The Lie We Loved

Everywhere she turned, Brielle felt eyes on her—a palpable weight, a thousand tiny pinpricks on her skin. It wasn't just the lingering gazes of the press, still buzzing from Grayson's bombshell announcement, but something far more insidious, a focused heat that prickled the back of her neck. Then, she saw her.

Sutton arrived half an hour later, making an entrance that was both calculated and devastating. She wore a dress the color of spilled wine, a rich crimson tailored to perfection, hugging every curve with unapologetic confidence. Her lips, painted a matching shade, were curled in a smug, knowing amusement that sent a familiar chill down Brielle's spine. It was the look of a predator who had just spotted her prey.

Their paths, inevitably, converged near the grand staircase, a bottleneck of mingling guests.

Sutton paused, a theatrical beat, her gaze sweeping over Brielle with a feigned surprise that fooled no one. "Oh," she purred, her voice a low, silken rasp. "So it's true."

Brielle met her eyes coolly, refusing to flinch. She had faced worse than Sutton's thinly veiled barbs.

"I'd say 'good to see you,' Sutton, but that would be a lie. And I prefer to be honest, even in this crowd."

Grayson, a formidable presence at Brielle's side, stood between them like a chess master observing a critical move. His expression was unreadable, his posture rigid, but Brielle felt the subtle tension radiating from him.

Sutton, unfazed, took a slow, deliberate sip of her champagne, her eyes never leaving Brielle's. "Careful, darling," she drawled, a saccharine sweetness coating her words. "You might get used to all this attention. The flashing lights, the whispers, the sudden relevance. It can be quite addictive."

"I've survived worse," Brielle replied, her voice steady, betraying none of the internal turmoil. Her past, the very scandal Sutton alluded to, had hardened her, forged a resilience she hadn't known she possessed.

Sutton's smile widened, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "Let's hope your next scandal doesn't come with a ring attached, then. It makes the untangling so much messier, wouldn't you agree, Grayson?" She flicked a dismissive glance at him.

Grayson's hand, which had been resting lightly on Brielle's waist, tightened almost imperceptibly, a silent warning. His voice, when he spoke, was low and dangerous, cutting through the ambient chatter like a sharpened blade. "Walk away, Sutton. Now."

She did, eventually—but not before casting a parting glance over her shoulder, a last, lingering look that was a potent mix of challenge and triumph, as if daring Brielle to follow her into the depths of her venom.

As soon as Sutton's crimson dress disappeared into the crowd, Grayson withdrew his hand from Brielle's waist. The subtle warmth, the fleeting sense of protection, vanished instantly. Brielle inhaled deeply, releasing the tension that had coiled in her muscles, the performance momentarily over.

"You held your own," Grayson said as he offered fresh glass of wine.

Brielle took the glass, her fingers brushing his. The brief contact sent a jolt through her. "Barely," she admitted, taking a long sip of the rich red wine. It tasted of relief, and a strange, burgeoning uncertainty.

"You're learning fast," he observed, his gaze fixed on the distant lights of the city.

"She hates me," Brielle stated, the truth of it stark and unyielding.

"She wants to hate you," he corrected, turning his head slightly to look at her. "But mostly, she's scared."

Brielle turned her head, startled by his words. "Of me?" The idea seemed ludicrous. She was the one who felt constantly on the defensive.

"Of what I might feel for you," he said, his voice lower now, almost a murmur, lost in the gentle whisper of the sea breeze.

Brielle's breath caught. She held his gaze for a long moment, searching his eyes for a hint of jest, a trace of the calculated performance. But his expression was unreadable, his eyes a deep, fathomless blue in the dim light. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken possibilities.

"Nothing I can afford," he finally added, his voice regaining a touch of its usual cool detachment, shattering the fragile intimacy that had briefly formed.

That stung. More than it should have. It was a stark reminder of the carefully constructed boundaries between them, the unwritten rules of their arrangement. She was a means to an end, a strategic move on his chessboard, nothing more. His words, though seemingly a dismissal, also hinted at a depth of emotion he actively suppressed, a cost he wasn't willing to pay.

But before she could respond, before she could process the complex layers of that statement, someone called for Grayson from the doorway – a sharp, urgent voice from his assistant, no doubt. He excused himself with a curt nod, turning away from her, his posture immediately resuming its cool, polished, unshaken composure. He was back to being the formidable CEO, the man of impenetrable walls.

Brielle watched him go, a solitary figure disappearing back into the illuminated hall. Then she looked down at the wine in her hand, swirling the liquid thoughtfully. The game, she realized, was no longer just about public perception or strategic alliances.

Brielle had barely taken a step inside the grand hall of the Westbrook estate when the chill settled over her. It wasn't the invigorating bite of the late autumn sea breeze, which occasionally snaked through the tall, open windows, nor the crisp coolness of the champagne flute she barely lifted to her lips. No, this chill was far more insidious, a prickle of ice along her spine that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the woman standing just across the vast, glittering room.

Sutton.

She was a magnetic force, a predatory elegance personified, surrounded by a rapt circle of eager investors and fawning press. Like a lioness in a bespoke gown and impossibly high designer heels, she commanded attention, her smile a calculated curve, her eyes sharp with an almost venomous satisfaction. And she was already talking.

Brielle's grip tightened imperceptibly on her champagne glass. She could feel Sutton's words before she could fully discern them, a vibration of malice cutting through the polite hum of conversation.

"She's clever," Sutton was saying, her voice carrying with effortless precision, just loud enough for anyone nearby to hear, just subtle enough to avoid direct accusation.

"The rebranding is brilliant, really. From scandal to Cinderella? She should bottle it. There's a fortune to be made in that kind of… transformation."

A few of the men in her orbit chuckled—awkward, eager to please, their laughter thin and brittle. Sutton's smile widened, a predatory flash of white teeth, and she sipped her drink, a picture of serene satisfaction, as if she hadn't just lobbed a live grenade across the room, its fuse already sputtering.