Chapter 28
Grayson
The news about the paparazzi harassing Jenna already has me on edge.
I don't know how the fuck it happened, but I'm furious. Sure, I expected a few magazine mentions — my PR team planted those to make the engagement believable. But this? A swarm of vultures outside her office, shoving cameras in her face? That's not normal.
I'm not a fucking celebrity. I'm not someone those parasites should care about — certainly not enough to ambush my fiancée at work. Whatever their motivation, I'm not letting them torment my woman.
My woman?
I pull back from that thought. Since when did I start thinking of Jenna as mine?
I rub a hand over my face. Yeah, that's delusional. She's not mine — not really. Only by contract, and that ends in five months. I need to remember that. I need to keep my head clear and not confuse this friendship and chemistry for something deeper.
As much as I enjoy her company — and really enjoy fucking her — she's not mine. Not really.
But that doesn't mean I won't protect her with jagged teeth.
No one gets to fuck with her work or invade her privacy. Whoever orchestrated that circus is going to pay.
I call my PR agency, and the director, Liam Holliday, answers on the second ring.
"Why the fuck is there a gang of paparazzi outside my fiancée's workplace?"
"I'm… not sure what you mean, Mr. Wolfe." He sounds genuinely confused — which somehow pisses me off even more.
"Really, Liam? You're not sure? I know how this game works. Paparazzi don't just appear somewhere unless there's a scandal or a tip-off. Me getting married isn't a scandal, which means someone called them and promised a payoff. Was it you?"
"Of course not!" His voice sharpens. "You were very clear about your preferences. I only released engagement details to vetted, reputable outlets. Whoever sent those photographers wasn't us."
"Fine," I say, though my tone is still edged. "I'm angry, not at you, but I want answers. Figure out who tipped them off and get them gone from Jenna's office. Immediately."
Before he can reply, I hang up. Liam's good — the best — and well connected. If anyone can trace the leak, it's him. Whoever's behind it will regret it. They'll pay for every ounce of fear in Jenna's voice.
But even after handling it, I can't relax. I'm pissed all morning.
We'd slept curled up together last night, and I'd actually slept well.
One of the best nights I can remember. When she moved to shut off her phone alarm, I, half-awake, tried to pull her back, not wanting to let go.
She giggled, kissed my cheek, and mumbled something about needing to get started for the symposium.
Oh, right. My symposium.
Still, I didn't want to let her leave. She practically had to wriggle out of my hold. I lay there for a few more minutes, cursing the alarm clock and every meeting on my calendar.
Eventually, I got dressed and came into the office once the lazy morning haze wore off. Even at an ungodly hour, there's always something to do — acquisitions to finalize, deals to sign, fires to put out.
But I can't focus. Every time I glance at my phone, I think about Jenna — how scared she must've been, trapped by flashing lights and shouting strangers. I've been through it before. It's hell.
Should I go see her now?
No. She said she'd be running around all morning managing the event. The last thing she needs is me showing up and adding to her stress.
I want to see her.
That thought hangs there, heavy and dangerous.
It's not about wanting to check on her, I realize — it's just wanting her. Wanting her presence. Her voice.
No, I tell myself. It's not like that. I just want to make sure she's okay. That's all.
But I'm not stupid. I know what it means when a woman starts affecting my moods. I can't afford that kind of weakness — not now. Not with this arrangement.
Because if I'm not careful, I'll start believing the lie we've both been selling.
And that… would be the most dangerous mistake of all.
From the start, everything about this ruse with Jenna has been dangerous.
It's like alarm bells have been ringing in my head since the first time we kissed, touched, or fucked—and every time, I brushed them aside. Acknowledging them would mean I'd have to do something about them, and I'm self-aware enough to admit I don't want to. Not yet.
About thirty minutes later, I call Jenna to confirm the paparazzi are gone. I also offer to pick her up, but she says she has last-minute errands to run.
"You need to delegate better," I tell her.
"I know." She sighs. "I'll do that someday—but not today."
Then she hangs up on me.
Brat.
After failing to focus on work, I give up and head over to the symposium venue early, hoping she's already there.
I'm one of the first to arrive, though there are already half a dozen guests milling around.
Huh. Guess everyone's early today.
They're clustered near the walls, admiring the intricate graffiti patterns covering the warehouse concrete.
"Grayson!" calls Fiennes, a European restaurateur with a notorious art collection. "This place is excellent—dripping with imagery of the American dream. What on Earth gave you the genius idea to hold your symposium here?"
"Well," I say as I approach, "let's just say my event planner has a very creative streak."
"Ah yes, I read about that." His eyes glint with mischief. "I hear congratulations are in order?"
"I didn't know you read gossip magazines," I reply dryly. I hadn't realized the news had spread that far.
"Gossip magazine? It was page two of The Times this morning. A full spread on your love affair."
"You're serious?"
He nods.
Strange. I didn't tell Liam to push it that far.
"Anyway," Fiennes says, gesturing toward an impressionist mural of children in a park, "this is a great venue."
"I'm glad you like it," I say. "I'll let Jenna know her efforts are appreciated."
"Please do. Pass along my congratulations to her as well."
He's not the only one impressed. Even those who say little are clearly captivated—taking in the layered imagery, the ambient lighting, the natural sculptures placed perfectly within the industrial setting.
