The morning after the gala felt different.
Arielle woke up to the soft hum of the city beyond the glass windows, still wearing her robe from the night before. She could still feel the phantom heat of Grayson's lips on hers. That kiss hadn't been planned. It hadn't been part of the contract. And yet—she hadn't pulled away.
She touched her lips, trying to steady her breath. What had that kiss meant to him?
Nothing, probably. Men like Grayson Vale didn't get swept up by emotions. He was a man of strategy, not sentiment. He probably kissed women as casually as he signed merger contracts.
Still, she couldn't forget how gentle his hand had been against her cheek. Or the way his breath had caught just before he kissed her.
She sighed and got out of bed.
Downstairs, Meredith greeted her with a polite nod. "Mr. Vale has left for the office. He asked me to inform you he'll be home late tonight."
Of course. No note. No message. No mention of what had happened.
Arielle was almost relieved. It gave her a reason to bury it under "pretend" again.
---
By noon, Arielle was at Sterling Atelier, trying on gowns for an upcoming charity ball. Ezra, Grayson's ever-efficient assistant, had arranged everything.
"Something elegant," Ezra had said. "And avoid black. It's a death color. You're not mourning."
Yet the irony stung. Arielle was mourning. Not death—but identity. The Arielle Monroe who'd once believed in love and romance was slowly being buried beneath silks, diamonds, and contracts.
The designer held up a pearl-white gown. "This would shimmer beautifully under the ballroom lights."
Arielle nodded absently. "It's fine."
"You don't sound excited," the designer said kindly.
She smiled tightly. "Excitement isn't really in the contract."
The woman blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Never mind," Arielle murmured, standing as the fitting continued.
She looked at her reflection and almost didn't recognize the woman staring back.
---
Later that afternoon, Arielle found herself in the music room—an elegant space filled with antique instruments, gold-accented bookshelves, and, at its center, a grand piano.
She sat down and played. Nothing formal. Just chords. Emotion.
She played like she was speaking—because she didn't have the words to describe what she felt. The confusion. The pull toward Grayson. The fear of losing herself.
She didn't hear the footsteps.
Didn't sense the presence until the final note faded.
"I didn't realize I was paying for a wife and a concert pianist," came Grayson's smooth, low voice.
Startled, she turned.
He was leaning against the doorway, still in his suit. Jacket off, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled. He looked… human.
"I thought you were working late," she said.
"I finished early." He walked toward her, slow and deliberate. "You were playing Clair de Lune."
"You know Debussy?"
"I know beauty when I hear it."
Arielle looked away, unsure what to do with the softness in his voice.
"I didn't mean to interrupt," he added.
"You didn't," she said. "I wasn't playing for anyone."
He sat beside her, not touching her, but close enough that she felt the shift in the air.
"You said no intimacy unless I wanted it," she whispered. "What if I'm not sure what I want?"
He looked at her, serious. "Then I won't move. I won't push. You have control here."
Arielle turned to him, frustrated. "You say that. But then you look at me like I'm more than a contract. You kiss me like I mean something. And then the next day, you vanish."
He exhaled. "That's because I don't know what I want either."
Silence stretched between them.
Then he asked, "Why did you agree to this, really?"
She blinked. "I told you. My father's debts—"
"No." He shook his head. "You could've walked away. Let him suffer. Plenty of people would've. But you didn't."
She bit her lip. "Because I know what it's like to be abandoned."
Grayson stilled.
"My mother left when I was seven. One morning, she just didn't come home. No note. No explanation. Just… gone. I spent years trying to understand why. Wondering if I wasn't enough."
Grayson's expression darkened. Not with pity, but understanding.
"She didn't leave because of you," he said softly.
"I know that now," Arielle said. "But sometimes, the child inside me still wonders."
There was a pause.
Grayson leaned back slightly, as if calculating whether to speak, then said, "My fiancée died three years ago."
The words hit her like cold water.
"I didn't know you were engaged."
"It wasn't public," he replied. "Her name was Elena. We were together for three years. She hated the spotlight, so we kept it private. She died in a car crash—hit by a drunk driver on her way to meet me."
Arielle's heart clenched.
"I blamed myself for months," he continued. "Still do sometimes."
She reached for his hand instinctively, and he didn't pull away.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He didn't say thank you. He didn't nod. But he held her hand tighter.
And that was enough.
---
That night, they shared dinner alone. No staff. No photographers. Just wine, laughter, and stories.
He told her about his childhood in Switzerland, how he hated boarding school, and how he once ran away just to climb a mountain no one had ever heard of.
She told him about sneaking into music halls as a teenager, dreaming of performing on grand stages she could never afford.
They laughed. They listened.
And for a few hours, it felt like marriage—not the kind on paper, but the kind that lived in glances and shared silences.
---
When she got up to leave, Grayson stood too.
"I'll walk you back," he offered.
Arielle hesitated, then nodded.
They walked through the quiet corridor in silence.
At her door, she turned to face him. "Goodnight."
But he didn't move away.
Instead, he reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I meant it, you know," he said. "You looked beautiful last night."
Her throat tightened. "And tonight?"
"Tonight?" He leaned in, his voice low. "You look like the kind of danger I'd willingly drown in."
Her breath caught.
Slowly, she closed the distance.
Their lips met—not like the first kiss, which was sudden and stolen. This was a surrender. A gentle fall.
When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his.
"We're breaking all the rules," she whispered.
"We made the rules," he replied. "We can rewrite them."
---
But neither of them saw the camera hidden in the wall panel.
And neither of them knew that someone was watching.
Recording.
Waiting.
Because love wasn't the only thing written into the contract.
There were secrets.
And secrets always came with a price.