Spartacus: Unbound / Season 1, Episode 2
Rules of Engagement
EPISODE 2: RULES OF ENGAGEMENT
CHAPTER 1: THE SCHEDULE
Life as Mrs. James Callahan came with a schedule.
Elena discovered this on her second morning, when Katherine appeared at eight sharp with a leather-bound folder.
"Your week, Mrs. Callahan."
The folder contained: - Monday: Charity committee meeting, lunch with aunt Margaret, dress fitting - Tuesday: Spa appointment, afternoon tea with society wives, dinner at the Fairmont - Wednesday: Hospital visit (father), gallery opening with James - Thursday: Brunch interview with Vanity Fair (declined, but PR suggested), shopping with Katherine - Friday: Board dinner (James's company, spouse attendance required) - Saturday: Golf club luncheon, evening gala - Sunday: Rest day (but brunch with William)
"This is every week?"
"This is a light week." Katherine's smile was sympathetic. "Mr. Callahan's previous... associates... found the schedule overwhelming."
"Associates?"
"Girlfriends. Dates. Whatever you'd call them."
"None lasted?"
"The longest was four months. Most didn't make it past six weeks." Katherine paused. "If you need anything adjusted, just ask."
Elena looked at the schedule. Looked at the penthouse. Looked at her new life, laid out in neat lines on expensive paper.
"I'll manage."
CHAPTER 2: THE CHARITY COMMITTEE
The Morrison Foundation Women's Charity Committee met in a boardroom overlooking the Bay.
Eight women, all wives or daughters of San Francisco's elite, gathered around a mahogany table to discuss how best to spend their husbands' money on worthy causes.
Elena felt like an anthropologist studying a foreign species.
"Mrs. Callahan!" Amanda Morrison—Richard's wife—descended with air kisses. "We're so delighted you could join us."
"Thank you for having me."
"James's wife belongs here, of course. We must keep these things in the family."
The meeting covered logistics for an upcoming gala—something about literacy or libraries or possibly both. Elena contributed nothing, nodded at appropriate moments, and tried not to scream.
These women weren't bad people. They were genuinely trying to help. But the way they discussed poverty—as an abstract problem to be solved with donations and tax write-offs—made Elena's skin crawl.
She'd grown up poor. She knew what poverty felt like from the inside.
Afterward, Amanda cornered her.
"I must say, you're not what we expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone more... polished. The women James usually dates are a certain type. You're different."
"Is that a compliment?"
Amanda's smile sharpened. "It's an observation. James is a prize, Mrs. Callahan. Many women have tried to catch him. You succeeded. Just don't forget that prizes can be taken away."
Elena held her gaze. "I don't think of my husband as a prize, Mrs. Morrison. I think of him as a person."
Silence. Then Amanda laughed—a brittle, surprised sound.
"Perhaps you really are different."
CHAPTER 3: THE AUNT
Aunt Margaret was James's mother's sister—a seventy-year-old woman with steel-gray hair and sharper steel eyes.
Lunch was at the Pacific-Union Club, a place Elena had never heard of but which apparently required her to wear pearls.
"So." Margaret set down her water glass with precision. "You're the girl who trapped my nephew."
"I prefer to think of it as mutual trapping."
One eyebrow rose. "Do you?"
"He needed something. I needed something. We came to an arrangement."
"And that's all this is? An arrangement?"
"I'm not sure what you want me to say, Mrs.—"
"Margaret. We're family now, God help us." She picked up her menu. "Order the salmon. It's the only edible thing here."
Elena ordered the salmon.
"I'm going to give you some advice," Margaret continued. "Free of charge, which is rare for me. My nephew is not a happy man. He's successful, he's wealthy, he's brilliant—but he hasn't been happy since his parents died."
"His parents?"
"A car accident. Twenty years ago. James was twelve." Margaret's voice softened, just slightly. "He inherited his mother's company at eighteen, built it into something enormous, and in the process, lost whatever softness he'd had as a child."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you're not like the others. I can tell. The others saw dollar signs. You see something else." She studied Elena. "What do you see?"
A man who hides behind coldness. A man who chose his grandmother's ring. A man who shows vulnerability only when he doesn't realize he's doing it.
"I see someone who needs to be seen," Elena said quietly.
Margaret smiled—genuine this time.
"Then maybe there's hope for both of you."
CHAPTER 4: THE FITTING
The Met Gala dress was a sculptural work of art—rose gold fabric that caught the light like liquid metal.
Elena stood on a platform while three seamstresses adjusted and pinned, feeling like a mannequin.
"Beautiful," Katherine murmured. "Mr. Callahan will be pleased."
