons, years ago. Cade had pushed Kane into the deep end of a pool as a joke. Kane had flailed, panicking, until I, laughing, had thrown him a floatie. He' d pretended he couldn' t swim. Another lie. Everything was a lie. This man was a stranger, a terrifyingly intelligent actor who had been playing a long game I couldn't even begin to comprehend. I needed to talk to Astrid. Alone. Later, I made a pot of ginger tea and took it to her room. She was propped up in bed, looking pale and fragile. Kane was sitting beside her, holding her hand. The picture of devotion. "I brought you some tea," I said quietly, placing the tray on her nightstand. "Thank you, Callie," she murmured. I turned to leave, but Kane's voice stopped me. "Stay. Take care of her." He stood up, gave Astrid a soft kiss on the forehead, and left, closing the door behind him. My heart leaped. This was my chance. "Are you feeling better?" I asked, pouring her a cup of the steaming tea. She watched me, her blue eyes sharp and calculating. "You're not angry?" "Why would I be angry?" I asked, handing her the cup. "You're his girlfriend. I'm the other woman. Let's be honest, he's the real villain here. He's a cheating asshole." A laugh escaped her, a genuine, surprising sound. "You're not what I expected." "Look, Astrid," I said, my voice earnest. "I know he's just using me to get back at me for the past. It won't last. He'll get bored and kick me out. And I want that. I want to leave. So please, don't see me as a threat. Don't leave him. He loves you. He'll be lost without you." Just as the words left my mouth, the door was kicked open with a loud bang, making both of us jump. Kane stood there, his face a thunderous mask of fury. The quiet man who never raised his voice was gone. This man was a tempest. I immediately expected the worst, ready for an onslaught of accusations, maybe even to be thrown out on the street. It was a terrifying thought, but a part of me, a desperate, hopeful part, wished for it. But he just glared at me, his eyes burning with an emotion I couldn't name. "Get dressed," he ordered, his voice dangerously low. "We're going to my parents' house for dinner. And you're coming with me." I stared at him, confused. Why would he take me? His mistress? I looked at Astrid for an explanation. She shook her head slightly, her eyes filled with something that looked like pity. "It's a family dinner," she whispered after he'd gone. "His whole family will be there. They all think you're still his wife." My blood ran cold. "He's taking you there to humiliate you, Callie."