The drawing room was suffused with a thick silence that pressed against Ivy’s skin like damp velvet. The guests’ eyes still burned in her memory—calculating, cold. She could still taste the metallic tang of fear mingled with the champagne that slid too fast down her throat.

Greyson stood rigid near the window, his gaze fixed on the city lights sprawling beneath them like a constellation of secrets. His jaw clenched so tight the tendons twitched at the sides. The sharp crease between his brows deepened, a restless storm brewing beneath his flawless mask.

Ivy’s heels clicked on the marble floor as she moved forward, each step measured, wary. The expensive silk of her gown whispered against the polished surface, a fragile thread in the tension hanging between them.

“You don’t have to—” she started, voice uneven.

He spun slowly, his dark eyes narrowing, sharpening as they landed on her. “Don’t have to what?”

“Pretend. That this is normal.” Her words faltered, swallowed by the cavernous hush. “We’re supposed to be... something. Not strangers hiding behind walls.”

A faint smile ghosted at the corner of his mouth, fleeting as a shadow. “Normal is overrated.”

The air snapped tighter around them, a taut wire ready to snap. Ivy’s chest tightened, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. “Then what are we, Greyson? Just two actors playing parts in some twisted game?”

He tilted his head, studying her as if weighing a fragile piece of glass in his palm. “Actors are freer than prisoners.”

She swallowed hard, the raw honesty between them crackling like live wire. Outside, a sudden gust rattled the glass, fracturing the delicate peace.

“Show me,” Ivy challenged, stepping closer. “If you want this to work—if you want me here—show me the real you.”

Greyson’s eyes hardened, the storm finally breaking. He strode over, stopping just inches from her. The scent of cold leather and rain lingered on his coat—a faint reminder of the night they’d met.

“Real me isn’t the guy you think you know, Ivy.”

The room dipped into shadows as he pulled a small, leather-bound book from his jacket pocket. The gold-lettered initials glinted in the dim light: G.B.

“Where did you get that?” Ivy’s breath hitched.

He let the book fall open in his palms, careful despite the tension crackling between them.

Inside were photographs—yellowed at the edges, fragile as aged parchment. Faces smiled up at her—smiling, laughing—before the weight of years had etched doubt and loss in their eyes.

One photograph fell from the page, fluttering to the floor like a dying leaf. Ivy bent to pick it up, fingers trembling.

It was her.

But not the version of Ivy casting wary, guarded glances back at Greyson now.

This was a young girl, free and radiant, standing beside a man who wasn’t Greyson—the man had softer eyes and a warmth that now seemed painfully absent.

“Who is he?” Ivy’s voice was barely a whisper.

Greyson’s jaw twitched. “My father.”

The ice in his tone shattered like glass.

Ivy’s heart hammered against her ribs, breath shallow. The photograph felt heavier now, laden with unsaid words, hidden histories.

“What isn’t in the contract,” Greyson murmured, stepping back into shadow, “is everything that comes beneath the surface.”

Before she could respond, the unmistakable click of the door unlocking sliced through the room.

Frozen, Ivy’s gaze flicked to the entrance.

The heavy oak door swung open.

And behind it, stood someone she never expected to see again.