Page 29

The celebratory party. The words echoed in my head, a discordant hum against the thrum of anticipation and dread that had been building for days. It was supposed to be a celebration of The Carnival Hookup.

They'd turned the studio into a full-blown production. Makeup artists swarmed, racks of designer clothes lined the walls, and the air thrummed with a manic energy. I felt like a puppet being strung along.

Sasha, one of the stylists, declared me "beautified" after three hours of meticulous work. The result was unsettlingly stunning – a tight, scarlet silk dress that clung to every curve, half my hair pulled into a sleek bun while the rest cascaded in waves, and makeup that screamed drama: crimson lips, smoky black eyes. The black heels, adorned with red accents mirrored the accessories Sasha chose: a delicate choker and a fierce, angular bracelet. I didn't recognize myself.

James, Alice, and a few other coworkers piled into the limo, the champagne already flowing. Alice passed around shots of vodka like they were going out of style.

"Bad night, eh?" James asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

"I just want to be drunk enough to survive tonight," I retorted, grabbing the bottle and downing another shot. Not even an ocean of vodka would make me forget this night.

We arrived to a barrage of flashing lights and screaming reporters on the red carpet. The faked smiles felt like shards of glass in my mouth, the fabricated enthusiasm like lead weights in my stomach. I answered the interview questions mechanically, reciting vague but plausible stories about my "passion" for acting. James, on the other hand, was lapping it up, basking in the attention like a sun-starved lizard.

Rolling my eyes, I escaped inside. The party was…intense. It screamed nightclub, pulsating music and flashing lights creating a dizzying sensory overload. This wasn't the stuffy corporate event I'd been dreading, no. This was…fun. A genuine spark of excitement flickered within me. Who was responsible for this?

I bee-lined for the bar and knocked back a few margaritas, maybe more than a few. Glancing around, I spotted James holding court with a gaggle of girls, Alice tearing up the dance floor with two enthusiastic men, and other coworkers mingling and laughing. This was exactly what I needed. A night to let go.

Needing a brief respite from the chaos downstairs, I wandered upstairs, hoping to find an empty room and a moment of peace. Instead, I heard shouting. A woman's voice, shrill with desperation.

"Wilson, let me see Grayson!" she shrieked.

"No, he's busy. You need to leave," a deeper voice, presumably Wilson, replied.

The woman launched into a tirade of kicks and screams, but Wilson stood his ground. Then, another figure emerged - Grayson. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Anna, leave now," He growled his voice smooth and rich, yet icy.

The woman, Anna, I assumed, pleaded, "No, no, Grayson, please! I love you!"

Grayson scoffed, his lip curling in disgust. "You never loved me. You only loved my status and money. Besides…" he trailed off, his eyes hardening.

"Bullshit!" Anna screamed. She lunged at Grayson, hand raised to slap him.

Instinct took over before I could even think. I surged forward, grabbing her wrist and shoving her back with surprising force, sending her sprawling.

"Don't slap him!" I yelled, my voice louder than intended.

"Who are you!?" Her eyes narrowed, filled with pure venom.

I chuckled, a low, menacing sound I didn't recognize. Kneeling, I grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at me. "Your worst nightmare, if you even think about doing something to him," I whispered, my voice dripping with a darkness I hadn't known I possessed.

She flinched, her eyes widening with fear. "You're insane," she hissed, scrambling backwards and fleeing down the hallway.

I sighed, rising and brushing off my dress. I turned to find Wilson staring at me, mouth agape, and Grayson smirking, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

"What?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

Grayson's expression shifted, becoming almost… thoughtful. "That was…unexpected," he said, his voice low.

Wilson finally found his tongue. "Scarlett, I-I don't know what to say. Thank you."

I shrugged, trying to downplay my impulsive act. "It was nothing. She was being ridiculous." I glanced at Grayson, unsure of what to say. "Are you okay?"

"Perfectly," he replied, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "Though, I'm curious, Scarlett. Why?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. Why had I intervened? Was it simply a reflex, a knee-jerk reaction to violence? Or was it something more? A strange, protective instinct towards a man who stalked me, who left me cryptic gifts, who remained a frustrating enigma.

"I don't know," I admitted, the truth surprisingly liberating. "Maybe I just don't like seeing people get slapped."

Grayson's smirk widened. "Is that so?" He took a step closer, closing the distance between us. His eyes, dark and intense, held me captive. "Perhaps I should find out what else you don't like."