Chapter 7
Jenna
Ivaguely wonder if, at any point since he left me in the bar last night, Grayson managed to fall and bump his head.
What the hell is he even saying right now?
When his sister joked about me being his girlfriend—which was already ridiculous, considering the two of us were glaring at each other like we wanted to kill—I assumed it was just a bad joke. I certainly never expected him to confirm it was true.
From the look on her face, she seems surprised too. Actually, from the look on his own face, even Grayson seems startled by his own words. That makes all three of us… so why did he say it?
"You're serious, Grayson? I was just talking out of my ass." She steps back and looks me up and down as if I'm some sort of animal — a cow or a sheep — up for sale at auction, assessing my value and deciding whether she'd bid at all. "Holy shit. Are you sure you know what you're doing, brother?"
He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, I know. Don't tell Mom yet. I have to figure out how to break the news to her."
"Sure, but…" She laughs, then shakes her head. "This is… unexpected. Is that why you were glowing this morning? I mean, I guess I see why — she's definitely your type."
I raise an eyebrow. I am? I don't see how.
Sure, I know I'm pretty — some might even say above-average when I put effort into it — but I'm nowhere near the drop-dead-gorgeous women regularly seen on his arm at swanky events for the rich and famous.
Then again, I've never seen him with the same woman twice, so I doubt he was with any of them long-term.
I guess I actually don't know what his type is.
"Mom is going to have a heart attack," his sister warns, shaking her head. "Just look at her. She's wearing knock-offs, and half of them aren't even this season's."
I cock an eyebrow at the rude comment. "It's hardly my fault if I can't afford to dress myself from head to toe in Louis Vuitton and Gucci just because ‘Daddy' isn't a billionaire."
"Oh my God — I've just realized — she looks just like Marina," she continues, entirely ignoring my outburst.
"She does not look like Marina," Grayson says.
"Who's Marina?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me, and his sister's eyes widen again.
"You haven't told your new girlfriend about your ex?"
He sighs. "We haven't gotten around to that conversation yet."
"Well, when did you plan to tell her? At the wedding?"
They both continue to ignore my questions and quibble with each other. I furrow my eyebrows, trying to follow the conversation, but mostly I'm wondering why the heck Grayson's pretending I'm his girlfriend. Even as they argue, his eyes meet mine over her head. There's a request in there.
Play along, his gaze seems to say.
Oh, the nerve of him. Indignation spikes in my body. He wants me to help him out after his company tried to scam me? Unbelievable.
The imp on my shoulder urges me to say something and ruin his whole plan.
It would be so satisfying to see the arrogant look on his face slide off when I don't play along.
I wonder what he'd do if I simply denied everything — or better yet, denied it and slapped him in the face, like he so richly deserves.
It's almost worth it, just to find out. But…
Maybe it's better to play along for now. After all, he still owes me all that money I spent on behalf of the Wolfe Foundation, and I simply can't afford to lose that much.
Yes. I'll wait, say nothing, and see what happens. But when the time comes, he'd better have a very good explanation.
And secretly, is there just a little part of me — a tiny, hidden part — that rather likes the idea of being his girlfriend? Of being seen out on his arm in public? And maybe even of getting a repeat performance from him, like that time over his desk I'd be lying if I pretended I hadn't enjoyed?
No. I mustn't think like that. I'll stay quiet for now, but this is purely about the money.
"I'm Steph, by the way," his sister finally says, extending one perfectly manicured hand toward me, the gesture crisp and practiced, like she's used to introductions being formalities rather than genuine moments of connection.
"Jenna," I reply, giving her hand the lightest of touches before she withdraws it.
"We should all get brunch together," Steph announces breezily, as though it's the most natural suggestion in the world. "It's a little early, sure, but I could eat."
"I don't think that's necessary," Grayson cuts in immediately, his tone sharp.
"Why not?"
"Because I said so."
She pulls a mock-offended expression, clutching her chest theatrically. "Do you not want me to spend time with your new girlfriend?"
"Of course I don't," he fires back. "You're an awful person with zero morality. You're a terrible influence, an appalling gossip, and you're always on the make. Why would I subject anyone to your company?"