She really outdid herself. Everything ties together into one cohesive experience—nature and mankind merging seamlessly against raw, urban architecture. Genius.
I have to give her credit: she's brilliant at what she does.
As more guests arrive, I make small talk, watching people absorb the space. To my surprise, no one finds the location too unconventional. They actually like it—standing around, sipping champagne, talking about art instead of staring blankly at the catering table.
"I'm so glad you didn't go with a boring old conference hall," a Texan oil tycoon named Haigel drawls beside me.
I've known him for years, though I've never liked him much.
His tone's loud, his breath smells of whiskey.
Either he's been hitting the wine bar hard since he arrived, or he came in drunk. Knowing Haigel, it's both.
"Yes, me too," I say with a genuine smile. I can't wait for Jenna to show up and see this. She'll love watching me eat my words.
I don't mind. Hell, I'm looking forward to it. I like admitting when she's right. She was right about this venue—it's a masterpiece.
Maybe I should get her something as a reward. Something she wouldn't expect.
Perhaps a new car. Her Lexus, while colorful and functional, doesn't have the safety features it should. Plus, it's just… a Lexus.
Maybe I'll take her car shopping—or surprise her, like the Milan and Paris trip I've been planning behind her back.
The thought makes me smile.
I've been secretly working with her assistant to clear her schedule for fashion week in Europe. She'll be furious when she finds out, but she'll love it once we're there. If I tell her beforehand, she'll just say she's too busy, so I'll do it my way—the sneaky way.
The fun way.
I'm thinking about that when Haigel interrupts my train of thought. "You know, I read an interesting article about you in the papers this morning."
"Oh yeah?" I say flatly.
"Yeah. It was all about how you and your fiancée met. Quite the eye-opener. Money well spent, I say."
I raise an eyebrow. What on earth does he mean? Not that I'm really paying attention — too many other things wired in my head. Besides, the man's half-cut. He probably doesn't even know what he's saying.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jenna. She's walking toward us. Good. I can finally get away from this bore.
Haigel turns just as she arrives.
"And is this your fiancée?" the man says, swiveling to look me over. His stare slides over Jenna in that leering way that makes my skin crawl. "Hooo-eee," he whistles. "I can see why you picked her to plan this symposium… amongst other things. She's a mighty fine filly, that's for sure."
My jaw tightens. Did he really just say that? With Jenna standing right there?
"She got the role because she was the most qualified," I say, my voice low and edged. I don't like the way he's looking at her. The hint of warning in my tone doesn't seem to register.
"Yeah, sure. I bet her dick-sucking skills had absolutely nothing to do with it!" he roars, then laughs like he's told the world's funniest joke.
Laugh at your own punchline, I think. Except this isn't funny.
Something in me snaps. The reflex is pure animal. I pull my fist back and strike him square on the nose.
I hear the crack of bone and the wet splatter of blood. He collapses backward like a felled tree, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
For a suspended second, everything is silent. You could hear a pin drop. Then Haigel's howl of pain splits the air.
"Goddammit — you broke my nose!"
People crowd around, the chatter rising like a storm. Cameras flash. Phones come up. The room becomes a wash of faces and questions and whispers.
If he weren't beneath me in every way, I might pick him up and send him flying again just for the pleasure of it. My heart hammers in my ribs, heat roaring through me. Rage, yes. But something else too, something ugly and fierce that tastes a little like triumph.
"What the fuck is your problem?" Haigel spits through blood.
My muscles are still coiled like steel cables, but I force my voice calm.
"My problem," I say, coming down to his level and pointing to the venue, "is that you're drunk and you have no goddamn sense.
You insulted my fiancée to my face — did you think I'd let that slide?
She earned this. She didn't get the job because of anything but talent.
She's smart and she works harder than anyone in this room.
Say that again, and I'll break the rest of your teeth to match your nose. "
He glares at me for a beat, then recoils, fear finally winning out over bravado.
"Grayson," someone breathes. I glance up and see Jenna standing there — part horror, part incredulous surprise on her face. Her mouth opens.
"Let's get you taken care of," she says to the fallen man, not to me. Her calm is clinical. She signals servers, who help the stunned, grumbling Texan to his feet and shepherd him away, nursing his face and his ego.
She doesn't say anything to me. She only shakes her head — a tiny, disappointed shake — and walks off. The dam breaks. People drift back into their conversations as if nothing had happened, the human capacity for normalcy reasserting itself in minutes. The symposium resumes; the show goes on.
I don't see much of Jenna after that. She disappears backstage, commanding people, fixing small disasters, smoothing the edges. She's brilliant at it. She's in her element.
But normal never quite returns. The room hums with an altered frequency. I can feel eyes on me as if I'm a fuse waiting to be lit. People glance my way like they're watching a hand grenade, trying to decide whether to step closer or away.
My father will hear about this. Fuck. This might very well cost me the permanent CEO role. Maybe it already has.
And to be honest — a darker, harder part of me doesn't regret it. If it comes down to choosing between a board role and someone who disrespects the people I care about, I don't know which I'd pick.
Then it hits me like a physical thing: the truth I've been fighting to keep buried under contract clauses and rationalizations. The feelings I have for Jenna aren't some casual extracurricular. They're real. Deep. Messy.
I'm so fucked.