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The wine spilled in slow motion, a deep crimson unfurling across the delicate fabric of your dress like a blooming wound. Grayson’s jaw tightened, his sharp profile catching the golden light of the chandelier above. For a moment, his eyes darkened—stormy, unreadable, and entirely un-Grayson-like.

“Damn it,” he muttered, low and strained, as though the words burned on the way out. He grabbed a linen napkin from the table with a trembling hand, the stark white contrasting against his usually steady composure. “I didn’t mean to—” He stopped himself, the apology seeming to catch in his throat as he dabbed at the stain, each motion too rough to actually help.

You stood there, stiff and silent, the weight of the moment heavy between you. It wasn’t the wine, nor the ruined dress, that had your heart racing uncomfortably in your chest. It was him—Grayson Hawthorne, the picture of self-control, unraveling right in front of you.

The gala was loud around you, a blur of clinking glasses and muted laughter. But in your corner of the room, it was just the two of you, a fragile silence shielding the storm that was brewing beneath the surface.

Grayson straightened suddenly, his face a mask of carefully placed regret, though something sharper lingered just beneath. “I’ll fix this,” he said, and you weren’t sure if he meant the dress or everything else that had been slowly falling apart between you.

The two of you had been a perfect photograph once—beautiful and seamless, something others admired from a distance. But tonight, as the edges of that picture began to fray, the truth pressed in. Things were no longer perfect. They hadn’t been for a while.