“You’re not his girlfriend,” Grayson said, voice low and deliberate. I kept smiling. Smiles were my currency tonight. “Excuse me?” Orion barked, bright and nervous, like a kid caught sneaking dessert. “You heard me,” Grayson said, stepping out of a cluster of champagne and heirs. He didn’t walk. He arrived. The room folded around him, conversation cutting like glass. Orion swallowed. “Grayson, this is—” “Jade Cowan,” I supplied. “Orion hired me to make him look stable tonight.” A hush moved through the Mariner Heights ballroom. Silver chandeliers blinked. Cameras found us, not that we needed them. “You staged the toast,” Grayson continued. “You timed your laugh. You avoided questions about career by saying you’re ‘between things.’” He listed facts like a prosecutor. No accusation. Just evidence. “You’re dissecting dinner theater in front of everyone,” I said. I kept smiling the way professionals do. Smile without crack. “It’s a charity gala. People play roles.” “Charity?” He smiled back with no warmth. “You walked in with a fake pearl choker and a contract in your bag. Tell me who drew the first line.” “Orion did.” The boy flinched like he’d been punched. “He paid you in cash,” Grayson said. “And he made you sign non-disclosure. Where’s the NDA now?” He tipped his head at Orion’s phone, which had gone pale in the kid’s hand. Orion went red. “You don’t know anything about—” “I know everything about Wheeler family face-saving,” Grayson