Chapter 26
Grayson
The time spent with Jenna's parents went remarkably well—though frankly, there's no reason it shouldn't have.
My situation is somewhat different, of course, since—in the eyes of my parents at least—I'm the "wealthy bachelor with everything to lose," and she's the "insolent young tart who's obviously on the make.
" That attitude of theirs isn't endearing to Jenna, nor is it conducive to a quiet, peaceful family dinner.
The best I can say about our first evening together is that it goes about as well as I expected.
My father is quiet and watchful.
My mother is surly and overly critical.
My sister—who wasn't actually invited but showed up anyway because she loves drama—makes no effort to hide her amusement. She's clearly enjoying the show.
To Stephanie's credit, she genuinely seems to like Jenna.
She laughs at her stories, asks thoughtful questions that allow her to shine in front of my parents, and occasionally jumps in to support her when good old Mom tries to twist Jenna's words into something unflattering.
To be fair, Jenna rarely needs rescuing.
Turns out she's a natural at charming people. It seems to come to her as easily as breathing.
Almost immediately upon our arrival, she presents my mother with a bracelet she bought as a gift. Mom accepts it with a snobbish, "Oh, how quaint. Is it real gold?"
"It is," Jenna replies with a polite smile.
"I do hope you like it. It's so difficult choosing something for someone like you who has such discerning taste—and of course you already have so much.
I didn't know you well enough to guess your exact preferences, and your son was no help at all—you know what men are like, Mrs. Wolfe; they're hopeless at that sort of thing.
Still, I didn't want to show up empty-handed.
I figured a bracelet was better than a bottle of wine, and it might at least be one thing you don't already have, since it's rare—vintage Brunelli. "
My mom's newly shaped eyebrow arches. "How do you know I like vintage Brunelli? Did Grayson tell you?"
Jenna snorts. "Of course not. Grayson couldn't even tell me what color your eyes were. I noticed during our last meeting that most of your jewelry was vintage Brunelli. You were also wearing the limited-collection Isobel, which is practically impossible to find."
"They are," my mother sniffs proudly. "But Jean Paul is a dear friend of mine. That's the only way I was able to get my hands on it."
"Of course, and it was beautiful—as is this one.
" She gestures to the box. "The bracelet you're holding is another rare piece by him that never saw the light of day.
It was originally a custom piece for an unnamed English royal who died before he could ever give it to her.
Jean Paul kept it for a while, but eventually I got my hands on it. "
"How?"
"Well, let's just say I planned his niece's wedding, and the event went off so swimmingly that she introduced me to him. We hit it off from there. I wouldn't call him a friend, exactly—I'm just a longtime admirer of his work—and he gave me this as a thank-you for mine."
"Oh, wow. Well then, I couldn't possibly take this," my mother says, her eyes crawling over the jewel with undisguised greed. "You must have worked hard for it."
"No, please. I insist. It doesn't suit my coloring anyway, and it's been sitting in the box this whole time. As much as I love it, I doubt I'll ever wear it, so I suppose it should go to you—as a thank-you for welcoming me into your family."
It's a bold statement, but my mother simply nods, distracted, her eyes still locked on the bracelet. My father's gaze shifts to Jenna, a mix of surprise, suspicion, and—just faintly—respect.
I won't lie, I'm impressed myself.
I didn't expect her to go this far. To give up something so rare and precious just to make this ruse more convincing? She didn't need to. I meant what I said—I don't need my parents to like her. I only need them to believe this engagement.
This feels like overkill. Is she really trying this hard just to win our bet? Or is there more to it?
I wouldn't have wanted her to do it if I'd known beforehand.
That said, it's working. My mother looks genuinely thrown and can't maintain her usual frosty composure.
"I truly don't know what to say," Mom murmurs. "I don't think I can keep this, dear."
"No, please. I'd be offended if you gave it back."
"But we've only just met. It's too much for a dinner gift."
"I don't think so. We've only just met, but we'll be getting to know each other very well over the years."
"Yes, but I don't think—"
"Just take it," my father cuts in. "I'm tired of standing here, and I'm hungry enough to eat an elephant."
Mom shoots him a brief glare before addressing Jenna with a reluctant but genuine smile.
"Thank you," my mother says. "It's a very thoughtful gift."
