[Rory’s POV]
I stare at my phone for twenty minutes before calling.
The Viola voice takes effort tonight. "Grayson? It's Viola. I need to talk. In person."
"I'm listening."
"Not over the phone. Your place. Eight o'clock."
A pause. "Should I be concerned?"
"You should be intrigued." I hang up.
Two hours later, I'm outside his building wearing my actual face.
No wig. No emerald contacts. Just nineties glasses, mystery-stained jeans, and Lena's Christmas sweater because my cardigans are "weapons-grade depressing."
The doorman's eyebrows achieve liftoff. Aurora Kane? Visiting the CEO? At night? He waves me through, probably drafting his group text.
The elevator opens into Grayson's penthouse. He's standing there in dark jeans and a henley, clearly expecting platinum and getting mousy brown instead.
His expression screams 'buffering.'
"Aurora Kane. Data analysis." He says it like I'm a riddle he didn't sign up to solve.
"Hi." I step inside before fleeing becomes an option. "Surprise?"
"I was expecting someone else."
"I am someone else. Same person, actually. Wig, contacts, audacity." The words tumble out. "The whole goddess thing is me. In discount disguise."
He stares. I can hear the Windows error sound.
"You're telling me that you—" He gestures at my entire situation. "—transform into the woman I've been dating?"
"Bingo."
He pours scotch without asking. His hands are steady but his face says 'error 404.' "Start talking. Because my brain just crashed."
So I tell him. Years of invisibility. Creating Viola from spite and a sale wig. Six months of not getting caught.
"I wanted someone to see me," I finish. "Pathetic?"
"Not the word I'd use." He drinks slowly. "How many men total?"
"Three. You, someone from my office, and..." I hesitate.
"And?"
"Another guy from work. It got messy."
"Messy how?" Concern sharpens his voice. "Are you safe?"
The question cracks me. "Maybe. I don't know. Last night someone figured it out. Showed up screaming Viola's name while my kid slept."
Grayson goes very still. "Someone knows where you live?"
"My ex-boyfriend. He's the third guy." I take a shaky breath. "He didn't recognize me as Viola—didn't know the goddess he obsessed over was the woman he dumped."
"When did he dump you?"
"When I told him I was pregnant. Called me worthless." The scotch burns. "Then last night he realizes Viola is me, and suddenly I'm pathetic."
Understanding flashes in Grayson's eyes—recognition. "Wait. Your ex. The one harassing you online. Nathan Cole." I watch it click. "Sales. The bathroom at LuxeGlow—"
"Was you." His expression darkens. "I walked in on Nathan cornering you. Put him on performance review for stalking Viola. The whole time—"
"The whole time he was stalking me. Just didn't know it." The irony is bitter. "Then last night when he figured it out, he showed up at my apartment. Screamed through the door. Made threats. I slammed it on his fingers."
"He came to your home. Where your son sleeps."
"Yeah."
"That's escalation." His jaw tightens. "The office guy who knows—does he know about Nathan?"
"Nathan told him this morning. Stormed in with photo evidence." Guilt twists. "He came to my place looking betrayed."
"You let him fall for a ghost."
"She's not a ghost. Viola is me with better hair and zero fucks." I meet his eyes. "But I should've told him first."
"Who else knows?"
"A courier figured it out from my ring." I touch it. "Didn't judge. Just helped."
"So Nathan, office guy—Julian, I assume, courier." His eyebrow arches. "I'm last."
"You're the one I chose to tell. That count?"
He moves closer. His hand cups my jaw. "You maintained double identity for six months. That takes serious strategy."
"Is this the 'you're crazy' part?"
"This is the 'I'm impressed' part." His thumb traces my cheek. "Most people couldn't pull it off."
"You're not angry?"
"Same person, same mind, same everything that matters." His eyes hold mine. "Packaging is details."
"I lied for weeks."
"You survived. Found a way to be seen." His voice softens. "That's resourceful."
Something cracks in my chest. "Grayson—"
"Nathan's the problem. But he escalated—showing up at your home changes things. Security monitors your building and the office. If he comes within fifty feet, I'll know."
"You'd do that?"
"Think I'm letting some vindictive ex terrorize someone I care about? Especially one who's already proven he's dangerous." He pulls me closer. "Why come as yourself tonight?"
"Done hiding."
"Good." His kiss is different—genuine, curious. "Been waiting for this version."
His hands map my body with deliberate precision, learning curves hidden beneath cardigans. I gasp when his palm cups my breast through my sweater.
"Bedroom," he murmurs against my mouth.
"Yes."
He leads me past expensive furniture to a bedroom of dark wood and masculine minimalism. The massive bed is covered in charcoal sheets that probably cost more than my rent.
Grayson finds the hem of my sweater. "May I?"
"Yes."
He pulls it over my head slowly, revealing my practical beige bra. I expect disappointment. His eyes darken with hunger instead.
"Beautiful." His mouth finds my collarbone. "Every version of you."
I fumble with his henley, shoving it up. His torso is ridiculous—defined abs, broad shoulders. I trace the lines, feeling them flex.
"Like what you see?"
"Fishing for compliments is beneath CEOs."
"Then let me be beneath you instead."
The corniness should kill the mood. I laugh—real, unfiltered—and he grins like he's won.
We shed clothes with urgent efficiency. When I'm naked before him—no wig, no contacts—his gaze sweeps over me with appreciation.
"Stunning."
He lays me back on expensive sheets, his body covering mine with deliberate weight. His mouth trails down my throat, teeth scraping collarbone before finding my breast. He sucks hard enough to make me arch, tongue swirling while his hand kneads the other.
"Grayson—" My fingers tangle in silver-streaked hair.
He moves lower, mapping every inch with lips and tongue. When he spreads my thighs, his breath ghosts over sensitive skin. The first lick makes my hips buck.
"Stay still." Command roughens his voice.
His tongue works methodically—long strokes through folds, circling my clit with maddening precision. When he adds fingers, curling inside, the pressure builds relentlessly.
"Don't stop—" I'm gasping, thighs trembling. "Right there—"
He doubles his efforts, sucking my clit while fingers pump faster. The orgasm crashes through me, walls clenching as I cry out.
He rises, mouth glistening, and positions himself. When he enters me, it's claiming—one thick thrust bottoming out, stretching me around him.
"Fuck." The word escapes. "Grayson—"
"I know." His rhythm is controlled, measured. Each thrust hits deep, angled to make my spine arch. His hand finds my clit, circling with expert precision while he drives relentlessly.
"That's it." His voice roughens. "Take what you need."
I dig nails into his shoulders, leaving marks. He groans approval, pace increasing until the bed rocks. The pressure coils tight until I shatter around him.
My orgasm tears through me, walls clenching so hard he curses. He follows seconds later, pulsing deep while I milk him completely.
We collapse together, sweat-slick and breathing hard. His weight pins me.
"There's something else." My voice is muffled against his shoulder. "I have a son. Milo. He's five, obsessed with dinosaurs."
Grayson lifts his head, meeting my eyes. "I'd like to meet him."
"You would?"
"Not to win you over." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "Because I'm genuinely invested in knowing all of you."
Something warm unfurls in my chest. "Park tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow then."
We lie there while Manhattan glitters beyond the windows, two strategists who finally see each other clearly.
It's terrifying. It's perfect.
It's finally real.