62. Grayson
62
GRAYSON
O ver the next two weeks, the preparations for the Perfectly Matched Gala take on a life of their own. The Grand Royale is booked, a sprawling, historic ballroom in the heart of Paris, dripping with old-world luxury. Massive crystal chandeliers. Gilded archways. Floor-to-ceiling windows that open onto private terraces overlooking the Seine. The guest list is exclusive, CEOs, royalty, Hollywood elite, and international power players. Olivia has a team screening every invite to make sureonly the bestare in attendance. Margot oversees the design, the florals, the lighting, the seating arrangements, making sureeverythingis perfect. Every detail meticulously planned, from the candlelit ambiance to the curated menu featuring Michelin-starred chefs.
I handle security and logistics, ensuring privacy is airtight. The media will be present, but onlyselectedoutlets. Every image, every article, will becuratedto showcaseourvision.
And Cassian? Cassian will attend, but under our terms.
On the “the day,” The Grand Royale is alive with energy. Not justanyenergy, the kind that comes frompower, from wealth, from the unspoken tensions simmering beneath a perfect surface. The chandeliers overhead cast a golden glow across the ballroom, illuminating polished marble floors, cascading floral arrangements, and tables dressed in fine linens and flickering candlelight. The soft hum of a grand piano blends seamlessly with murmured conversations, the occasional clinking of crystal glasses punctuating the air. Everywhere I look, there arepower players, royalty, CEOs, Hollywood elite, international investors. This isn’t just a gala. It’s astatement. A statement that Perfectly Matched belongs on the world stage. And tonight? Margot and I make sure thateveryoneknows it.
Margot walks into the ballroom with the kind of effortless confidence that makes the world slow down. Heads turn. Conversations pause. And all I can do is watch her, completely and hopelessly captivated. Her silk gown hugs her like a secret, the high slit revealing just enough to steal the breath from my lungs. The deep neckline, the shimmer of the fabric beneath the chandeliers, it’s pure elegance. But it’s not the dress that makes her stunning. It’s her. The way she carries herself, spine straight, chin high, like she was born for this moment. Like she knows exactly who she is. And who she’s become. And I get to walk beside her.
My tux is perfectly tailored, my bowtie sharp, every detail in place. But next to her, I’ve never felt more undone in the best possible way. There’s a quiet weight in my chest, heavy and full. Not nerves, not pressure, just this overwhelming, bone-deeppride. Not just in Perfectly Matched , though this night, this room, is proof of what we built. It’s pride in her, in us. In what we’ve fought for, what we’ve survived, what we’ve become. Because somewhere between the late nights and the arguments and the laughter that caught me off guard, she became the most important thing in my life. We didn’t just help to expend a company, we builtthis .
Whateverthisis, solid, complicated, real and ours.
She glances at me, a soft smirk tugging at her lips. “You keep looking at me like that, King, and people are going to start talking.”
I lean in, my voice low, meant only for her. “Let them. They should know I’m in love with the woman who built this world with me.”
Her smirk falters just a little, something softer blooming in her eyes. And just like that, I know, we’re not just surviving anymore. We’re becoming something unshakable.
I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “Let them.”
She lifts a brow. “Bold of you.”
I lean in slightly, lowering my voice. “Youloveit.”
Her smirk widens. “I really do.”
I take her hand in mine, squeezing gently. “Then let’s give them something totalkabout.”
Across the ballroom, Cassian Laurent makes his entrance. Fashionably late, of course. Dressed in a midnight black suit, his dark hair slightly tousled like he didn’ttrytoo hard, but we all know he did. His silver cufflinks catch the candlelight as he adjusts his watch, his presence effortlessly commanding. He doesn’t just walk into a room. Heconquersit. And Isabella Monroe? She follows a few steps behind, her gold gown glimmering under the chandeliers, the backless design accentuating the smooth curve of her spine. Her long blonde hair is swept into an elegant updo, a few loose tendrils framing her sharp cheekbones. But it’s the look in her eyes that catches my attention. The kind ofstormthat’s only ever reserved for Cassian Laurent. They step into the room likeopposites colliding, a smirking, arrogant billionaire and a Hollywood starlet who looks like she’s two seconds away fromeither kissing him or killing him.
Margot watches them too, her lips quirking. “Those two aregoing to explodeone day.”
I snort. “Tonightmight be that day.”
And as if on cue, Isabella turns sharply, grabs a glass of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray, and takes a long, slow sip, without breaking eye contact with Cassian. He smirks. She glares. And I swear,the air between themsparks.
The night is in full swing, champagne flowing, whispered deals being made, potential clients already circling. Everything isperfect. Until itisn’t. Untilshearrives. The murmurs start near the entrance first. A ripple oftensionthat spreads across the room like a slow-moving storm. Margot tenses beside me. I follow her gaze to the grand staircase leading down into the ballroom. And standing there, in a crimson satin gown, her posture regal and her expression unreadable,
IsEleanor King. The woman who tried todestroyeverything we built. The woman who nearlytore us apart.
Margot inhales sharply, but her voice is steady. “What thehellis she doing here?”
My jaw tightens, my entire body shifting into defense mode. “She wasn’tinvited.” Eleanor descends the staircase slowly, as if sheownsthe damn place. A smirk plays on her lips, her dark red lipstick a sharp contrast to the delicate pearls around her neck. She moves through the crowd like a queen surveying her subjects, her gaze flicking from one powerful guest to another.
Cassian notices her arrival first, his expression shifting fromamusedtosomething unreadable. Isabella follows his gaze, her lips parting slightly. I canfeelthe tension rolling off Margot.
Eleanor approaches us like we’re old friends at a dinner party. “Margot. Grayson.”
Margot lifts her chin. “You weren’t on the guest list.”
Eleanor smiles. “Oh, darling. I don’tneedan invitation.”
I step forward slightly, my voice sharp. “What do you want, Eleanor?”
She tilts her head. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Margot narrows her eyes. “If you’re here tocause problems…”
Eleanor lifts a hand, feigning innocence. “Relax. I’m here tonetwork. You should know by now, Margot, powerful people don’t holdgrudges.”
Margot’s lips curve into a smirk. “No, but theyhold receipts.”
Eleanor laughs softly. “Touché.”
Before I can press further, Eleanor shifts her gaze to Cassian. “Laurent.”
Cassian raises a brow. “King.”
Eleanor’s smirk deepens. “We should talk.”
Cassian exhales, tilting his head slightly. “Oh,shouldwe?”
Isabella glares at Eleanor, stepping slightly closer to Cassian’s side, like she’s about to launch herself between them if necessary.
Margot folds her arms. “Whatever deal you’re trying to make, it’s not happening.”
Eleanor sighs dramatically. “Always sohostile, Margot. I’m just here to celebrate your little…success.”
I step forward. “If youso much as breathein the direction ofPerfectly Matched, I willendwhatever plan you think you have.”
Eleanor studies me for a moment, then smiles. “Noted.”
Then, just like that, shewalks away, disappearing into the crowd like a ghost.
Margot exhales slowly. “That wastoo easy.”
I nod, my mind already spinning. “Because this isn’t over.” And I know this is just anotherbeginningof whatever game Eleanor is playing.