"It's nothing compared to what you're giving me," Jenna smiles, glancing lovingly at me and even managing a slight blush.
My God, what an actress. No one watching her could possibly think she's anything but a doting fiancée.
Seems I picked well when I chose Jenna Marlowe to pretend to get engaged to.
Did I pick too well?
My parents lead the way into the dining room, and I slide an arm around her waist, drawing her closer.
"A-plus," I whisper in her ear when my parents are too far ahead to hear.
She winks. "You haven't seen anything yet. By the time the night's over, she'll be eating out of my hand."
I raise an eyebrow. "It'll take more than a bracelet to pull that off."
"Just watch and learn."
I suppress a grin and brush my lips against hers before we step into the elaborate dining room—one reserved only for special occasions like this.
I pull out Jenna's chair for her, watching the effortless grace with which she moves before taking my own seat beside her. I no longer have any doubt she'll handle herself beautifully tonight.
The thing I like most about Jenna is how confident she seems—and how well she balances kindness with backbone. She has this rare ability to be polite and gracious without ever coming across as a pushover. She knows when to let things slide and when to dig in.
For example, my mother makes a snide comment about the colors of Jenna's outfit clashing, and instead of snapping back, Jenna just smiles and says, "You're probably right, Mrs. Wolfe, but I like the combination." Conversation over.
Another time, my mother brings up Jenna's auburn hair and suggests she'd look better as a blonde.
Jenna replies, "You could be right—it's an interesting idea.
But I was born with red hair, as was my mother and grandmother.
I got teased for it in middle school, of course—you know what girls can be like at that age—but it's part of my family heritage, and I like to keep it that way.
Heritage is important to preserve, don't you think? "
And of course, my mother does think so—so she has nothing to argue with.
Steph bursts in just before the first course is served, flinging open the dining room door and making exactly the kind of dramatic entrance she lives for. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic."
"By traffic, she means shopping," I mutter.
Steph shoots me the middle finger, earning a sharp "Stephanie!" from my mother.
"Sorry, Mommy dearest. Force of habit. Anyway, he deserves it." She gives Mom and Dad quick hugs before bouncing around the table to greet Jenna. "Hey, sister-to-be! It's so nice to see you again."
"Hi, Steph. It's lovely to see you too. How are you?"
"Oh, wonderful as ever. Thanks for the gift—it was beautiful. Such a sweet thought. I'm so glad Grayson chose you, even though he doesn't deserve you." She brushes a kiss on Jenna's cheek and winks at me, devilishly pleased with herself.
I shake my head. She's incorrigible.
Meanwhile, my mother glances between the two of them. "I didn't realize you two were so close."
"What do you mean?" Steph asks, sliding into the seat next to Jenna.
"Does that mean you knew about their engagement before we did?"
I'm about to shake my head, but Steph beats me to it. "Yup. I knew all about them dating. I didn't tell you guys for obvious reasons."
I raise an eyebrow at her, and she sticks her tongue out at me. I can't tell if she's covering for me because she wants to help Jenna—or because she wants to help me sell the ruse. Then again, she's not supposed to know it's a ruse at all.
Honestly, I'm not even sure whether Steph thinks my relationship with Jenna is real or fake. I've never managed to get a straight answer out of her—and I can hardly ask without giving the whole thing away.
"We have lunch all the time," Steph says breezily. "Well, whenever Jenna has time for me, that is. She's a busy woman, you know—important head of a company and all that."
"That's what worries me," my mother says. "How is she going to have time for a family with the amount of work she does?"
That one hits Jenna. The tiny twitch of her eyebrow gives her away.
"That's enough," I say to my mother.
"I'm just saying, Grayson. These are the kinds of things you need to think about before you have kids—"
"I said enough, Mother. This isn't the 1950s. Women are allowed to work, or not work, or have kids—or not have kids—if that's what they want."
Shit. That last part was the wrong thing to say.
My mother chokes on her wine.
Jenna gives me a wide-eyed stare.
Even Steph coughs like I've just committed blasphemy.
"What are you saying, Grayson?" my mother demands. "That you don't want children?"
"That's not what I'm saying at all. I'm saying it's our business—if and when we have children—and it's also our business how we choose to raise them. Understood?"