"Does everything I wear need to please Mr. Callahan?"
"The public appearances are part of the arrangement. Looking appropriate is part of the arrangement."
"Appropriate." Elena watched herself in the mirror—this stranger in designer clothes. "Not good enough or beautiful or even acceptable. Just appropriate."
"I didn't mean—"
"It's fine, Katherine. I understand the terms."
But later, alone in her room, Elena pulled up photos of James's previous girlfriends. Models, actresses, socialites—all of them stunning in obvious ways. All of them polished and perfect and interchangeable.
None of them had lasted.
Maybe "appropriate" wasn't what James actually needed.
CHAPTER 5: THE HOSPITAL
Wednesday's hospital visit was the first thing on the schedule that Elena actually wanted to do.
Her father had improved—the medications were working, and he'd even gained some weight. The surgery was scheduled for next month, paid in full with the signing bonus from her contract.
"Mija." He beamed when she entered. "Look at you. So fancy."
"Too fancy." She sat beside him, taking his hand. "I feel like a costume."
"You look beautiful. Like your mother when I first met her."
"Papá."
"It's true." His grip tightened. "I've been thinking about this. About your marriage. About how fast everything happened."
"Don't—"
"Let me finish." He coughed—better than before, but still worrying. "I don't know why you married James Callahan. I don't think it was love—at least not yet. But I know my daughter. I know you had reasons. And I trust you."
"Papá..."
"I also know that reasons change. Hearts change. Whatever this marriage is now, it doesn't have to be that forever."
Elena leaned forward, resting her head against his shoulder. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise. You just never listened."
They sat together in comfortable silence while the monitors beeped and the nurses made their rounds.
Maybe reasons could change. Maybe hearts could too.
But Elena wasn't sure either of them—she or James—had hearts left to change.
CHAPTER 6: THE GALLERY
The gallery opening was her first evening event with James since the wedding.
He arrived at the penthouse at 7 PM sharp, already dressed—black suit, no tie, the uniform of men who didn't need to try.
"Ready?"
"Almost." Elena adjusted her earrings—borrowed, since she'd refused the diamonds James had offered. "What should I know?"
"The gallery owner is Marcel DuPont. Pretentious but harmless. Several of my board members will be present. Be charming."
"I'm always charming."
Something like amusement crossed his face. "You're many things, Mrs. Callahan. Charming isn't the first word I'd choose."
"What would you choose?"
"Honest." He offered his arm. "Which is more valuable, in my experience."
The gallery was as pretentious as promised—white walls, mysterious sculptures, wine that cost more than meals. Elena navigated conversations, smiled appropriately, and watched James work the room.
He was different here—animated in a way she hadn't seen at home. He discussed art with apparent knowledge, asked questions that seemed genuinely curious, even laughed at someone's joke.
"You're surprised," a voice said.
Elena turned. An older woman stood beside her, champagne in hand, eyes twinkling.
"I'm sorry?"
"You're watching James and looking surprised. Everyone does, the first few times. They expect the Ice King and find..." She gestured. "That."
"And what is 'that'?"
"A man who loves art. One of the few things he does love, besides his work." The woman sipped her champagne. "I'm Evelyn, by the way. James's godmother."
"Elena. His wife."
"Oh, I know." Evelyn's smile widened. "I've been watching you too."
"And what do you see?"
"Someone who's still figuring him out. Good. The others gave up too quickly." She patted Elena's arm. "Keep watching. Keep asking. James is worth the effort, once you get past the walls."
CHAPTER 7: THE WALLS
That night, Elena couldn't sleep.
She wandered the penthouse, exploring rooms she hadn't bothered to enter—a library, a music room, a home theater she'd never use.
Behind one door, she found something unexpected: a painting studio.
Canvases lined the walls, some finished, some in progress. The work was good—abstract, emotional, full of movement and color. Nothing like the cold precision Elena associated with James.
"You're not supposed to be in here."
She spun. James stood in the doorway, dressed in pajama pants and nothing else, his hair disheveled from sleep.
"I'm sorry. I was just—"
"Snooping?"
"Exploring." She looked back at the canvases. "These are yours?"
"An old hobby."
"They're beautiful."
He said nothing. But he didn't make her leave either.
"Why don't you do it anymore?" Elena asked.
"I don't have time."
"You have a gallery in your home. You clearly care about art. But your own art sits unfinished." She turned to face him. "Why?"
"Because art requires feeling, Mrs. Callahan. And feeling is a luxury I gave up long ago."
"Why?"
"Because feelings get in the way. They cloud judgment. They create vulnerability. And in my world, vulnerability is weakness."
