The Lie We Loved

Later, back at the familiar comfort of her cafe, Elara sat in her favorite corner booth, a sanctuary of worn wood and soft lamplight. A glass of deep red wine sat untouched in one hand, a glossy magazine in the other, its pages unread. The gentle hum of the refrigerator and the low murmur of jazz music from the speakers were barely registered.

Jade, her best friend and business partner, sat opposite her, nursing a mug of herbal tea, her expression a mixture of exasperation and concern.

"He said six weeks," Brielle whispered, the words still feeling foreign on her tongue. "He just… announced it. To the entire world."

"And you said nothing?" Jade asked, her voice incredulous.

"I froze," Brielle admitted, the memory of the blinding lights and Grayson's unwavering gaze still vivid. "My brain just… shut down."

Jade exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose. "So, let me get this straight. You are officially engaged to a man you barely know, in front of everyone who ever doubted you, and now you're expected to pull off a wedding that doesn't exist, in six weeks?"

"Pretty much," Brielle confirmed, a wry, humorless laugh escaping her. The absurdity of it all was almost comical, if it weren't so terrifyingly real.

Jade leaned forward, her eyes suddenly sharp with a familiar determination. "Then we make it exist. A blueprint. A plan. A façade so good they won't dare question it. We'll make it the most convincing fake wedding the world has ever seen."

Brielle looked out the cafe window into the quiet street, where the world was still turning, indifferent to the bombshell that had just exploded in her life. A lone car drove past, its headlights cutting through the darkness.

Only, it did matter.

Because now, the game wasn't just public.

It was personal. And she had no idea what rules Grayson Westbrook played by when things got personal.

The word fiancée echoed in Brielle's head for the third day in a row.

Not whispered. Not faked. Not hidden behind camera angles or strategic body language.

Declared. Out loud. By Grayson Westbrook.

The announcement replayed every time she closed her eyes—his hand on the microphone, his voice steady, his gaze locked on her like she wasn't a placeholder, like she was the only thing that made sense.

But now?

Nothing made sense.

Brielle, this neckline is not 'future Mrs. Westbrook.' It's 'casual affair in Milan.'"

Jade's voice, sharp and pragmatic, cut through Brielle's swirling thoughts. She stood behind her, fingers poking at the edge of a fitted bridal gown that clung a little too closely to Brielle's frame, revealing more than she was comfortable with. The fabric was heavy, luxurious, but it felt like a costume, a suffocating disguise.

"I wasn't aware we were picking out the dress already," Brielle muttered, tugging the bodice higher, feeling exposed under the harsh lights of the boutique fitting room. The air was too warm, thick with the scent of silk and expensive perfume. The mirrored walls, reflecting her image from every angle, seemed to mock her, showing a stranger in a stranger's dress.

"We are now," Jade stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. She held up a tablet displaying a meticulously curated Pinterest board titled 'Westbrook Wedding Inspiration.' "The wedding's in less than six weeks, remember? You want a believable lie? Then we commit to the look, the registry, the Pinterest board—everything. Every single detail has to scream 'true love' and 'impeccable taste.' This isn't just a wedding, Brielle. It's a PR campaign. And you, my dear, are the face of it."

Brielle stepped off the pedestal, the heavy satin hem of the gown pooling around her feet. She tugged at the fabric, feeling as if it were swallowing her whole, a symbol of the life that was rapidly consuming her own. The dress, beautiful as it was, felt like a cage. She looked at her reflection, a pale, bewildered woman staring back, draped in white, playing a part she never auditioned for. The game was no longer just public and personal. It was intimate, invading every corner of her life, even her reflection. And the rules, she realized with a sinking heart, were being written by someone else entirely.

Later that evening, Brielle stepped into the Westbrook penthouse for a scheduled "photo strategy session" with Grayson and his PR team.

Only, there was no team.

Just him.

In a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled, tie discarded, leaning over his kitchen island with a glass of bourbon in one hand and a tablet in the other.

When she entered, he didn't look up. "You're early."

"You're alone," she replied.

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that a problem?"

"No. Just… surprising."

He finally looked at her, eyes scanning her outfit—just jeans and a blouse, but the way he stared made her feel like she'd shown up in diamonds.

"I told the team I'd handle it myself."

"You're CEO of an empire and now you're your own PR intern?"

"I'm efficient."

She tilted her head. "You're impossible."

He smirked. "Yet here you are."

They sat on the couch, scrolling through images from recent events—photos of them smiling, holding hands, laughing. Images designed to convince the world they were in love.

But after a while, Brielle stopped looking at the tablet and just… watched him.

Watched the quiet way his jaw clenched when he read headlines. The way he tapped his fingers in subtle rhythm against the glass. The tiredness in his eyes that he kept trying to hide.

"You don't sleep much, do you?" she asked.

He didn't flinch. "No."

"Why?"

He sipped his bourbon. "Sleep is vulnerable."

"So is love," she said before she could stop herself.

He looked at her for a long time. "Exactly."

Silence stretched between them.

Thick. Electric.

Brielle shifted on the couch. "Why did you say six weeks?"

His brow furrowed.

"At the announcement," she clarified. "Why not three months? Or next year? Why that soon?"

He was quiet for a moment.

Then, "Because if we gave them time, they'd dig harder. Six weeks keeps the speculation ahead of the facts. It gives us control."

"And what happens in six weeks?"

He hesitated—just long enough to be noticeable. "That depends on you."

Brielle's chest tightened. "What if I said I didn't want to go through with it?"

"I wouldn't blame you," he said.

They stood at the window later, the city glittering beneath them. His penthouse was a glass cage of silence and skyline. She rested her hands on the railing, feeling the cool metal beneath her fingers.

"I used to imagine what it would be like to fall in love," she said absently.

He looked at her.

"In my head, it was always chaotic and colorful. But now... it just feels quiet. Like a storm that hasn't arrived."

Grayson stepped closer, his voice low. "Maybe it already has."

She turned to face him.

He was too close.

The air between them buzzed with something heavy and unnamed.

And before she could talk herself out of it, before logic could win, she asked the question she swore she wouldn't:

"Why me?"