Chapter 519 Did You Make Love with Him?
"Yes." Calliope's response was unwavering and absolute.
She continued with deliberate emphasis: "Yes, I do prefer younger men now. What business is that of yours, Octavius? We've been divorced for years—we're free to live our separate lives. You're with Seraphine, and I haven't interfered. I expect the same courtesy regarding my personal relationships."
"Personal relationships?" Octavius's laugh was bitter and cutting. "Calliope, you think you can have a meaningful connection with some inexperienced boy? Does he even understand what a woman like you needs? Can he possibly satisfy someone of your... maturity?"
"My private life is none of your concern," Calliope replied icily. "And I suggest you watch your tongue, Octavius."
She had no patience left for this conversation. Their shared past existed—neither terrible nor wonderful—but it had been swept away by time's relentless current. Occasionally she might revisit those memories with detached curiosity, but she would never walk backward into that life again. What would be the point of coming to Evergreen City if she intended to repeat old mistakes?
She turned toward Pembroke, dismissing Octavius entirely.
The young man cut a striking figure in the evening light—faded jeans and a simple black t-shirt that emphasized his lean, athletic build. Standing beside Calliope in her elegant attire, they created an unexpectedly harmonious picture, embodying that particular dynamic the internet loved to celebrate: the sophisticated older woman and her devoted younger lover.
Pembroke's gaze found Octavius, recognizing him immediately. This was Calliope's ex-husband, the infamous Octavius whose reputation preceded him throughout Harmony City.
Men understood men, and Pembroke easily read the longing and resentment burning in the older man's eyes. Without comment, he slipped his arm around Calliope's waist and spoke softly, "Unless you have other obligations, I'd like to take you home."
Calliope nodded, pressing her fingers to her temples with a rueful smile. "I had too much wine—my head's spinning. All I want is to collapse into bed and sleep for twelve hours. This week has been absolutely exhausting."
Though her words were matter-of-fact, something in her tone carried an unconscious intimacy that made Pembroke's pulse quicken.
He looked down at her with the intense focus that only young men in love possessed. His energy was boundless, his desire constant—he would gladly spend every waking moment in bed with her if she'd allow it.
But he knew Calliope was building something important, carving out her own space in the world, and she needed more than just physical passion. So he restrained himself, determined to be exactly what she needed, even when every instinct urged him toward possession.
The hunger in his eyes was unmistakable, and Calliope read it easily.
She touched his forearm gently, her voice dropping to a whisper, "Not tonight—I need to spend time with Elspeth. Saturday, though. I'll clear half the day for us."
Pembroke's arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer with unmistakable possessiveness.
Behind them, Octavius watched in silence, something bitter and unfamiliar twisting in his chest. He studied the couple before him—so perfectly matched, so naturally intimate—and couldn't identify what felt so wrong about the scene. He had Seraphine, after all. They were planning a wedding. Yet somehow what he shared with his fiancée felt hollow compared to this electric connection between Pembroke and Calliope.
After a long moment, the difference crystallized in his mind. He and Seraphine cared for each other, certainly, but neither expected fidelity of the heart. They would both stray when temptation arose, would both pursue whatever sparked their desire, because ultimately their arrangement was built on convenience rather than love.
He was fond of Seraphine—genuinely fond—but he didn't love her.
And what did he feel for Calliope? He honestly didn't know.
In the parking garage, Pembroke's black Range Rover reflected his success as both an architect and heir to family wealth. As he secured Calliope's seatbelt, his concern about Octavius finally surfaced. "Do you still have feelings for him?"
Calliope's hand found his cheek, her smile enigmatic. "He's getting married."
The non-answer frustrated him, but before he could press further, she silenced his questions with her mouth. Her kiss was hungry, desperate, and he responded with the fervor of youth and jealousy combined. His hand tangled in her hair as he deepened the kiss, claiming her with an intensity that bordered on desperation.
He was careful to support her, gentle even in his passion, but his need was evident in every touch. Calliope melted against him, her silk dress riding up her thighs as she pulled him closer, their breathing ragged in the confined space.
The violent crash against the hood shattered the moment.
Through the windshield, they watched Octavius raise a tire iron and bring it down again, leaving deep dents in the metal. His face was a mask of fury as he stalked to the passenger door and yanked it open.
"Get out," he commanded, reaching for Calliope.
Despite her disheveled appearance, Calliope's voice was steady and cold. "Have you lost your mind, Octavius? We're finished—have been for years. You're about to marry someone else. What the hell is wrong with you?"
His grip on her arm was bruising as he tried to pull her from the car. "You're still my wife, Calliope!"
"You're insane." She kicked at him, but Octavius seemed beyond reason.
