Chapter 23
Charlie
Crystal chandeliers sparkle prismatic light across white tablecloths.
The silverware handles are cut from crystal, too, looking more art than utensil.
Every table is occupied by people who look like they stepped out of a magazine spread—perfect hair, designer clothes, the kind of effortless elegance that comes from never having to worry about money.
I hate it here.
Grayson sits across from me, looking annoyingly at ease in his tailored jacket and open-collared shirt. He’s been talking for twenty minutes about some director who wants him for a prestige project, and I’ve been nodding along while my mind wanders to Taio’s unanswered calls.
Two voicemails. I saw them when I got out of the shower, but by then I was already running late for this dinner and Grayson was pounding on my hotel room door. I’ll call him back after. I’ll explain.
“—and then Spielberg said—are you even listening?”
I blink. “Sorry. What?”
Grayson’s jaw tightens. “I said, Spielberg personally requested a meeting. But sure, keep staring at your phone like a teenager.”
“I wasn’t staring at my phone.” I set it face-down on the table to prove my point. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long week of rehearsals. I thought you were taking the whole team out to dinner. The dancers, vocalists, Sage, Marcus?”
“What can I say? They were all busy.” His stupid smirk is an admission of his lie. He set me up. “So how are you feeling?”
“Good, actually. I think I’m still kind of on this high. Tampa was—”
“Yeah, Charlie,” he cuts me off. “The videos are everywhere. Very impressive.”
He doesn’t sound impressed. He sounds irritated. Like my success is somehow an inconvenience to him.
“Thanks,” I say flatly.
My phone buzzes against the tablecloth. I turn it over automatically to glance at the screen—another notification from some social media app—and Grayson’s eyes narrow.
“You need to stop checking that thing.”
“I’m not checking it. It just buzzed.” Except I open the notification that I was tagged in a picture of the very restaurant we’re eating at. The caption? #noshamestalking #graysonandcharlie
My stomach drops. “Grayson. Did you post our location?”
“No. I just said where we were eating. What’s it matter? Our followers?” He scoffs. “It’s not like they can afford to get in.”
I exhale, lips parted, the real-life version of the shaking-my-head emoji. “We talked about this. You can’t keep broadcasting our location. It’s actually dangerous. Not to mention the paparazzi are always aggressive to me. I hate it.”
“Relax.” He rolls his eyes. “They can’t bring cameras inside. The ma?tre d’ practically strip-searched everyone at the door.”
“That’s not the point. When we leave—”
“When we leave, we smile and wave and give them what they want.” He leans back in his chair, spreading his arms like he’s addressing an audience. “That’s how this works, Charlie. You want the fame, you deal with the attention.”
“I don’t want—” I stop myself. Take a breath. “I’m just saying, I like my dinners without an ambush waiting outside.”
“And I’m just saying, you’re acting like I committed a crime. You need to calm down. It’s a few Instagram stories. It’s not a big deal.”
Calm down. The phrase that has never, in the history of human communication, actually calmed anyone down.
The waiter appears with our entrées—some kind of architectural foam situation for him, a delicate fish dish for me—and I use the interruption to compose myself.
This is fine. Two hours, maybe less. Smile for the cameras on the way out, then I can go back to my hotel and call Taio and pretend this evening never happened.
“So.” Grayson waits until the waiter leaves, then reaches across the table to cover my hand with his. “I was thinking. After dinner, we could go back to my suite. Have a drink. Really talk.”
I slide my hand away, reaching for my water glass. “I’m pretty tired, actually. Early call time tomorrow.”
“You’re always tired.” His fingers find my knee under the table. “Come on, Charlie. Don’t you think it’s time we considered taking things to the next level?”
“There is no next level.” I shift my leg away from his touch. “This is a PR arrangement, Grayson. That’s all it’s ever been.”
His face flickers with anger, maybe, or wounded pride. It’s gone so fast I almost miss it, replaced by that practiced smile.
“Right. The PR arrangement.” He picks up his fork, stabbing at his foam sculpture. “The one where you get to use my name to boost your concert sales and I get…what, exactly?”
“You get the same thing I get. Good press. Visibility. That’s the deal.”
“The deal.” He laughs, but it’s mirthless. “You know what’s funny? Before your scandal, I was the one doing you a favor. Dating America’s sweetheart, elevating your brand. But now suddenly you’re the hot commodity, and I’m just the accessory.”
