The awards ceremony had ended, but its echoes lingered in the glittering air of the ballroom. Grace had found herself sipping a delicate glass of white wine, the chilled sweetness tingling on her tongue as her thoughts spun wildly. Silas Vale was trouble. The kind that smiles politely, flatters gracefully, and still somehow makes you feel like the only person in the room.
And yet, she couldn't ignore the ripple that ran through her when he looked at her.
Julian stood by her side, glass in hand, visibly tense. His fingers curled tighter around the stem every time Silas appeared within earshot. Grace, attuned to every micro-expression thanks to her years in the fashion world, didn't miss the flash of something territorial in his eyes. Something a little too possessive.
But Silas was a masterclass in restraint. He hadn't said much when he first greeted her. A smile, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes, a compliment on her dress, "I don't know if the spotlight belongs on the award tonight, or the woman in this room", and then he had gracefully excused himself.
What Grace didn't know was that every line, every calculated glance had been practiced.
Earlier that week
Silas sat on the edge of a studio lot trailer, script in one hand, a bottle of water in the other. Across from him, Tristian Mercer lounged like the world owed him nothing but good days. Dressed in sun-washed linen and sandals, he looked like he'd walked out of a vineyard in Italy.
"Flatter her like you don't need her to like you," Tristian had said with a lopsided grin. "Don't try to win her. Be the win."
Silas had chuckled, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip. "Is that what you do?"
Tristian leaned back. "Worked on every red carpet so far. Don't underestimate the power of sincerity. The trick is to mean it, just a little."
They had laughed together, and something warm settled between them. A camaraderie neither expected. Tristian, with his golden retriever charm, open heart, and sunshine-soaked past. Silas, with shadows folded neatly into his tailored suits.
But Silas took notes.
Back at the ballroom
Grace had excused herself, walking to the balcony for some fresh air, when he followed slowly and gracefully like a panther in power.
"Grace," his voice was soft but firm. "I meant what I said earlier. You outshone the award."
She turned, her silhouette haloed by the warm city lights. "That is something oddly nice to say, Mr. Vale."
He smiled, slow and practiced, like a man who knew the effect he had. "I'm learning. Had a good teacher."
Her brow quirked. "Learning for what?"
"For moments like this," he said, stepping closer, but never invading. "Where I get to ask a woman I admire out for coffee, and hope she says yes."
It wasn't desperate. It wasn't smug. It was perfectly poised, with just the right edge of vulnerability.
Grace hesitated, surprised. Not because he asked, but because a part of her wanted to say yes.
Before she could respond, Julian appeared beside her, his hand subtly brushing her lower back. "We should leave. It's late."
Silas nodded politely. "Of course. But Grace, if you change your mind," he handed her a small black card with only a number. No name. "I'd be honored."
She looked at the card, then at Julian, whose jaw was set too tightly. Then, back at Silas, who walked away without looking back.
Later, in the car
Julian was quiet for a while. Then he spoke, eyes on the road. "Are you… seeing him?"
Grace blinked. "What? No."
"But you want to."
She turned to him. "Julian..."
"I'm serious, Grace," he interrupted. "I want to be more than your... occasional hangout partner. I want to be your boyfriend."
Her stomach twisted. Silas's smile. Julian's charisma turned sincerity. Two men. One storm of confusion.
Grace looked out the window, the city flashing by. "I need time."
But time was already slipping through her fingers.
But the war had begun.