The image of what he'd interrupted—Calliope's flushed face, her dress hiked up, the obvious trajectory of their passion—sent blood roaring through his ears. If he hadn't arrived when he did, she would have given herself to another man. The thought was unbearable.
Calliope belonged to him. How dare she offer herself to someone else?
Pembroke emerged from the driver's side, ready to fight, but security guards appeared with tasers, recognizing Octavius and trying to defuse the situation.
"Sir, you're a public figure," one pleaded. "This kind of scene could destroy your reputation."
"You'll pay for the damage," another added. "Let's keep this quiet."
But Octavius was beyond their control, raising the tire iron again until Percival arrived to restrain him.
Calliope and Pembroke escaped in a taxi, the mood between them irreparably altered. She pressed her fingers to her forehead, embarrassment coloring her voice, "I'm sorry you had to see that."
Pembroke took her hand but remained silent as the blue cab cut through the empty streets. Finally, he spoke quietly, "If you'd let me, I'd spend my life making sure you never cry again."
The simple promise nearly undid her. During her marriage to Octavius, he'd assumed that his success and status were enough—that she should be grateful for the privilege of being his wife, regardless of his infidelities and neglect. But what did any woman really want beyond money and power? Just one person who would choose her, day after day, for the rest of their lives.
Now this young man was offering exactly that—devotion, fidelity, the promise of cherished love.
Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she held them back.
Meanwhile, Octavius returned to his hotel suite, where Seraphine was applying nail polish and a face mask, having just finished her evening shoot.
"You're late," she said without opening her eyes. "Percival said you'd be back by ten."
"Traffic," he lied, his mood too dark for conversation.
When she tried to probe further, he peeled off her face mask and took what he needed from her body with mechanical efficiency. Thirty minutes later, as she stroked his face with genuine concern, asking what was wrong, he simply replaced her mask and told her to continue her beauty routine.
Seraphine wanted to protest but knew better than to challenge him before their wedding. She swallowed her anger and said nothing.
Octavius dressed and moved to the living area, where he opened a bottle of wine and stared out at the city lights. His body was satisfied, but his soul felt emptier than ever. He'd been with Seraphine, but his thoughts had been consumed by Calliope—his Calliope.
Two bottles later, drunk on wine and obsession, he drove to her townhouse and crashed through the security gate when the guards refused him entry. His position and power made him untouchable, and everyone knew it.
He was done playing by rules.
In the dead of night, driven by rage and desperate need, he dragged Calliope from her bed to the bathroom, tearing her silk nightgown until she stood exposed under the crystal chandelier.
"Octavius! Have you completely lost your mind?" she gasped. "You're getting married! I have a boyfriend! This is assault—you could go to prison!"
But her words only fueled his determination. His hands claimed her body with the authority of ownership, his muscles coiled and ready. He was past the point of restraint, past caring about consequences. He needed to reclaim what was his, to remind her who she truly belonged to.
The slap cracked across his face like a gunshot.
He turned back to her slowly, his eyes bloodshot with fury and something darker. For a moment, she thought he might actually hurt her.
In that instant, he felt it—pure, undiluted hatred. He hated that she'd moved on, hated that she flaunted her young lover in front of him, hated that he was no longer the center of her universe.
But the hatred wasn't one-sided.
Calliope's breathing was ragged, her body trembling with fury rather than fear. When she spoke, her voice carried a disappointment so profound it cut deeper than any blade.
"Before we married, yes, I'd been with other men. But from our wedding day until our divorce, I was completely faithful to you. Even during those long, lonely nights when you were with other women, I told myself you were worth the sacrifice. I treasured our marriage and refused to give you any excuse to leave me." Her voice grew stronger, more resolute. "Even after we separated, I remained essentially celibate because some pathetic part of me hoped you might come back."
She continued, "I preserved my dignity, my fidelity, my heart—and what did it earn me? Nothing but your continued disrespect. You sabotaged things with Eldric, and I didn't fight you because I felt nothing real for him. But Pembroke is different."
Her eyes blazed with conviction. "He's brilliant, ambitious, full of life. Sometimes I think I don't deserve him—that my age, my past marriage, my baggage makes me unworthy. But he sees something in me worth cherishing. I'm not playing games with him, Octavius. This is real."
The words hit him like physical blows. She was telling him about another man's virtues, declaring her serious intentions, making it clear this wasn't some rebound fling.
After a long silence, he asked the question that was destroying him: "Have you slept with him?"
Calliope met his gaze without flinching. "Several times."
Something snapped inside him. His fist connected with the wooden door behind her, splitting his knuckles and leaving blood on the pristine surface.
Octavius raised his hand and gently stroked her delicate cheek. Rather than showing anger, a bitter smile appeared on his lips.
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