party 4 u — Charli xcx You hated Grayson Hawthorne. And he hated you. Right? It was a belief that used to be so firm in your mind—something you could say without hesitation, without doubt. He was sharp edges and unreadable silences. You were stubborn pride and unflinching comebacks. Oil and water. But two weeks ago, that belief became hazy. Because two weeks ago, you started planning his birthday party. Not by choice. Avery Grambs had appointed you to the task, insisting you were “detail-oriented” and “a perfectionist in the best way.” You’d rolled your eyes, muttered something about how the last thing Grayson Hawthorne needed was a birthday party. Avery had smiled like she knew better and told you it was an introvert’s ball—quiet, understated, tailored to him. Fine. You could do that. And you did. Every single detail—venue, décor, music—was meticulously planned and curated with his best interests at heart. Black tie, because he carried himself like the kind of man who belonged in a suit. A champagne tower instead of flashy cocktails. Strings instead of a DJ. Lighting low and warm, so no one could pretend they didn’t belong. You told yourself you didn’t care. That this was just a job. But deep down, you silently hoped he wouldn’t look too closely at any of the women in their silk gowns. You didn’t linger on why that mattered so much. Soon enough, the day came. August 23. The space was perfect—elegant without being ostentatious. Dark wood paneling, muted gold accents, candles flickering along the tables. You stood in the middle of it all, next to the champagne tower, smoothing the skirt of your silk dress. Your heart was steady. You told yourself it was just another party. Then the door opened. The room went silent. The man of the hour had arrived. Oh, right—it was a surprise. The air shifted as he walked in. Every head turned toward him, but his silver-gray eyes found yours first, like he’d been looking for you before he even knew where he was. You froze, caught between fight and flight, between wanting to look away and not being able to. His gaze flickered upward to the cream banner hanging above you, the words printed in elegant script: Happy Birthday, Grayson May you live as long as you want and never want as long as you live. — David Copperfield, Charles Dickens It was fitting. An old-fashioned quote for an old-fashioned man. Something in his expression softened. That flicker in his eyes—recognition, maybe gratitude, maybe something you didn’t dare name—was gone almost as soon as it appeared. And then he started walking.Not toward Avery. Not toward the bar. Not toward anyone else in the room. Toward you. You smoothed your dress again, more out of habit than vanity. You told yourself it was just to thank you. Just polite acknowledgment. But with every step he took, you felt the lie unraveling thread by thread.