chapter 2
983 Words
Chapter 2
The Gala Game
The Grayson estate glowed with chandeliers, fairy lights, and the murmurs of high society. The air smelled of old money, champagne, and subtle tension. Isabella walked beside Nathaniel, his hand warm against the small of her back firm, yet calculated, like every move he made tonight was rehearsed.
She was the outsider here, but dressed like royalty just to fit in, no one would suspect a thing.
“Smile,” he whispered without looking at her. “Everyone’s watching.”
She gave a smile that could pass for charming but wasn’t too wide. “If one more camera flashes in my face, I might go blind.”
“Welcome to my world,” he muttered, voice low but laced with amusement.
They passed through a lot of guests, stopping now and then to greet donors, board members, and people whose eyes sparkled with suspicion. Isabella kept her shoulders high and her head steady, matching Nathaniel’s rhythm.
Then came the voice she didn’t expect.
“Well, well. I heard the news, but I thought it was a joke.”
Nathaniel’s fingers flexed slightly against her back. Isabella turned to see a tall man, older, with a wolf-like grin.
“Uncle Marcus,” Nathaniel said flatly.
“Charming girl,” Marcus said, ignoring his nephew’s tone as he kissed the air near Isabella’s cheek. “I assume you know what you’re getting into, dear.”
“I could ask you the same,” she replied coolly.
His laugh was sharp and dry, and it echoed just enough to make her stomach clench.
As Marcus walked away, Nathaniel leaned close. “Stay away from him.”
“What is this, the mafia?” she asked with furrowed brows.
“Something like it,” he said. “He wants the company. He’s waiting for me to slip.”
Isabella blinked. “And I’m your insurance policy?”
He didn’t answer. But his jaw was set like stone.
The evening blurred into more introductions, polite laughter, and increasingly suspicious glances. Then, a tap on her shoulder.
“May I steal the fiancée for a dance?”
An elderly man stood before her, with silver hair, a warm smile, and eyes that crinkled kindly.
“Grandfather,” Nathaniel said, his tone softening for the first time all night.
Isabella felt her breath catch. This was ‘The Mr. Grayson’.
The founder, the legacy.
As she danced with him, his steps were steady despite his age.
“My grandson has always been... closed off,” he said. “But I can tell he cares about you. There’s something different in his eyes when you’re around.”
Isabella blinked, unsure what to say. “He... he’s complicated.”
The old man smiled. “Aren’t we all complicated beings?”
Then, his hand gave hers a gentle squeeze.
“Just promise me one thing. Don’t let the business kill the boy I raised.”
She nodded, something warm curling in her chest. “I’ll try.”
Her chest went a bit tight after that, like she was lying to a man who doesn't deserve to be lied to.
Later that night, Isabella stepped onto the terrace to breathe. The weight of the lie pressed against her ribs like a corset. Champagne buzzed in her veins, and the sound of violins floated from inside.
Nathaniel joined her in silence, staring out at the gardens.
“You did well tonight,” he said.
“So did you,” she replied. “Especially pretending not to want to strangle your uncle.”
He glanced sideways. “He’s dangerous.”
“And you’re... what? The hero?” I snapped, wishing I had taken something stronger like whiskey.
“No. I’m just better at hiding my knives,” he responded, his eyes held honesty.
She smirked. “Reassuring.”
Silence fell again.
Then she added, “Your grandfather is lovely.”
“He’s why I’m doing this,” Nathaniel admitted. “He wants to see me happy. Settled. Married. And if he thinks I’ve found someone... it gives him peace.”
Isabella’s throat tightened. “How long do we keep this up?”
“Three months. After the board vote.”
She nodded.
“And after that?” she asked, but he didn’t reply.
Instead, he reached for her hand.
“For tonight,” he said, “pretend it’s real. Just for a little while.”
Isabella stared at his hand, then laced her fingers with his.
And for a moment, one brief, breathless moment, it did feel real.
Even if it was just pretend.
But pretend lines do blur, don't they?
Mornings in the Grayson mansion had a certain hush to them too quiet, too polished, like everything had been scrubbed clean of chaos. Isabella padded into the kitchen wearing one of the silk robes from the guest wardrobe. Her hair was still tousled from sleep, but she didn’t care. It wasn’t like this marriage came with real expectations. Or so she told herself.
Nathaniel stood by the counter, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, reading something on his tablet. He looked annoyingly good even half-dressed and distracted.
“Coffee?” he asked without looking up.
“You make coffee?” she teased, accepting the mug.
He finally looked at her. “You look comfortable.”
“Are you disappointed I didn’t wear a tiara to breakfast?”
His smirk was faint, but genuine. “Not at all. Though you might want to tone down the sarcasm when my grandfather comes down.”
“Oh,” she muttered, suddenly more alert. “He’s here?”
Nathaniel nodded. “He arrived late last night. I told him we’d have breakfast together.”
So this was more pretending. More smiling. More playing the fiancée. But the strange part? It didn’t feel like a performance anymore. She was actually comfortable. Which is risky, isn't it?
- Writer