Elena stepped closer. "Is that what you really believe? Or what you've told yourself?"
He was close enough to touch. Close enough that she could see the slight stubble on his jaw, the tiny scar above his eyebrow, the way his eyes darkened when he was uncomfortable.
"It doesn't matter what I believe," he said quietly. "What matters is what works."
"And does it? Work?"
For a long moment, he didn't answer.
Then: "Go to bed, Mrs. Callahan. We have a long day tomorrow."
He turned and left. But Elena stayed in the studio, surrounded by evidence of the man James used to be.
The man who felt things.
The man who might still exist, somewhere behind the walls.
CHAPTER 8: THE BOARD DINNER
Friday's board dinner was an exercise in endurance.
Twelve executives and their spouses, gathered around a table at James's private dining room, discussing quarterly projections and market expansion while Elena tried not to die of boredom.
She was seated between a CFO's wife who only talked about her children and a COO's husband who only talked about golf.
"Mrs. Callahan."
She looked up. The woman across the table—Victoria something, wife of someone important—was watching her with predatory interest.
"Yes?"
"I hear you were an architect. Before."
"I still am an architect. Just... between positions."
"Of course." Victoria's smile didn't reach her eyes. "It must be difficult. Going from working to... this."
"This?"
"Being a trophy wife. Decorative but unnecessary."
The table went quiet. Everyone pretended not to listen while absolutely listening.
Elena set down her fork.
"Mrs... I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."
"Victoria Reed."
"Mrs. Reed. I appreciate your concern for my career transition. But I'm not a trophy wife. I'm a partner to my husband—someone he chose because I bring value beyond decoration." She smiled sweetly. "Perhaps if you brought more value to your own marriage, you wouldn't need to tear down others to feel important."
Silence. Complete, absolute silence.
Then James laughed.
It was unexpected—a genuine, startled sound that made the whole table stare.
"Well said." He raised his glass. "To my wife. Who apparently takes no prisoners."
The dinner continued, but something had shifted. The executives looked at Elena differently now. Victoria refused to meet her eyes.
And James—James kept glancing at her throughout the meal, something unreadable in his expression.
Later, in the car ride home, he said: "You didn't have to do that."
"Do what?"
"Defend yourself. Defend us."
"She was being cruel. I don't tolerate cruelty."
"Most people in my world do. They smile and absorb it and plot revenge later."
"I'm not most people."
"No." He was quiet for a moment. "You're not."
The car pulled into the tower's garage. James helped her out—his hand lingering on hers longer than necessary.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For tonight."
"I didn't do it for you."
"I know. That's why it mattered."
He released her hand and walked away, leaving Elena standing in the underground parking garage, heart racing for reasons she couldn't explain.
CHAPTER 9: THE FIRST MONTH
One month into their marriage, Elena assessed her situation.
The good: Her father's surgery was scheduled. The money was secure. She'd navigated society without major disasters.
The bad: She was lonely. The schedule filled her days but left her isolated. The penthouse felt like a prison, no matter how luxurious.
The complicated: James.
He was cold, yes. Distant, certainly. But glimpses kept appearing—moments of humor, flickers of interest, the studio full of unfinished art.
He wasn't what she'd expected. He wasn't the monster the tabloids implied or the machine his business reputation suggested.
He was something more complicated. Something human.
And that was the most dangerous discovery of all.
"You're thinking too loud."
Elena looked up. James stood in the doorway of her sitting room, still in his work clothes, tablet in hand.
"I didn't know you were home."
"Just arrived. Board meeting ran late." He stepped inside. "You looked troubled."
"Just... processing."
"Processing what?"
"This. You. Everything." She gestured at the room. "I signed up for a business arrangement. A transaction. I didn't expect it to be... complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"You have a painting studio you never use. You gave me your grandmother's ring. You laughed—actually laughed—when I insulted Victoria Reed." She met his eyes. "Who are you, James? Really?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he crossed to her window, looking out at the city below.
"I'm someone who learned young that feelings are dangerous," he finally said. "That caring for things—for people—only leads to loss. I built walls because walls keep you safe."
"And now?"
"And now there's a woman in my house who keeps finding cracks in those walls." He turned to face her. "You're inconvenient, Mrs. Callahan."
"I've been called worse."
"I'm sure you have." He moved closer—close enough that she could smell his cologne, feel the warmth radiating from him. "The arrangement was supposed to be simple. You play the wife, I get the trust, we both move on."
"It is simple."
"No." His voice was quiet. "It's becoming something else entirely."
He left without explaining what he meant.
But Elena lay awake that night, replaying his words.
Something else entirely.
She was afraid to ask what.
End of Episode 2