Chapter 23: Painted Lies and Sharp Smiles

The velvet curtains of the luxury suite were drawn tightly, dimming the midday sun. A glass of champagne rested untouched on the mahogany table, beside a stack of tabloids—all with her face on the front page.

"Lucian Velmore's Ex-Girlfriend Claims Pregnancy""Mirana Lane: Secret Baby or PR Stunt?"

She smiled. The kind of smile that cut sharper than knives.

Mirana Lane knew how to stir headlines. She'd been doing it since she was seventeen.

But this?

This was her masterpiece.

"Is the press still running the story?" she asked, not looking up.

Her assistant, a nervous redhead named Lana, shifted in place. "Some were pulled this morning. Especially the Winslow-controlled outlets."

Mirana's perfectly sculpted brow arched. "Gregory Winslow's work, no doubt. Daddy protecting his little heiress."

She sipped her champagne at last.

Let them try.

Let them scramble.

"They can kill the headlines," she said coolly. "But they can't erase the whispers. The scandal. The doubt."

"But… what if Lucian—" Lana hesitated, "—goes after a paternity test?"

Mirana's laugh was soft and poisonous.

"He won't. Not yet. He's too busy trying to convince his little ice princess he's worth loving."

She stood and walked to the mirror, adjusting her silk robe, letting it slide off one shoulder. Her reflection smiled back at her—flawless, desirable, dangerous.

"Lucian may not love me," she murmured, "but he will not forget me."

Her fingers traced a lipstick case on the vanity.

"And Caliste Winslow will learn what it feels like to have everything… only to lose it."

A knock came at the door.

Lana jumped, but Mirana didn't flinch.

"Let them in," she said, lips curling into a smile.

The door opened, revealing a man in a dark coat. Unassuming. Forgettable. Yet very, very useful.

He handed her a manila envelope.

"Photos. Messages. Leverage," he said flatly. "Exactly what you asked for."

Mirana took the envelope and flipped through its contents.

Images of Caliste and Lucian—arguing in public, kissing in private. A few grainy shots of Caliste and Jace. Enough for implications.

Enough to twist.

"Perfect," she whispered.

When she turned to Lana again, her eyes gleamed.

"Book me a private interview with The Velvet Hour podcast," she said. "Exclusive. Emotional. We'll talk about heartbreak, betrayal, and—" her voice softened mockingly, "—a child's future without a father."

She tossed her hair over one shoulder, like a queen preparing for war.

"Let's see how long Caliste can keep playing the good wife… when the world thinks she stole another woman's happy ending."

----

The Winslow estate was quiet.

Too quiet.

Caliste stood by the tall bay window of her childhood bedroom, fingers wrapped tightly around a porcelain teacup she hadn't touched in an hour. The sky outside was soft with dusk, streaks of gold and crimson filtering through the glass like the fading warmth of something once dear.

Her peace shattered when her phone buzzed violently against the nightstand.

A message from Celene, her best friend:

"You need to hear this. Don't panic. But Mirana just dropped a podcast bomb. Link below."

Her stomach twisted.

Caliste hesitated. Her thumb hovered over the link.

She tapped it.

The podcast opened with soft piano music, syrupy and sweet. Then a familiar voice—too sweet, too composed—flowed through the speakers.

"I didn't come here to stir drama," Mirana began, voice wrapped in faux vulnerability. "But when you're carrying a child, and the father is in the arms of another woman—on magazine covers, no less—it hurts. Deeply."

The air in the room thickened. Caliste's breath caught in her throat.

"Lucian and I… we weren't perfect. But we had something real. And this pregnancy—it wasn't planned. But it happened out of love. Not calculation."

Not calculation? Caliste's hand trembled.

Mirana's voice softened again.

"I've kept quiet for weeks, but the pain… the betrayal… I can't anymore. I just hope that little life growing inside me won't be denied just because his father is too busy protecting a name, not a heart."