Steph shrugs, utterly unbothered, as though she's heard it all before. "Because I'm your sister, or have you forgotten? And anyway, if she can't handle me, she'll never survive Mom or Dad. Don't you want to use me as a litmus test before you waste any more time on her?"
They're speaking about me as if I'm invisible, I realize, and she's every bit as rude as her brother—perhaps worse.
I can't decide if she's being deliberately insulting or if she simply doesn't care enough to polish her abrasive words.
Either way, I decide that two can play at this game.
If Grayson thinks he can use me in this ridiculous charade, then I'll make sure he doesn't get things entirely on his own terms.
"I don't mind," I interject smoothly. "I'm not busy right now, and I'd love to get to know your sister, Grayson." I'd already cleared my morning, anticipating I might be stuck waiting for hours in his office before seeing him anyway.
Steph's eyes brighten, and she flashes her brother a triumphant leer. "Great."
Grayson frowns at me, clearly trying to figure out my angle, but I only smile back innocently. If this is what he wants, then this is exactly what he'll get.
"We can go to the steakhouse across the street," Steph suggests, already taking command of the plan.
"They open early, and their lobster bisque is divine.
I'll call and secure a table." Without waiting for anyone's approval, she pivots toward the elevator, Cuban heels clicking sharply on the marble floor, one hand already fishing her phone out of a Prada purse that probably costs more than my rent.
In the brief silence that follows, Grayson leans toward me, muttering under his breath, "What are you doing?"
"What are you doing?" I shoot back without missing a beat.
Steph's voice rings out from down the corridor as she presses the phone to her ear. "Are you guys coming? I'm getting hungry here!"
Grayson narrows his eyes at me, then exhales a long, resigned sigh. "We're coming."
The steakhouse has a rich, welcoming ambiance, with crisp linens and polished wood, the kind of place where the waitstaff are unfailingly pleasant and attentive. Light classical music drifts softly through the background, creating an atmosphere that would normally feel soothing, almost elegant.
But tonight, even the setting isn't enough to ease the tension. Not the warm lighting, not the admittedly delicious filet mignon I order, and not even the smooth glass of Merlot that should have helped take the edge off.
Because halfway into the meal, I'm already regretting saying yes. Without a doubt, Grayson's sister is… exhausting.
She peppers me with endless questions about who I am, what I do, and why I do it—but she never actually lets me reply. Instead, she cuts across me with her own nonsensical opinions or, worse, derails the subject with yet another tactless question, each one more irritating than the last.
"So… event planning," she says finally, when the conversation circles back to work. I've just explained that I run a business managing upscale events for companies and high-net-worth clients. "How did you even get into that?"
"Actually, I've kind of always been doing it, even back in high school," I explain.
"I used to help my classmates throw parties—mostly because it was the only way to get invited to them.
Turns out I had a knack for making events come alive.
After graduation, I started getting requests from old friends—"
"Ah, so you don't have any actual qualifications," she interrupts, tilting her head like she's caught me out. "Is it just something you do for your friends?"
"Um… no." I arch an eyebrow, irritation rising. "I have a college degree in Hospitality Management and Experience Design, in fact, and—"
"Which college did you go to?" she cuts me off again.
"Columbia," I say.
"Not bad," she says. "Not Harvard, but not bad.
I knew a guy who went to Columbia. He lived next door to our estate in the Hamptons.
He always said the coke over at Columbia was out of this world — and that's coming from someone who regularly attends raves in Amsterdam.
He swore it was the best thing about the school. Do you agree?"
Is she trying to not-so-subtly ask me if I do coke? "I'm not sure," I reply evenly. "There was probably a fair amount of drug use, but I didn't run in those circles."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, to put it bluntly, only the severely fortunate — like the kids whose parents had estates in the Hamptons — could slack off and snort things all day. I was on a scholarship and couldn't afford to lose it to a random drug test."
"Good for you," she says. "The kid's dead now, by the way. Drug overdose. Hopefully that's not in your future."
There it is again — another wildly inappropriate comment, delivered in that flippant tone, subtle enough that I can't tell if she means it as an insult or if she simply enjoys saying problematic things.