The Lie We Loved

The next morning, Brielle returned to Westbrook Tower with the signed contract tucked in her bag. Violet greeted her with a tight smile. "Mr Westbrook will see you in the residence on fifty‑one."

Residence? The private penthouse. She followed another guarded elevator ride to a foyer lined with modern art and racing trophies. Grayson waited by a wall of windows, Los Angeles glowing gold behind him.

He held two champagne flutes. "To mutually beneficial lies," he said, handing one over.

"No champagne," she replied, setting the glass on a console. "We work. We win. We walk."

His smile widened. "Work starts now. We need a proposal story for the Keaton board dinner next week."

"Keep it simple: we met at a charity gala last year, reconnected after my scandal, you saw the real me beneath the headlines, blah blah."

He chuckled. "You're good at this."

"I'm good at a lot when I'm not busy being crucified."

Something flickered behind his eyes—respect? Regret? Before she could decipher it, he stepped closer. Too close.

"Rule four," she warned, "No touching without—"

His hand lifted. Not to touch her, but to brush a loose strand of hair back toward her bun. He didn't actually make contact, yet the ghost of it set her skin ablaze.

"Consent?" he murmured.

She forced her pulse steady. "Denied."

He dropped the hand, but the air crackled.

"Fine. Let's strategize," he said, retreating to a marble island where folders awaited. But she caught the slightest hitch in his breath, as if he wasn't immune either.

Rule four hadn't broken—but it had bent, and bending was the first step to breaking.

Later that afternoon they staged their first public sighting: leaving the Montage Beverly Hills hand‑in‑hand. Paparazzi were tipped, of course. Brielle's fingers hovered before sliding into Grayson's at the hotel entrance. Cameras flashed like a war zone.

"Smile," he whispered. She did, lips curving around anger and adrenaline.

He leaned in, nose brushing her temple, pretending to whisper sweet nothings. Instead he said, "You smell like vanilla and rebellion."

She nearly stumbled. "And you smell like practiced sin."

"Gets the job done."

They reached his car. Chauffeur held the door. Grayson paused, eyes on her mouth, just long enough for every telephoto lens to think a kiss was coming. Brielle tilted her chin imperceptibly—Not yet. He obeyed, settling for a possessive hand on the small of her back.

Inside the privacy glass, she exhaled. "Do that again and I'll knee you."

"That threat buzzes in my veins," he replied, amusement wrinkling the corners of his eyes. Then softer: "You did well."

A compliment from Grayson Westbrook was a strange coin: shiny on one side, cutting on the other.

She turned toward the window, city blur rushing past, and wondered how many compliments it would take to forget they were poisoned.

Night found Brielle in bed, insomnia gnawing. Her phone lit with a notification: a gossip site headline. "Westbrook's Mystery Woman—Who Is Brielle Carter, Really?" She forced herself to read every comment. Slut. Social climber. Gold digger. A few defenders, but mostly venom.

She closed the article, opened her notes app, and began typing a speech for when—not if—she cleared her name. It started: The truth didn't trend, but it endured.

She wasn't sure if the words were armor or a prayer.

By morning, the world knew everything — or at least the version Grayson Westbrook wanted them to. One headline, and Brielle Carter had gone from scandal to Cinderella in less than twelve hours.

Well. Maybe signing a fake engagement contract technically counted.

Still.

She skimmed the article—quotes pulled from their brief appearance at the Montage Hotel, blurry shots of her smiling, of him brushing a hand against her back like he owned her. There was even a slowed-down GIF of him leaning close to her ear, captioned with something obnoxious like "When he whispers the wedding date."

They looked in love. Or at least like very expensive actors pretending to be.

She wasn't sure if that made her proud or nauseous.

Her phone buzzed again. GraysonGrayson:

We need to talk strategy. Come to the tower. 11am. Bring your poker face.

She didn't respond. She had no intention of being summoned like an underling.

But at 10:52, she was in an Uber heading straight to Westbrook Tower.

Because despite her pride, she had made a deal.

And deals didn't come with grace periods.

The receptionist already knew her by name. She rode the elevator up without speaking, arms folded, eyes fixed on her reflection in the mirrored panel. She wore a crisp blouse tucked into dark jeans, simple makeup, lips matte—neutral enough to blend in, sharp enough to defend herself with.

The receptionist already knew her by name. She rode the elevator up without speaking, arms folded, eyes fixed on her reflection in the mirrored panel. She wore a crisp blouse tucked into dark jeans, simple makeup, lips matte—neutral enough to blend in, sharp enough to defend herself with.

The doors opened, and she stepped into Grayson's office like she belonged there.

He was at the glass wall again, staring down at the city like he was calculating which part he might buy next.

"Interesting morning," he said, turning as the doors whispered shut behind her.

"You leaked the story," she said flatly.

"I leaked the headline. The rest leaked itself."

She walked to the desk, tossing her phone onto it. "You gave them a story, Grayson. And now they're making up the ending."

He moved around the desk, unbothered. "That's the game. We give the illusion of truth. They do the rest. You want a redemption arc? This is the hook."

She wanted to argue. But the press was already shifting—from scandal to intrigue, from villain to mystery woman. That was step one. Image reshaping. She knew how this worked. She had played it for others. She just never imagined she'd play it for herself.

"Next appearance?" she asked instead.

He handed her a schedule. Neat, efficient, full of coded chaos."Today—gallery opening. My father's charity benefit. You'll wear red."

She scanned the calendar. "You have me down for a late dinner Friday."

He met her eyes. "We'll be seen leaving my place."

"No."

"Optics matter."

"I said no." She folded the schedule. "No overnight scenes. That wasn't in the deal."

He stepped closer, and for a second she saw the switch in him flip—the polished CEO giving way to the man underneath. The one who liked control. Who liked testing people.

"We don't need to sleep together," he said softly. "We just need them to think we might."