Chapter 16 – 16: The Act

The next few days passed in a blur of carefully orchestrated public appearances. Evelyn had booked them for three more events—a gallery opening in SoHo, a wine tasting for a children’s hospital fundraiser, and a private dinner at the mayor’s residence. Each one came with its own set of photographers, its own expectations, and its own opportunities for Mailah to completely humiliate herself.

What she hadn’t expected was how Grayson would use every single one of them to slowly drive her insane.

It started at the gallery opening. They were standing in front of a massive abstract painting that looked like someone had thrown red paint at a canvas and called it art, when Grayson’s hand settled on the small of her back. The touch was casual, appropriate for a married couple, but his fingers traced small circles through the silk of her dress that made her breath catch.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his lips close enough to her ear that his breath sent shivers down her spine.

“I’m cold,” she lied, acutely aware of the photographer circling them like a shark.

“Liar.” The word was soft, almost affectionate, but the way he said it made heat pool low in her belly. “You’re nervous because you think I’m going to kiss you.”

Her face flamed. “I am not—”

“You are,” he interrupted, his thumb pressing against her spine in a way that made her arch slightly into his touch. “And you’re blushing beautifully for the cameras.”

The photographer’s flash went off three times in rapid succession, capturing what must have looked like an intimate moment between newlyweds. Mailah wanted to die.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

Grayson’s smile was barely there, more of a suggestion than an actual expression. “Because married couples touch each other, Lailah. And because when you blush like that, you look like a woman who’s desperately in love with her husband.”

The wine tasting was worse. Grayson seemed to take perverse pleasure in finding excuses to touch her—his hand guiding her elbow as they moved between tables, his fingers brushing hers as he handed her a glass of wine, his palm resting possessively on her hip when they posed for photos.

Each touch was calculated, professional, perfectly appropriate for public consumption. But somehow, he managed to make each one feel like a secret, like something intimate passing between them that had nothing to do with cameras or performances.

“You’re very good at this,” she said during a quiet moment, watching him charm a group of donors with effortless ease.

“Good at what?” he asked, though his eyes remained on the crowd.

“Pretending to be attracted to me.”

That got his attention. He turned to look at her fully, his storm-blue eyes unreadable. “Who says I’m pretending?”

Before she could process that statement, he was moving away, leaving her standing there with her heart hammering against her ribs and her cheeks burning.

The dinner at the Mayor’s residence was pure torture. The seating arrangement placed them next to each other at a table for twelve, and Grayson seemed determined to make the most of it. His hand found her thigh under the table, his fingers tracing patterns on her skin through the thin material of her dress that made it impossible to concentrate on the conversation about city development projects.

“You’re not eating,” he observed quietly, his thumb stroking along her inner thigh.

“I’m not hungry,” she managed, gripping her wine glass like a lifeline.

“Shame,” he murmured, his fingers moving higher. “You should try the duck. It’s almost as delicious as you look in that dress.”

The compliment, delivered in that low, intimate voice, made her entire body flush with heat. She was sure everyone at the table could see exactly what he was doing to her, but when she glanced around, the other guests were engaged in their own conversations, oblivious to the silent seduction happening right beside them.

“The photographer,” she whispered desperately.

“Is getting beautiful shots of a woman who can’t take her eyes off her husband,” Grayson replied, his hand squeezing her thigh gently before returning to his own space. “Which is exactly what we want.”

By the time the evening ended, Mailah felt like she’d been through a war. The car ride home was silent except for the soft hum of the engine and the sound of her own thundering heartbeat. Grayson sat beside her, perfectly composed, checking emails on his phone as if he hadn’t just spent three hours systematically destroying her composure.

“You’re very quiet,” he said without looking up from his screen.

“I’m tired.”

“Tired of what?”

She turned to glare at him. “You know what.”