I stare at him. “That’s not—”
“Haven’t the tour sales like tripled? Your streams are up. You’re trending every other day.” He jabs his fork in my direction. “And where does that leave me? Following you around like a puppy, pretending to be supportive while you soak up all the attention.”
“No one asked you to follow me around.”
“Sage asked me. Your whole team asked me. ‘Be visible, Grayson. Look supportive, Grayson. Post about her show, Grayson.’” His tone has gone acidic.
“I’ve been doing everything they asked, and what do I get?
My notifications are full of people calling me your arm candy.
Asking what I bring to the relationship.
Making fucking memes about how you could do better. ”
So that’s what this is about. Not attraction. Not interest. Ego.
“I’m sorry the internet is being mean to you,” I say carefully. “But that’s not really something I can control.”
“No?” He leans forward, eyes glittering. “Because it seems like you could control it if you wanted to. Post about me more. Talk about me in interviews. Make it clear that I’m the prize here, not just some supporting character in the Charlie Riley show.”
“Grayson—”
“Do you have any idea what it’s like?” His voice rises slightly, drawing a glance from the next table.
“To be constantly compared to you? To have people analyze every photo, every comment, every interaction to see if I measure up? I’m a movie star, Charlie.
I’ve been in this industry since I was fifteen.
And now I’m being treated like your plus-one. ”
I should feel bad for him. On some level, I understand the frustration—the industry is brutal, and comparison is a knife that cuts everyone eventually. But shouldn’t our shared commiseration be making us better friends instead of enemies?
“I think,” I say slowly, “that maybe this arrangement isn’t working for either of us.”
His expression shifts. Hardens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means maybe we should talk to our PR teams about winding this down. Finding a graceful exit.”
“A graceful exit.” He laughs again, that sharp, humorless sound. “You mean you want to dump me. Publicly. After everything I’ve done for your image.”
“I’m not dumping you—”
“Save it.” He throws his napkin on the table and signals for the check. “We have a contract. You want out? Fine. But don’t think for a second I’m going to make it easy for you. I know things, Charlie. About your little secrets. Your bodyguard with the wandering hands.”
My blood goes cold. “What are you talking about?”
“Please. I’m not blind.” His smile is cruel now, all pretense stripped away.
“The way you look at him. The way he looks at you. It’s obvious to anyone paying attention.
And trust me, people are paying attention.
Know what they’re saying? That you’re either an idiot or a whore. Depends on who is pursuing who here.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I don’t actually care, by the way.” He stands. “Keep your secrets. Fuck your bodyguard. Do whatever you want. But if you try to make me look bad on the way out, I will bury you.” He leans close, his breath hot against my ear. “Got it?”
I don’t respond. I can’t. My throat has closed around the words.
Grayson buttons his jacket with practiced fingers, and like flipping a switch, his face rearranges into the camera-ready smile that’s launched a thousand movie posters. “Come on. Let’s go. I’ve lost my appetite. Let’s get this over with.”
He’s such a dickhead. What a complete and utter waste of space. I follow in tow because it’s the only path to escape.
But I jump out of the frying pan right into the fire.
Outside, a feeding frenzy of cameras and microphones awaits us, more aggressive than any mob I’ve faced before.
They swarm the moment we step through the door—a wall of flashing lights and shouted questions and bodies pressing close. I flinch back instinctively, but Grayson’s hand clamps around my wrist, pulling me forward into the chaos.
“Smile,” he hisses. “You wanted attention. Here it is.”
“Grayson! Charlie! Over here!”
“How’s the relationship going?”
“Charlie, any comment on the tour? Are the rest of the dates locked in?”
“Grayson, is it true you’re up for the Tarantino project?”
The barrage of questions melts into a single deafening roar.
I’m blinded by the strobe-like assault of camera flashes, each burst leaving ghost images floating across my vision.
Elbows and shoulders dig into my sides as the crowd constricts around us like a python, and the terrible realization hits me: there’s no escape route. We’re completely hemmed in.
“Grayson.” I try to keep my voice steady. “This is too much. We need to get to the car.”
He ignores me. He’s posing now, one arm around my waist, pulling me against his side like a trophy.
“I want to leave,” I insist again, pulling away, but his grip becomes punishing.
“In a minute.”