Public Betrothal (2)

Brielle exhaled slowly, a silent, almost imperceptible release of tension. She turned away, a practiced move, fixing her gaze on a distant, ornate chandelier. She wasn't going to engage. Not tonight. Not here. She had promised herself, promised Grayson, that she would rise above the petty slights, that she would maintain her composure.

But the damage was already happening. She could feel it, a subtle shift in the air, a colder current in the room. She could see it in the eyes that now followed her, quick, speculative glances that darted away when she met them. She heard it in the sudden, clipped conversations that cut off abruptly when she passed, leaving behind a heavy silence. The carefully constructed fairy tale, the narrative of her quiet return to grace, was cracking at the edges, fissures appearing under Sutton's relentless assault.

Grayson found her near the catering table ten minutes later, an untouched plate of canapés still clutched in her hand. His eyes, usually a cool, assessing grey, were now alight with a controlled fire, a reflection of the anger simmering beneath his composed facade.

"She's painting me as a manipulator," Brielle muttered, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "A PR leech. Someone who climbed into your bed to get back into the headlines. Someone who's using you." The last phrase stung the most, hitting too close to the uncomfortable truth of their arrangement.

His jaw tensed, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. "She's desperate."

"She's dangerous," Brielle corrected, her eyes meeting his, a shared understanding of the ruthlessness of their world.

Without a word, Grayson took her hand—not as a lover would, with tenderness or affection, but with a silent kind of force, a firm, almost possessive grip that left no room for argument. It was a gesture of command, a silent declaration that he was taking control. "Come with me."

Without waiting for agreement, he led her swiftly through a discreet side hallway, away from the watchful eyes and echoing whispers of the grand hall. They emerged onto a smaller, secluded terrace, bathed in the soft, ambient glow of hidden lights, the only sound the distant murmur of the ocean.

She pulled her hand back as soon as they were alone, the sudden release of his grip leaving a phantom warmth on her skin. "What's the plan, Grayson? Pretend louder? Spin a more elaborate lie?" Her voice was laced with a weary cynicism, a reflection of the exhaustion that had settled deep in her bones.

Grayson turned to face her fully, his expression still, unreadable, but his eyes were sharp, piercing through her defenses. "I don't pretend. Not when it matters."

"You pretend with me every day," she shot back, the words a raw accusation, hitting the core of their complicated, transactional relationship.

He stepped closer, closing the distance between them, his presence suddenly overwhelming. "Only on the surface." His voice was low, a surprising intimacy in its depth.

"That's the only part people see," Brielle whispered, her gaze fixed on the strong column of his throat. "And it's the only part that matters to Sutton."

"Then maybe it's time they saw more," he stated, his voice firm, resolute.

She blinked, her heart giving a sudden, erratic flutter. "What do you mean?"

Grayson didn't answer immediately. Instead, he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, its sleek surface catching the light. He tapped once, the screen illuminating his face in its cool glow, then lifted it to his ear. His words were precise, clipped, leaving no room for negotiation.

"This is Westbrook. Prepare the media room. We're making a statement. In exactly ten minutes."

Brielle stared at him, her mind reeling, trying to process the sudden, seismic shift in his demeanor, in their situation. "What are you doing?"

He looked at her calmly, his gaze unwavering, utterly composed. "Ending the speculation. Officially."

"Grayson—" Her voice was a desperate plea, a strangled whisper of protest.

"You said Sutton was dangerous," he said, slipping the phone back into his pocket, his movements fluid and decisive. "Let's take away her weapons."

"And what exactly are you planning to say?" she asked, her voice barely audible, a growing dread tightening her chest.

He met her gaze, his eyes holding a fierce, unyielding resolve. "That we're getting married in six weeks."

The words "getting married in six weeks" reverberated in her mind like an unyielding echo.

"Are you serious?" Brielle asked, her voice barely above a whisper, disbelief coloring her tone.

Grayson didn't respond. Instead, he held her gaze, his eyes piercing and intense, as if daring her to process the reality of his announcement. Brielle swallowed hard, her throat constricting with a mix of emotions. She lowered her gaze, her expression serious, reflecting the gravity of the situation.

Ten minutes later, under the soft glow of press lights and the buzz of camera drones overhead, Grayson stood beside her at the podium in front of dozens of guests, reporters, and Westbrook board members.

Brielle's hands were trembling, but she kept them hidden beneath the fabric of her dress.

Grayson's voice was steady.

"Good evening," he began. "I wasn't planning to make a statement tonight. But recent... conversations have reminded me that silence, in this world, is often misinterpreted."

A pause. Calculated. Intentional.

"I am not a man who shares his private life lightly," he continued. "But when that privacy is weaponized against someone I care about, I won't stand quietly."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

He turned slightly toward Brielle.

"Our engagement is real. This relationship is real. And while I owe no explanation to gossip columnists, I do owe it to the people who trust this company."

He paused again.

"We'll be getting married in six weeks. A small ceremony. Invitations will be limited, but the commitment—" he looked directly at her, voice lower now, "—is permanent."

Brielle's heart stuttered.

Her breath caught.

The applause started slow, a hesitant smattering, but soon it rolled like a wave through the crowd, building into a thunderous roar. Cameras flashed, blinding white bursts of light. Questions were shouted, a cacophony of voices calling her name and his, asking for comments, details, confirmation.

Reporters surged forward, a hungry tide.

Grayson didn't flinch. He remained a pillar of calm, his hand subtly finding the small of her back, a silent anchor. He turned to her with a practiced smile, a public display of affection, and offered his arm.

She took it automatically, her head buzzing, her mind a chaotic whirl of shock and disbelief. The applause, the flashes, the shouts – it was all a distant, muffled roar as she focused only on the solid warmth of his arm, the lifeline in this surreal moment.

They escaped to the upper deck of the estate, a private sanctuary high above the clamor of the crowd. The ocean was ink-black now, stretching endlessly to the horizon, the stars sharp pinpricks of light in the vast, velvet sky.