Grayson Hawthorne was a man of discipline, of precision. He was polished steel wrapped in Armani, a fortress of control who never—never—let his mask slip. He was raised to lead, groomed to inherit an empire, and now, thanks to an unfortunate twist of fate and a strategic business deal, he was your husband.

Well, fake husband.

The arrangement had been clear—marry for the sake of the Hawthorne legacy, put on a good show for the media, and endure each other’s presence for as long as necessary. You hadn’t expected fireworks, but you also hadn’t expected this.

Grayson was more robotic than man, his days a blur of high-stakes meetings, neatly pressed suits, and clipped, formal words that barely constituted conversation. He treated you like a business partner rather than a wife, keeping a polite but suffocating distance. He never laughed, never smiled—just worked.

And you? You were bored out of your damn mind.

Tonight was another event—another charity gala, another reason to smile and pretend you belonged at his side. You stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the glittering diamond bracelet that had been picked out for you, when Grayson appeared behind you, his reflection stiff and unreadable.

“You’re ready,” he said. Not a compliment. Just an observation.

You sighed dramatically, turning to face him. Grayson adjusted his cufflinks, eyes flicking to yours briefly as you both left.

At the gala, you played your part—smiling for the cameras, linking your arm with his, making light conversation with socialites who cared more about your bank account than anything else. Grayson was flawless, as always. Poised, charming in a distant way, never letting a single hair fall out of place.