Then came the business banquet he couldn’t avoid attending.
He insisted that Violet accompany him. Before she had a chance to refuse, he had already arranged for a stylist to come over.
At the banquet, she realized Ruby was there too.
Dressed in a tight V-neck gown that left little to the imagination, Ruby approached them with a practiced smile. “Mr. Warhol. Miss Hudson.”
Violet met her gaze. Calm and poised, there was no trace of the woman who had provoked her the night before. It was as if she had transformed into someone else entirely.
Quite the actress, just like Grayson.
A moment ago, she had clearly seen his expression shift the moment he laid eyes on Ruby. His gaze darkened, his Adam’s apple moved slightly, but he still held her hand, maintaining his cold and distant facade as he gave Ruby a mere nod.
The moment Grayson appeared, guests flocked to him, glasses in hand, eager for conversation.
Some of the wealthy wives tried to engage Violet, but she continued to play the role of someone hard of hearing, letting their words fade into the background.
Grayson smiled as he offered explanations, worried she might grow bored. He personally selected the pastries she liked, placed a glass of juice beside her, drawing admiration from those around them.
“Mr. Warhol really is the perfect man.”
“I’ve heard how much he dotes on his fiancée, and seeing it in person, I can’t deny it.”
Violet lowered her eyes, her long lashes casting a shadow over the mockery hidden within them.
As the chatter continued, Grayson’s phone rang.
He glanced at the screen, his expression shifting slightly before he spoke apologetically. “Excuse me, I have some work to handle.”
Then, turning to her, he signed in fluid motions, “Violet, wait here for me. I’ll be back soon.”
She instinctively scanned the room. Ruby was gone too.
Moments later, her phone vibrated.
A message from Ruby.
It was a screenshot of a chat.
In the image, Ruby had sent a photo—her bare back exposed, the zipper at the bottom of her dress left teasingly undone.
Beneath it, a message: [Mr. Warhol, my zipper won’t go up. Can you help me?]
Grayson’s forwarded response was brief: [Location?]
