The Lie We Loved

"I'm not bait," she snapped.

His jaw flexed. "You're a strategist. Act like one."

She didn't blink. "Add more public events. Keep the evenings clean. We can stage enough moments to make it believable without playing dress-up in your bedroom."

Something shifted in his eyes—respect, maybe. Or just calculation.

He leaned back. "You're good at this."

"I was good before you decided to make me infamous."

He gave a crooked smile. "That wasn't me."

"No," she said. "But your silence helped."

Neither of them spoke after that. It was the closest they'd come to honesty.

By late afternoon, she was standing next to him at the opening of a modern art gallery in Venice, all clean lines and expensive lighting. They looked like the perfect couple: he in a slate gray suit, she in a crimson wrap dress with an open back and the kind of neckline that made cameras linger.

She hated how well they matched.

They posed for photos. His hand settled at her waist, fingers resting just below the curve of her ribcage. Not possessive. Not inappropriate. Just close enough to imply connection.

"You're trembling," he murmured beside her ear.

"I'm cold," she replied.

He didn't move his hand.

Halfway through the event, a woman in emerald green approached, heels sharp, smile sharper.

"Brielle Carter," she said sweetly. "Didn't expect to see you out and about so soon."

Brielle recognized her instantly. Savannah Keaton. Daughter of the CEO behind the Keaton merger. A socialite turned executive, famous for her ambition and infamous for her side-eye.

"Savannah," Brielle replied, forcing a smile. "You're looking… well-funded."

Savannah's smile turned brittle.

Grayson stepped in, voice smooth as velvet. "Ladies, let's keep this civil. Savannah, you remember Brielle—my fiancée."

The word still felt foreign in her mouth, but watching Savannah's expression sour made it almost worth it.

Savannah laughed lightly. "Of course. I just didn't realize you were… into rebrands, Grayson."

His smile never faltered. "I'm into loyalty. Brielle's shown me more of that than most people in this room."

He turned to Brielle then, and for one breathless moment, it felt real—the way he looked at her, as if she were the only person in the room.

"Let's go," he said, his hand guiding her away from the conversation, into a quieter corner of the gallery.

"Thanks for the save," she muttered once they were alone.

"You would've handled her fine," he said. "But I figured I'd enjoy it."

She rolled her eyes, turning to study the nearest painting—some abstract blur of black and white with a title too pretentious to read.

"Tell me something," he said behind her.

"What?"

"Why'd you threaten Nathan with exposure?"

Her body stiffened.

"I didn't threaten him," she said. "I warned him."

"Why?"

She looked at him then, really looked. "Because he stole client data. Because he inflated numbers. Because he used interns to ghostwrite statements that put companies at risk. I thought calling him out was the right thing."

Grayson tilted his head. "It was."

"I was naive."

"No," he said, his voice oddly gentle. "You were brave. He made you pay for it."

She didn't answer. There wasn't much to say.

Later, after the gallery, they stepped outside into a flood of flashbulbs and shouted questions. The press had caught wind of the engagement and swarmed like bees on sugar.

Grayson pulled her close.

She could feel it then, how good he was at this. The way he looked at her, touched her, shielded her—it all read as devotion. If she didn't know better, she might have believed it.

They made it to the car. The door closed behind them. Silence bloomed in the space between them.

"I need to be clear," she said. "I'm not falling for this. For you."

His expression didn't shift. "I know."

"I'm not a toy, or a story arc."

"I know that too."

She looked out the window, jaw tight. "You're going to try anyway, aren't you?"

He didn't answer.

Because they both knew he already had.

Brielle Carter knew the world loved a good lie, especially when it was dressed in designer couture and walked beside a man like Grayson Westbrook.

The charity gala was held at the Rosemoor Estate, a historic mansion turned event space in Beverly Hills. Crystal chandeliers dripped from vaulted ceilings, jazz floated through the garden air, and everyone who mattered in Los Angeles was there. Including the cameras.

She adjusted the slit of her midnight blue gown as their car rolled through the gates. The fabric hugged her waist like loyalty and flowed behind her like a secret. She looked the part. But every step toward that ballroom felt like walking deeper into a minefield.

Grayson didn't seem to share her nerves.

He sat beside her in the back seat, legs crossed, black suit tailored to sin. The lapels of his jacket were velvet, the cuffs sharp, his cufflinks catching flashes of light like they were cut from starlight.

She hated how he looked. Too perfect. Too expensive. Too practiced. His jawline was the kind people paid surgeons to replicate. His hair was a crime against modesty—dark, slicked back just enough to look careless, but styled like he'd thought about it for hours.

And then there were his eyes. Cold steel if you crossed him. Molten silver when he turned on the charm. Right now, they were unreadable.

"Try not to look like you're planning my assassination," he said as the car slowed near the red carpet.

"Hard not to, when you keep scheduling appearances without asking."

His smile was faint, amused. "That's what assistants are for. Delegating dictatorship."

She sighed, adjusting her neckline. "Do I pass for your fiancée?"

He turned to her then, gaze sweeping from her earrings to the heels she hadn't broken in. His voice dropped just a shade. "You pass for the woman who could make me forget my last name."

She looked away. "Stick to the script, Westbrook."

He leaned in slightly as the driver opened the door. "Try to smile. The cameras love a redemption story."

Then he was out of the car, straightening to his full height with the kind of effortless confidence that made bystanders step back instinctively. Grayson Westbrook didn't walk into a room — he rearranged the food chain. People didn't look at him, they gravitated around him, like satellites unsure if they were meant to orbit or burn.

He turned and extended a hand. Brielle hesitated for half a breath, then placed her fingers in his.

As he helped her out of the car, a storm of cameras exploded.