"But—"
"But nothing. You've interrogated Jenna enough for one night, and I've let it go on too long. We're not coming to these dinners anymore if you're going to make it uncomfortable for my fiancée. Now, let's please change the subject."
Having said my piece, I shoot my mother a stern look before picking up my knife and fork again and going back to my meal.
My mother quiets down after that—but she's not done. She's never known when to quit.
It would be hard for anyone not to like Jenna, I would've said.
But Mom has always excelled at being difficult.
The sad thing is, I think she actually would like Jenna if she gave her half a chance.
They have plenty in common—especially when it comes to art and fashion—but of course, Mom's too stubborn to see it.
"I could have handled it," Jenna whispers, leaning toward me as the servers bring out the first course.
"I don't want you to."
"I thought the whole point of picking me to be your goddamn fiancée was that I don't need your help. I can handle this myself, if you'll just get out of my way and let me."
She's right—that was why I chose her. But now I'm not so sure the whole plan was as foolproof as I thought. Maybe not doubting exactly, but realizing how much we underestimated what it would take for me personally… I never anticipated how much I'd hate watching my mother talk down to her.
Somewhere in the middle of the first course, George and Marina arrive. Both of them are dressed to the nines, Marina in a figure-hugging royal-blue gown, George in a tuxedo.
Marina's gaze immediately finds mine. She gives me a soft, unreadable smile before turning to my mother.
"I'm so sorry we're late," she says as she walks in. "Pregnancy brain hit me hard today."
"What—you're pregnant? Well… congratulations!" My mother's face lights up like a Christmas tree.
Of course, we all offer our congratulations.
George and Marina smile and nod, acting every bit the happy couple—enough to make me sick.
I can't decide how this news affects things.
If it's a boy, it'll put even more pressure on Pops to make George the permanent CEO when the time comes.
However I slice it, it's not great news for me.
Still, I swallow my feelings, shake their hands, and offer congratulations like everyone else.
Finally, Marina turns to me. "Hello, Grayson. We meet again."
"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were stalking me."
She laughs, which makes George frown. "Hardly," she says. "But it really is nice to see you again—if I didn't tell you that already."
I enjoy the sour look spreading across George's face, so I respond smoothly, "Likewise."
Marina's eyes drift toward Jenna, who looks… annoyed. Jealous, even. Is she jealous that I was talking to Marina? The thought shouldn't amuse me—but it does.
"And I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met," Marina says, turning to Jenna.
"Jenna," Jenna replies.
"Hello, Jenna. I'm Marina."
"I know," Jenna says flatly. Maybe it's my imagination, but her smile looks tight around the edges.
"Jenna is Grayson's new fiancée," my mother interjects, trying to smooth things over as George and Marina take their seats.
"We were just talking about her work and the importance of family.
She owns an event management company, but I want her to know that when they're married, her children will take precedence over whatever work she's doing. "
"Leila," my father says, exasperated, because he sees the look I'm giving my mother.
"Your mother's right," Marina adds suddenly.
I raise an eyebrow. She's the last person I expected to agree with my mother.
"I know, I didn't think that way back then," Marina continues. "But now that I'm pregnant, I understand. Children are a gift, and those first few years go by so fast. I don't want to miss a single second."
I study her. I can't tell if she actually believes that or if she's just trying to score points with my mother.
"You see?" my mom tells Jenna. "Even Marina feels that way—and she was just like you only a few years ago."
"I'm glad she feels that way," I say evenly. "But you're smart enough, Marina, to know that your reality isn't everyone's. It doesn't make anyone less of a mother just because they don't want to spend every waking moment with a baby."
"Yes, but I just—"
"Enough," my father says sharply. "This baby conversation is irritating. Let's talk about something else."
"But—"
My father gives Mom a warning look, and she finally shuts up.
The rest of dinner passes in a haze of food and small talk—mercifully, not baby-related. Steph and Jenna are deep in their own conversation, while my father and I discuss work. Mom chats with George and Marina, glowing every time the word grandchild slips out.
At some point, Steph excuses herself to go upstairs, and Jenna heads to the bathroom. A minute later, Marina follows. I vaguely wonder if there's going to be some kind of confrontation but decide they're both too mature for that.
That is—until we hear a loud moan.
I frown. "What was that?"
George shrugs.
As we both get to our feet to check it out, the sound is followed by a loud crash.