He finally looked at her, and there was something in his expression that made her pulse skip. “I know that you’re the most responsive woman I’ve ever met,” he said quietly. “I know that you blush when I touch you, and that you forget to breathe when I whisper in your ear. I know that you’re either an incredible actress, or you’re not as immune to me as you pretend to be.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” he agreed, his eyes dropping to her lips. “You’re not. That’s what makes this so interesting.”

The rest of the week passed in a haze of cooking tutorials and YouTube videos. Mailah had decided that if she was going to survive the morning show, she needed to at least look like she knew what she was doing. She practiced making risotto until she could do it in her sleep, memorized the proper way to hold a knife, and learned enough cooking terminology to fake her way through a conversation.

The kitchen staff at the estate might have thought she’d lost her mind, but didn’t say anything.

“Mrs. Ashford,” the kitchen help said carefully, watching her massacre her fifteenth onion of the afternoon. “Perhaps you’d like me to prepare something for dinner instead?”

“I’m fine,” Mailah insisted, blinking back tears from the onion fumes. “I just need to practice.”

“Practice for what, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“The cooking segment on Morning Manhattan,” she said, trying to slice the onion the way she’d seen in the videos. “I want to make sure I don’t embarrass myself.”

The kitchen help’s expression was carefully neutral. “I’m sure you’ll do beautifully, Ma’am.”

The night before the show, Mailah couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, running through every possible disaster scenario in her head. What if she cut herself? What if she burned something? What if she forgot the ingredients? What if someone asked her about her cooking background and she froze up completely?

She was so lost in her spiral of anxiety that she almost missed the sound of Grayson’s key in the lock.

He’d been traveling for the past three days, handling some business crisis in Chicago, and she’d grown used to having the bedroom to herself because he slept in another bedroom when he was home. The sound of his footsteps in the hallway made her heart rate spike.

The door opened quietly, and she heard him moving around in the darkness, the soft sounds of him undressing and getting ready for bed. She kept her breathing steady, feigning sleep, but her entire body was tense with awareness.

The mattress dipped as he slid into bed beside her, and she had to fight the urge to move away from the heat of his body. They hadn’t been sleeping in the same bed since that first night, so it was a shock to find him there. He seemed careful to stay on his side, never touching her unless they were in public, but his presence filled the space between them like electricity.

“I know you’re awake,” he said quietly.

Mailah’s breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself to remain still, her eyes squeezed shut. The darkness felt heavy around them, charged with an electricity that made her skin tingle. She could feel the heat radiating from his body even though he wasn’t touching her, could smell that intoxicating mix of his cologne and something uniquely him that made her pulse race.

“Your breathing gives you away,” Grayson continued, his voice low and rough in the darkness.

She felt him shift beside her, the mattress dipping slightly, and suddenly he was closer. Not touching, but close enough that she could feel his breath against her shoulder. Her heart hammered so loudly she was sure he could hear it in the silence of the room.

“Are you nervous about tomorrow?” he asked, and there was something different in his tone now. Softer. Almost… concerned?

The question caught her off guard. She’d expected him to call her out for pretending to sleep, maybe make one of his cutting remarks about her performance. She hadn’t expected genuine concern.

“Yes,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

“Look at me, Lailah.”

The command was gentle but firm, and despite every instinct telling her to keep her eyes closed, she found herself turning toward him. In the dim light filtering through the curtains, she could make out the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead. His eyes were pools of shadow, but she could feel the intensity of his gaze on her face.

“You’ll do fine,” he said, and his hand moved to brush a strand of hair from her face. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a shiver through her entire body. “You’re stronger than you think.”

His fingers lingered against her cheek, and she found herself leaning into the touch despite her better judgment. The air between them seemed to crackle with tension, with possibilities that terrified and thrilled her in equal measure.

“Grayson,” she breathed, not sure if it was a warning or a plea.

His thumb traced along her cheekbone, and she saw something flicker in his eyes—something dark and hungry that made her breath catch.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep