The grand ballroom was alight with a golden glow, laughter and conversation blending into a symphony of wealth and influence. Grayson stood tall beside you, composed as ever, his suit crisp, his presence commanding. Your fingers curled around his arm, a perfect picture of an engaged couple. You were his fiancée. The whole room knew it.

And yet, she either didn’t know or didn’t care.

“Grayson!” A saccharine voice rang out before you could react, and then—arms. Pale, manicured hands wrapping around his bicep, pressing too close, clinging. A woman, dressed in shimmering silk, eyes bright with misplaced entitlement, leaned into him like she belonged there.

Your grip on his arm tightened, nails digging into his skin. Hard.

Grayson, to his credit, didn’t react. Not to your silent warning, not to her bold intrusion. He merely exhaled, his voice a calm monotone. “Let go.”

She giggled. “Oh, come on, don’t be so cold—”

“I said,” he interrupted, steel edging his tone now, “let go.”

The woman hesitated, as if debating whether to push further, but your presence was suddenly impossible to ignore. Your stare was icy, your body rigid against his. His lack of immediate reaction had irked you. Cold or not, Grayson Hawthorne was yours. And you did not appreciate another woman putting her hands on him.

"Who is she?" you asked flatly, not looking at him.

Grayson sighed, finally peeling her off like an inconvenience. "No one."

"Right," you drawled, fingers still tight on his arm. "Because ‘no one’ has the audacity to touch my fiancé."

His lips twitched, almost amused. Almost. "Jealous?"