The first time she stripped for Callen, she wasn't naked. Not in the way most people understood nudity.
She still wore her designer heels, her black silk dress, her necklace made of guilt and silence.But her secrets?Those came off first.
Eira sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, back straight, legs crossed, every inch of her radiating polished control. Her eyes, though—those eyes couldn't lie. They begged for someone to just look closer.
Callen raised the camera again.
Click.Click.Click.
Each shutter felt like a scalpel.
"You're still pretending," he said.
"To be what?"
"Whole."
Her eyes narrowed. "I didn't come here to be diagnosed."
"No," he said, lowering the camera. "You came here because you're falling apart and you don't trust anyone to notice."
Her breath caught.
He's too close. Too much. Too fast.
"Why does it matter to you?" she asked, voice tight. "You don't know me."
Callen stepped closer, crouching down in front of her. His fingers brushed lightly against her ankle strap.
"I know enough," he said. "I know you haven't been touched like you matter in a long time."
She pulled her foot away.
"I have a husband."
He laughed softly. "So do half my clients."
Note: This line refers to Callen's underground clientele, who are often wealthy, married women seeking emotional and physical validation outside their emotionally distant marriages.
Eira stood. "I think we're done here."
But as she reached for her coat, his next words stopped her cold.
"He doesn't even know what your laugh sounds like anymore, does he?"
Her hand froze on the coat rack.
Callen didn't smirk. Didn't leer. He just looked—really looked. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
"I'll make you a deal," he said quietly. "Come back tomorrow. Same time. One hour. You don't have to say anything. Just… sit. Let me photograph what the world pretends not to see."
She turned to him, a bitter smile on her lips. "And what do you get out of it?"
Callen stepped back, the camera hanging from his neck like a weapon. "The truth. It's the rarest thing in this city."
The Vaughn Penthouse — 1:15 A.M.
Julian was in bed when she got home.
He wasn't asleep. He wasn't awake.
He was elsewhere—eyes glazed, phone screen glowing, one arm draped over the side like he was waiting for someone else to come home.
He didn't ask where she'd been.
He didn't notice the smear of lipstick gone wrong or the faint flush on her chest.
Note: This indifference is a recurring symbol of the emotional neglect Eira suffers. It's not about blatant abuse—it's about absence, the slow starvation of affection masked as stability.
Eira changed into her silk nightgown, the one Julian had bought two anniversaries ago. He hadn't noticed she hadn't worn it since.
She slid into bed beside him.
"Late meeting?" he asked, eyes still on his screen.
She stared at the ceiling. "Yeah. You?"
He nodded. "Busy day. I might fly out Friday."
Silence stretched between them, thick with everything unspoken.
Julian turned off his phone. Rolled away from her. Slept.
And for the first time in months, Eira stayed awake.
Not because of guilt.
But because her body still burned from being seen.
The Next Night — Back at the Studio
She didn't mean to come back.
She told herself she wouldn't.
But at 9:42 p.m., her car was already parked outside Callen's studio, the black dress replaced by a loose cream blouse and no bra. A silent rebellion.
Callen opened the door without a word. No smile this time. No small talk.
She stepped inside. The studio was darker now. Moodier.
The jazz was slower.
The wine already poured.
"You always assume I'll say yes?" she asked.
"I only invite people who've already said yes in their hearts," he replied.
She hated how that line worked.
He motioned toward the same spot—the sofa beneath the soft light.
"Sit."
This time, she didn't hesitate.
Callen didn't reach for the camera right away. He poured wine, handed her a glass.
"I want to ask something tonight," he said.
"No tricks?"
"No camera. Just one question."
Eira arched an eyebrow. "Only one?"
He nodded. "What's the one thing you've never told anyone—not even yourself?"
She laughed. Short. Cold. "That I'm miserable."
Callen tilted his head. "No. You know that already. Try again."
She sipped the wine. Looked away.
Then, barely above a whisper:
"I don't think I'm capable of being loved."
Silence.
No click of a camera. No gasp. Just… truth.
And that was when the clothes stopped mattering.
Callen stood, crossed the space between them. His fingers reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
She didn't flinch.
He leaned in, not to kiss her, but to speak against her skin.
"I don't want your body tonight," he said. "I want your shame. Give it to me. Let me break it."
Tears welled up. Not from sadness—but from recognition.
And when he kissed her, finally, it wasn't the kind of kiss that demanded or consumed.
It was permission.
To unravel.
To ache.
To start again.
The kiss deepened. Her blouse slid off her shoulder. Skin met skin.
But no rush. No lustful grabbing. Only reverence.
They didn't make love.
They unmade pain.
1:04 A.M. — Back at the Penthouse
Julian was gone.
A note on the table: "Overnight trip. Didn't want to wake you."
No kiss. No goodnight. Just an empty space.
Eira stared at her reflection in the mirror.
Lips swollen. Eyes open.
For the first time in forever, she didn't feel like a ghost in her own home.
But that peace was a lie too.
Because one truth always leads to another.
And tomorrow?
She would learn Callen had secrets too.
Dark ones.
Ones that stared back at her from behind the camera lens.