The Lie We Loved

The flashbulbs from last night still echoed behind her eyelids.

Even in sleep, Brielle could feel the weight of Grayson's hand on her back, the electric silence between them as they danced beneath chandeliers and watched a thousand cameras drink them in like a fairy tale. Only, fairy tales didn't come with non-disclosure agreements or ex-lovers watching from the shadows.

Brielle woke to the sound of voices outside her apartment door. Male, brisk, professional. She lay still, listening. Cameras clicked, shutters snapped, and she realized with a groan they were paparazzi staking the hallway like hunters.

Of course. A single photo of her dancing in Grayson's arms had turned last night's charity gala into front‑page romance. "From Scandal to Cinderella," one headline had proclaimed. Cinderella didn't wake up to photographers on the landing, but then again, Cinderella hadn't signed a contract with the devil.

She padded to the kitchen, phone in hand, and thumbed through the damage. Her feed was a waterfall of tags: #WestbrookAndCarter, #RedemptionArc, #RealOrRumor. The photo that caused it all was everywhere—her in a midnight‑blue gown, his hand on her waist, their faces inches apart. In the captured moment her eyes were half‑closed, lips parted in a secret smile that hadn't felt secret at all.

A notification popped up.

Unknown Caller. She knew better. Decline.

Another buzz—this one a text from Jade.

Jade: Heads up, door sharks on your floor. Wear mascara if you must, but maybe also Kevlar.

Brielle snorted and typed back with one thumb.

Brielle: Mascara's a luxury. I'm barricading.

Almost immediately, Jade's typing dots popped up, but before the reply came, Brielle's phone vibrated again—blocked number, but a single word lit the screen.

Grayson: Car waiting. Thirty minutes.

He never asked. He commanded.

She glanced at the hallway. Paparazzi would follow anywhere. Still, the idea of facing them alone made her stomach twist. She texted a quick "On my way" and spun into motion.

Five minutes later, she stepped into black skinny jeans, a white tee, and the first blazer she found unwrinkled—navy with sharp shoulders. She slicked her hair into a low ponytail, dabbed concealer under sleepless eyes, and grabbed oversized sunglasses. The armor was minimal but it would have to do.

She cracked her door. Flashes strobed instantly.

"Ms Carter, over here!"

"When did Mr Westbrook propose?"

"Is the wedding this year?"

Anyone who'd experienced a stampede would have recognized the energy—mass moving toward a single target. She squared her shoulders and walked.

The elevator ride felt eternal, but the lobby guard had already cleared a path to the curb. A black SUV idled with a driver on alert. The second she slid into the back seat, the door shut and the vehicle pulled into traffic like it owed the asphalt money.

Grayson occupied the far corner, phone in hand and aura in command. Dark charcoal suit, black tie, no smile. Even before he spoke, she sensed the voltage of him, coiled and ready.

"You should have called security," he said.

"I did. You."

He looked up, a flicker of amusement crossing his gaze. "Flattery before coffee? Careful, it might read as affection."

"Wouldn't want to confuse anyone," she replied, pulling off her sunglasses. "Why am I here at…"—she checked the dash clock—"seven‑forty‑nine?"

"Board meeting at nine," he said. "We need to arrive together."

A second SUV cut into traffic behind them, clearly shadowing. Probably filled with more security. Or lawyers. With Grayson, those roles blurred.

"You could have warned me."

"I did. Thirty minutes is warning."

She muttered something impolite and stared out the window at a city just waking. Sunrise painted the high‑rises molten gold. Everything looked possible from behind tinted glass.

A rustle of paper turned her head. Grayson slid a printed stack across the seat. "Talking points," he said.

She scanned. A concise script: how they met (charity gala last winter), how he proposed (private dinner at the Griffith Observatory), why the engagement remained secret (family blessing first). Her pulse thudded. Lies within lies—each one carefully carved to resemble truth.

"You expect me to recite this?"

"Like gospel," he said.

She set the pages aside. "And if I improvise?"

He glanced over. "Don't."

The SUV turned onto a ramp leading beneath Westbrook Tower. Armed guards waved them through a security gate. Underground lighting flickered off polished metal as they parked near a private elevator.

As the doors slid closed behind them, silence filled the narrow space. She could feel him beside her—presence too solid, cologne too expensive, breath too steady. Why did silence with him feel louder than shouting?

He broke it first. "You handled Nathan last night."

"You protected me first."

"That's part of the arrangement."

"Felt personal."

He shifted, eyes skimming her face. "Maybe it was."

The elevator halted. Saved by the bell, she thought, and immediately hated the disappointment curling beneath her ribs.

They walked side by side through hushed corridors to a mahogany double door. Grayson paused, adjusting his cufflinks, expression flattening into CEO cool.

"You'll be introduced at the meeting," he said. "They'll test you."

"Test me how?"

"Questions. Probing. Marilyn will be the hardest to please."

"And who's Marilyn?"

"My board chair. Forty years in the game. Respects profit and nothing else."

"Perfect," Brielle muttered.

He handed her a coffee just as the door opened and a young assistant ushered them into the boardroom.

Brielle's heels echoed sharply on the marble floor as she walked beside him.

Twelve people sat around a polished table, every one of them powerful. Men and women in their sixties, mostly. Cold eyes. War-hardened expressions. The kind who could tank a company with a sentence.

Grayson took his place at the head. Brielle sat beside him.

"Let's begin," he said smoothly, sliding into a quarterly review like she wasn't even there. For fifteen minutes, she listened to figures and trends she barely understood. Still, she sat straight, nodded when necessary, and avoided fidgeting.

Then Marilyn Penn raised her hand.

Silver hair. Razor-sharp stare.

"Before we move on," she said, voice calm but cutting, "perhaps your fiancée would like to tell us what qualifies her to represent this company's public image?"

Brielle felt every eye on her.

She smiled.

"I'm not here to represent the company," she said. "I'm here because Mr. Westbrook invited me into his personal life, which—unfortunately for me—is very public."

A few murmurs.

She continued, "That said, I have twelve years of PR experience. I've handled reputational crises bigger than my own. I know how the public thinks, and I know how to survive being hated by strangers."

She looked Marilyn dead in the eye. "That's more than most executives can say."

A pause.

Then Marilyn gave a single nod and looked away.

Grayson didn't smile, but his foot brushed hers lightly under the table.

It was approval. Quiet, controlled approval.