The Lie We Loved

The elevator ride was a vertical confession booth: mirror panels on three sides, nowhere to hide from her own tired eyes. The reflection stared back—taupe sheath dress, blazer two years old but pressed to sharp lines, hair scraped into a low braided bun. Professional armor over bruised pride.

Forty‑ninth floor. Ding.

Grayson's assistant, a chic brunette who introduced herself as Violet, ushered Brielle down a hallway of frosted glass. The office at the end had a panoramic view of downtown stretching to the hazy Pacific. Grayson Westbrook stood with his back to her, one hand tucked into a trouser pocket, the other resting on a glass wall as though he owned the horizon.

Which, in a way, he did.

"Ms Carter," he said without turning around. "Punctual. I like that."

She clasped her portfolio tighter. "You said ten‑thirty. I assumed you meant it."

Now he turned, and the room tilted. He was unreasonably tall, suit charcoal today, shirt open at the throat. A villain who'd skipped the tie because he knew he didn't need rope to bind people; he used opportunity instead.

"Please," he said, gesturing to a leather chair opposite a minimalist desk. He took the seat behind it. On the sleek dark surface sat one thing: a single‑page document in a silver clip.

No small talk, then.

Brielle sat across from Grayson, her legs crossed in a poised gesture. He slid the contract across the desk, and she began to read. As her eyes scanned the page, her expression subtly shifted, betraying a flicker of emotion.

"What exactly does this entail?" she asked, her voice measured.

Grayson's gaze locked onto hers, his eyes piercing. "Six months of public engagement as my fiancée. In return, you'll walk away with your reputation restored, industry doors reopened, and a seven-figure consulting package from Westbrook Media."

The mention of seven figures sent a spark of excitement through her veins. Her pulse quickened, but she kept her face neutral, refusing to reveal her true emotions. A thin, calculated smile played on her lips as she met Grayson's gaze.

"Seems like you're quite desperate, Mr. Westbrook," she said, her tone laced with a hint of amusement.

"In exchange," he continued, "you act as my fiancée until the merger with Keaton Dynamics closes. Appearances, interviews, photographs—believable affection."

She skimmed. Mutual confidentiality… exclusive representation… termination clause… No mention of physical intimacy—just the line: "Parties will comport themselves in a manner consistent with an engaged couple." Cleverly vague.

She looked up. "You didn't care last night whether I was innocent. Why hire a supposed home‑wrecker to fix your image?"

"Because," he said, steepling his fingers, "nothing sells redemption like a woman the world already crucified. When the public discovers you were framed—"

"If they discover."

"—they'll transfer their outrage to the real villain. Keaton's board will admire my loyalty to you in adversity. Sympathy is currency. I plan to spend it."

He said it without malice; to him it was just math. She smoothed the corner of the page. "And what do I spend? My remaining dignity?"

A flicker—almost regret?—crossed his eyes. Gone in an instant. "You spend six months acting. And you get everything back."

"Everything but the truth," she murmured.

"If you want truth, win first. Then preach."

She placed the document on the desk. "Add these conditions: one, I control my wardrobe and public statements. Two, Westbrook Media funds an independent investigation into the original leak. Three, a kill‑fee of two million if you breach confidentiality. Four, no touching without my consent."

His mouth curved. "Touching is half the point."

"Consent can be granted publicly," she said, raising a brow. "A nod, a smile—subtle. You'll adapt."

He leaned back. "You drive a hard bargain, Ms Carter."

"Not hard. Fair."

He drummed fingers on the armrest, then nodded once. "Done. Anything else?"

"Yes. I won't lie on camera. Don't put words in my mouth.Send the revised draft. I'll have my attorney review it."

"Of course," he said, rising too. He was close—she could smell expensive cologne and something uniquely him, like midnight at sea. "But understand, the sooner we sign, the sooner the court of public opinion adjourns."

She ignored the electric hum between them. "You'll have my answer by tomorrow."

As she turned to leave, he added, "One more thing." She paused.

"I never doubted your innocence," he said quietly. "I simply doubted the world would care."

For a fraction of a second, sympathy softened his features. Then the mask returned.

She walked out, pulse thundering, and told herself the tremor in her knees was anger. Only anger.

An hour later, Brielle sat across from Jade Rivera at Café Othello, nursing the cheapest latte on the menu. Jade's curls framed her heart‑shaped face, and her big brown eyes flashed outrage at every detail Brielle recounted.

"Girl, this is how horror movies start," Jade said, stabbing her straw into iced coffee. "Rich villain offers broke heroine a deal in his lair—next thing you know you're chained to a media narrative and calling it love."

"It's six months," Brielle said, though she didn't sound convinced. "I set boundaries."

"Boundaries are speed bumps to men like Grayson Westbrook. He'll ride right over them in a Maserati."

Brielle stirred foam. "I need the money, Jade. And the platform. If I can clear my name—"

"Then clear it on your own! Not with Captain Sinister."

Brielle smiled faintly. "You always did have a flair for drama."

"Says the woman living a telenovela." Jade reached across, squeezing her hand. "Just promise me you'll keep receipts. Audio, paper, everything. If he burns you, we'll torch him back."

"I promise."

But the steel in Jade's eyes reminded Brielle of everything she'd already lost, and how thin the line was between survival and surrender.

That night, Brielle sat at her kitchen table, a single lamp casting shadows over overdue bills and the revised contract Westbrook's office had emailed. The new terms reflected her edits—one million up front, another million held in escrow, investigative funding guaranteed.

She could almost hear her mother's voice from long‑ago Sundays, folding laundry in their tiny duplex: Opportunity is knives, baby. Hold the handle, not the blade.

Was this the handle? Or the blade?

Her phone buzzed. A blocked number. She answered on speaker.

"Brielle." Nathan's voice, low, pleading. She exhaled, silent. "I know you hate me, but you need to listen. Westbrook—he's dangerous. Don't sign anything."

She laughed, a jagged edge. "You framing me wasn't dangerous?"

"I made a mistake. I—I was pushed." He sounded frantic. "But Grayson will ruin you for sport. Walk away."

She closed her eyes. "Good‑bye, Nathan." Ended the call. Blocked the number.

Then she clicked Print.

As the pages slid out of the printer, she thought about knives and handles and how sometimes you had to bleed to prove you were still alive.

She signed.