The audio cut off.

Silence fell.

And then it hit.

Caliste gasped sharply, almost dropping the phone. Her eyes welled with fury, confusion, shame. She stumbled backward until her legs hit the edge of the bed, where she sank down slowly, hand to her chest.

The tears didn't fall immediately.

They simmered.

She had believed—just a sliver—that things were changing. That Lucian was changing. His softer touches. The way he looked at her across the dining table. The protective tension in his jaw when someone got too close. The kiss...

It had all felt real.

But now?

Had it all been a game?

A distraction from the truth?

Was she just a trophy wife to cover up a scandal?

She grabbed a tissue with shaking fingers, dabbing her eyes but not wiping away the rage.

The whispers would grow louder now. The headlines more cruel. And Mirana—oh, Mirana—she had just played her hand with all the world watching.

The room spun as her phone buzzed again—Lucian calling.

She stared at the screen.

Five missed calls.

She clenched the device, jaw tightening. Then, with one swift motion, she shoved it face-down on the nightstand and stood up.

Caliste Winslow had been raised in diamonds and decorum.

But now?

Now, she felt fire in her blood.

She would not run.

She would rise.

----

Lucian Velmore stood by the expansive glass wall of his office, knuckles white against the edge of his desk. The city lights below blurred through the glass, flickering like sparks ready to ignite into wildfire.

"Mirana," he muttered through clenched teeth.

The video played on his tablet screen again—her voice syrupy, calculated, perfectly designed for media sympathy.

She'd done it.

She'd leaked the interview.

And she knew exactly what she was doing.

He snatched his coat and stormed out. "Thomas," he barked at his driver, "Cancel all meetings. Drive me to Mirana's penthouse. Now."

The tension in the air was electric as the black SUV roared through the city.

Minutes later, Lucian stood in front of a sleek high-rise. Paparazzi were already beginning to swarm outside—fueled by rumors, their cameras ready.

He didn't flinch. Not once.

Security let him in without question.

The elevator ride was suffocating.

She thinks she can corner me with this? he thought, rage boiling beneath his tailored exterior. She thinks she can drag Caliste into this storm and still walk away untouched?

The elevator doors slid open with a ding.

Mirana was lounging on the couch, silk robe draped lazily over her limbs, wine glass in hand, as if she were waiting for him.

"How quick," she smirked, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Didn't expect you to come running so soon."

Lucian's gaze was sharp as a blade. "What the hell did you do?"

She feigned innocence. "Just told the truth, darling. About your child. About us."

"There is no us," he snapped, voice cold and cutting. "You've humiliated my wife, tarnished the Velmore name, and stirred a storm you won't survive. Was that the plan all along?"

Mirana rose slowly, placing the wine glass down. "Oh Lucian," she cooed, stepping toward him. "You think people care about reputations anymore? They care about stories. And I've just given them the juiciest one of all."

He glared. "You're not carrying my child."

Her smile faltered—just a flicker.

He noticed.

"You said it yourself," he went on, voice hardening, "it was never about love. We were convenient. You used me then. You're using this now."

"You think they'll believe you over a pregnant woman?" she asked, tone sharpening.

"I'll do a paternity test before this charade goes any further," he said. "If it's mine, I'll take responsibility. But drag Caliste into this again and I swear, Mirana—media protection won't save you from me."

Mirana crossed her arms, bitterness flashing in her eyes. "So this is about her. The prim little heiress who suddenly made the ice prince bleed?"

Lucian stepped forward, voice dropping dangerously low. "This is about you crossing a line."

The room crackled with tension.

He turned to leave.

"Lucian!" she called, voice rising.

He didn't stop.

Not even when she shouted behind him, "She'll leave you! She'll see you for the bastard you really are!"

The door shut behind him with a cold, final click.

Outside, cameras flashed.

But Lucian didn't care.

There was only one person he needed to talk to.

Only one person whose silence was starting to break him.

Caliste.