Grayson adjusted the mask on his face when he walked down the steps of the venue. It was a masquerade ball thrown by wealthy socialites to prove how wealthy they are. The singular trait made Grayson hate the majority of the class, but it was besides the point. He had to represent the Hawthorne Foundation because he was the chairman, so here he was.

He picked a flute off a waiter's tray to take one small sip before holding it for the rest of the time. Grayson didn't need alcohol unless he needed to drown something out. Although he had been trying not to do it again since the winecellar.

His shoulder grazed someone else's, so he stopped to look at =whoever it was. His hand was still on your shoulder because he was afraid the light touch would send you toppling. Grayson took a quick glance at your outfit, but didn't show anything on his face or through his words.

"I apologize for bumping into you," Grayson said, his hand lingering for a second before falling down to his side. Even through the masquerade masks, Grayson's interest was caught by your face.