The Lie We Loved

Flashes painted her skin white-hot. Reporters shouted questions she didn't answer. Grayson slid his arm around her waist, firm but not possessive, and leaned in just enough to make it look intimate.

They moved down the carpet like royalty on damage control.

Inside the ballroom, servers floated by with champagne flutes and tiny appetizers she couldn't name. Golden lighting bathed the room, softening faces, sharpening shadows. And everywhere she looked, eyes were following them.

"Smile," Grayson murmured beside her as they stopped to pose in front of the gala sponsor banner.

Brielle tilted her head slightly toward him, let her lips part in a controlled smile. Not too wide. Just believable.

A photographer barked, "Over the shoulder, Ms. Carter!"

She obeyed.

"You're a natural," Grayson said low against her ear.

"I was a PR strategist. Smoke and mirrors were the job."

"Were," he repeated. "Let's make them your weapon again."

Before she could respond, a voice behind them chimed in—sharp, sugar-coated.

"Grayson. And Brielle. I would've bet money you'd be in hiding."

Brielle turned slowly. Sutton Vale.

Of course.

Grayson's ex-girlfriend. Stunning in a strapless silver dress, blonde hair curled into calculated waves, diamonds glittering at her collarbone like guilt she refused to carry.

Brielle held her ground. "Some of us prefer to confront our public executioners face-to-face."

Sutton's smile didn't move an inch. "You must be exhausted, Brielle. All those lies you have to keep straight."

Grayson stepped in, voice smooth and lethal. "Sutton. Didn't you promise your father you'd behave for once at a charity event?"

Sutton's smile cracked. Just barely.

"Oh, I'm behaving," she said sweetly. "But if this engagement is real, I'll eat my shoe."

Grayson's response was brutal and soft. "I'd pay to see that."

Brielle wanted to grin. Instead, she reached for his hand—on impulse, not strategy—and let her fingers curl around his.

Sutton noticed. Of course she did.

"You two are so convincing," she said, turning to glide away. "Almost had me fooled."

When she disappeared into the crowd, Grayson looked down at Brielle's hand still wrapped around his.

"You initiated contact," he said, almost teasing.

"I was playing the part."

He didn't let go. "Then keep playing."

They moved deeper into the event, through crowds of donors and board members and socialites pretending not to whisper. Grayson worked the room like a trained wolf—charming, calculated, lethal in the way that made people want to trust him just to feel included in his circle.

Brielle was quieter, but her presence spoke for itself. She made eye contact. Nodded at compliments she didn't care for. She laughed once—not because anything was funny, but because someone said, "You look beautiful tonight," and it made her heart twist in the worst way.

Later, Grayson excused himself to speak with the mayor.

Jade texted at that moment.

Jade:

Tell me you didn't just let that vulture Sutton get away with calling you a liar to your face.

Brielle:

She's not worth the oxygen.

Jade:

Then go steal it back. Win the night.

Brielle smiled, pocketing her phone.

She turned toward the dance floor and caught sight of herself in one of the ornate wall mirrors. Her reflection didn't look like the girl who had been blacklisted three weeks ago. She looked like someone who belonged in this room. Like someone unbreakable.

But just as she was about to breathe easy, a man stepped into her space.

Tall. Dark suit. Familiar eyes.

Nathan Hale.

Her stomach dropped.

He looked nervous, tired, but not sorry.

"Brielle," he said. "I didn't think you'd actually show."

She kept her spine straight. "This is a charity event, not a court hearing."

"I wanted to talk."

"No. You wanted to follow me here and hope I'd be stupid enough to forget."

Nathan's expression hardened. "You think Grayson Westbrook is better?"

"I think Grayson didn't pretend to love me while selling my life to the press."

He blinked. "You're really with him?"

She hesitated.

"I'm not the one with something to prove," she said coldly.

Then, like the scene had been scripted, Grayson appeared at her side.

He wrapped his arm around her and turned to Nathan.

"Enjoying the event?" he asked coolly.

Nathan bristled. "She deserves better."

Grayson gave a slow smile. "She's getting it."

Brielle didn't speak. She didn't need to. She leaned into Grayson's side, just enough for the cameras to catch it. One of them snapped a photo—she saw the flash. A perfect headline, gift-wrapped and timestamped.

Nathan backed away. His mouth opened like he wanted to say more. Then he vanished into the crowd.

Later, as they stepped onto the dance floor—because it had to happen, it was expected—Grayson pulled her gently into his arms.

"You didn't punch him," he said quietly. "I'm proud."

"I was close."

"You still look like you're seething."

"Maybe because I am."

As they swayed to the music, Grayson's hand settled on the curve of her waist. The band's slow, sweeping jazz melody wrapped around them, and they moved in perfect harmony – too fluid, too convincing. Brielle couldn't shake the feeling that this was all too natural, too effortless. She hated how easily she fell into step with him.

"You handled yourself well tonight," Grayson murmured, his breath whispering against her ear.

Brielle's throat constricted as she swallowed, his touch sending a subtle shiver through her. Yet, paradoxically, she felt surprisingly at ease.

"Don't flatter me," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "I was shaking for the first ten minutes."

"I noticed. And still, you were flawless."

She glanced up at him. "Why do I get the feeling this isn't your first pretend relationship?"

He smirked. "It's the first that matters."

The words were light. The way he looked at her wasn't.

Something twisted in her stomach. It wasn't nerves. It was something far worse.

Hope.

The most dangerous emotion of them all.

They danced for three full minutes.

When the song ended, his hand lingered a second longer than necessary. When she stepped back, she missed the weight of it before she could remind herself why it wasn't real.

Not real.

Not yours.

Not safe.

That night, long after the gala ended and the lights faded, a new headline went live.

"From Tabloid Shame to High-Society Flame: Brielle Carter Dances Into the Arms of Redemption"

The photo? Her in Grayson's arms. Her head tilted slightly, his eyes locked on hers. They looked like they belonged together.

Even she almost believed it.