Chapter 23 - Evania
I got home much later than I expected because I left all my books, perfume, bags, and other things I'd bought at Elena’s apartment.
The drive back felt longer than usual. The excitement from using his card faded into something heavier.
Earlier, I had laughed with my sisters as we sorted through everything: stacking novels, testing perfume, admiring the stitching on designer bags I’d only seen behind glass before. It felt thrilling. Liberating.
But when I had to look at everything piled together in my car, the guilt got too much.
I pressed my forehead briefly to the steering wheel.
“You said you’d spend his money,” I muttered to myself. “You’re just playing your role. Why are you feeling bad about it?”
Now here I was, setting my shoes by the door and slowly making my way across the dim hallway, heading toward the kitchen to get something to eat.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Maria must have retired for the evening. The house was dimly lit and quiet, intimidating in that way big houses often were. I held my shoes, and my bare feet made soft sounds on the hard floors. My stomach growled, but even hunger couldn't drown out the racing thoughts in my head.
Did I take it too far?
Was there a limit he hadn’t said out loud?
I was halfway to the kitchen, hunger finally overriding my guilt, when a throat cleared behind me.
I nearly jumped out of my skin.
I spun around and froze.
Callahan stood a few feet away, leaning lightly against the wall.
He was dressed more casually than I had ever seen him.
Grey sweats hung low on his hips; a simple t-shirt, house slippers.
His usually immaculate hair was slightly tousled.
Sleeves pushed up casually. I had never seen him like this.
No tailored suit. No cufflinks. No perfectly sculpted businessman mask.
He looked... human.
And the sadness reflected in his eyes made my chest tighten—a stinging ache that felt like regret and longing tangled together.
A sad little smile curved his mouth.
In that moment, he resembled a puppy someone had accidentally left out in the rain.
I stood frozen, surprised by his appearance and even more surprised by the expression he wore. My mind jumped straight to today’s endless shopping, not just for me but for my sisters. Before I could apologize or form the words, he held out his hand to me.
My eyes flickered from his hand, hovering and open, to his face, searching for some explanation.
He said nothing. Instead, his gaze softened, and he gestured again—palm up, fingers gently curling—inviting me to take his hand.
The tension in my shoulders eased just a fraction.
Slowly, I stepped forward and placed my hand in his.
His fingers closed around mine immediately, firm yet careful.
His touch was unfamiliar but warm. Without a word, he turned and began to walk ahead, gently tugging me along as he silently guided me through the house.
He didn’t speak as he turned, gently guiding me to follow him. I didn’t ask where we were going. I didn’t pull away. I just walked beside him in silence, trying to read his expression from the side.
We passed the kitchen.
So he wasn't about to feed me. I could only hope I hid my disappointment well.
He led me toward the back doors instead. My brows furrowed slightly as he pushed them open, the cool night air brushing against my skin. The backyard was softly lit, the pool reflecting the moonlight in ripples of silver. Crickets hummed quietly in the distance, giving it an earthy feel.
He continued walking, still holding my hand, leading me toward the building I had noticed on my first night here.
A separate building at the edge of the property, half hidden by trees.
I’d assumed it was a guest house, a storage space, or some kind of billionaire hobby room.
I had no idea if any of my speculations were right, though it seemed I would find out soon enough what was inside.
He still hadn’t let go of my hand. As we reached the small building, he stopped in front of the door and turned to face me. Up close, under the soft glow of the exterior light, he looked vulnerable in a way I had never seen before.
That alone stunned me.
My lips parted slightly as his free hand rose, fingers brushing gently against my cheek.
The touch was so soft it made my breath catch.
“Callahan…” I whispered, unsure of what I was asking.
Just as quickly as he touched me, his hand started to fall away from my face.
It was subtle—the quiet resignation in the way his fingers loosened against my cheek, his eyes briefly clouding with self-doubt, like he’d already decided he didn’t deserve to touch me. Heart pounding, breath catching, I reached up and grabbed his wrist before I could reconsider.
I kept his hand exactly where it was—cupping my cheek.
Callahan froze.
His eyes widened slightly, startled by the move. The sadness that had been weighing down his expression shifted. It didn’t disappear, but it cracked open, replaced with something fragile and, dare I say, hopeful.
He swallowed, like he wasn’t sure if I was about to push him away next.
I wasn’t.
He let out a slow breath through his nose, his thumb barely brushing against my skin again. “I was just—”
“Don’t,” I said softly.
His gaze locked with mine.
“I understand,” he began, voice lower now, steadier than the look in his eyes. “I understand where I went wrong.”
“Tell me,” I whispered.
“I should never have thought of you as a gold digger,” he spoke quietly. “Not even for a second.”
The words landed between us. Heavy. Honest. Like the first bit of unbiased truth being shared between us.
“I told myself I was being careful,” he continued. “That I was protecting myself. That this was a business arrangement and I’d be stupid not to consider every possibility.”
His jaw tightened slightly. “But the truth is… I was scared to think of you in any other way.”
“Scared?” I asked, surprised, even though he mentioned being scared before.
He nodded.
“If I let myself believe that you weren’t here for the money,” he said, “then it meant you might actually care about me.”
My heart thudded painfully against my ribs.
“And that terrified me. I told myself that if you were in this for the money,” he went on, “then I wouldn’t have to risk anything. I wouldn’t have to risk believing you chose me.”
"I believe in choice," he said carefully. "People choosing each other every day."
His thumb brushed along my cheek again, hesitant now. “I convinced myself it was safer to assume the worst."
I took a slow breath, trying and failing to calm my racing heart. When I told him he'd need to grovel, this was not at all what I was expecting. He was baring his soul to me, and it made it that much easier for me to bridge the gap and do the same.
“I do love that you’re rich,” I said honestly. His eyes flickered, guarded instinctively. I tightened my grip on his wrist before he could think of pulling away again.
“But not the way you think,” I added quickly.
His expression softened just slightly. “Then tell me the way you mean.”
I hesitated. This wasn’t the cute, teasing version of the truth. This wasn’t me joking about spending his money or demanding diamonds. This was the ugly, vulnerable part that could make me seem even more materialistic.
“My ex was financially challenged,” I began. "That's my nice way of saying he was broke."
Callahan’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t interrupt.
“He wasn’t just broke,” I clarified. “He was miserable. And he made sure I felt miserable too.”
The memories rose up whether I wanted them to or not.
“He hated that I liked nice things. Nothing outrageous. Just… a good bag. A new dress every once in a while. Hardcover books instead of paperbacks.”
Callahan’s thumb stilled against my cheek.
“He’d sigh every time I bought something for myself,” I continued. “Like my happiness was irresponsible. Like wanting something better made me shallow even though I was spending my own money.”
My voice stayed steady, but beneath it, my chest fluttered with the threat of tears.
“He’d say things like, ‘If you really loved me, you wouldn’t care about money.
’ And for a while, I believed him. I stopped treating myself.
I stopped talking about what I wanted. I felt guilty every time I enjoyed something.
It's not like I pressured him to spend money on me; it was quite the opposite.
I encouraged him to save, to chase his dreams, to explore whatever career made him happy, but it still wasn't enough. I was willing to build with him, but he was too caught up in appearances to notice.”
Callahan’s hand tightened slightly where it rested against my face.
“After him, every guy I dated treated money like it was everything. They either obsessed over how much they made or how much I made. Or they felt threatened by it. Or they used it as leverage to control the relationship.”
I gave him a small, tired smile. “So I started doing the same. I started looking at men through the same lens they were looking at me.”
“Through money,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
It sounded ugly when I said it out loud. But it was true.
“I got used to thinking that financial stability meant safety,” I admitted.
“That if a man were secure in that area, he wouldn’t resent me for wanting nice things.
He wouldn’t guilt me. He wouldn’t make me feel small.
I told myself that even if it wasn’t romantic, at least I wouldn’t have to apologize for wanting comfort. ”
His eyes darkened—not with anger, but understanding. "So that's why you had no problem with marrying me, what would you have done if I weren't rich?"
“I didn't marry you because of your wealth,” I clarified. “But I won’t pretend I don’t appreciate that you are wealthy. From our first date, it was clear to me that you were nothing like the men I had dated before. You were a gentleman, and I wanted you all to myself.”
A faint, almost disbelieving smile touched his lips.
“You have every right to want someone financially stable,” he said firmly. “You have every right to want someone who can meet your expectations.”
My brows lifted slightly. “You don’t think that makes me selfish?”
“No,” he said without hesitation. “Not when you've been so honest about it.”
“My years of reading romance novels fed my delusions,” I admitted, almost sheepishly. “All those billionaire heroes who worship the ground their women walk on. It was all wishful thinking until I met you.”
He huffed softly. “We're finally on the same page, yet now I have to compete with fictional men.”
"As long as you continue being the gentleman I saw on our first date, you won't have anything to worry about."
"That's a relief," he mumbled, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "I should probably admit that I felt a sense of pride whenever my phone lit up with a notification from the bank."
I stared at him, trying to decide if he was teasing me.
“Pride?” I repeated.
“Yes.” His tone was calm, steady. “Every time my phone buzzed, I knew you were out there choosing something for yourself. I liked knowing I was the one who made that possible.”
My fingers tightened around his. I had no idea he was being notified of my every purchase.
“I didn’t realize you could see everything,” I admitted softly.
“I could,” he shook his head as if trying to force the laughter bubbling up away. "My bank also called to tell me about the three-million-dollar purchase."
My eyes widened, my body instinctively recoiling away from him. This time, he didn't hide his laugh, and I felt even more embarrassed because of it. "Did they also tell you I tried to buy a Barnes and Noble?"
"They did," he chuckled, not caring how red my face was getting. "But I'm more interested in what the three million was for."
I kept my face turned away from him, this being the only way I could hide how mortified I was. "I bought a supermarket," I sighed, the words rolling off my tongue before I could stop them. "Let's not make a big deal out of it."
"Wh-" he snickered, prompting me to glare at him. "Why would you buy a supermarket?"
"I wouldn't have come out here if I knew this would lead to an interrogation. I'm hungry enough as it is."
"You're hungry?" he asked, his mood instantly changing to one of concern.
When I nodded, he frowned, turned to the door, and opened it.
Rows upon rows of empty shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, wrapping around the room in perfect symmetry. Polished wood. Soft lighting. A sliding ladder was mounted along the upper rail. The space was large enough to feel grand but intimate enough to feel intentional.
I stepped forward slowly, crossing the threshold as though I might disturb something fragile.
“Callahan…” My voice came out barely above a whisper.
He remained near the doorway, watching me instead of the room.
“I had my books moved out,” he said.
I turned to him sharply. “You moved your entire library?”
“Yes. For you.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I protested immediately. “This is your space.”
"It's yours now, that is, if you agree to work on this marriage with me."