The silk gown felt foreign against my skin as I sat alone in our Beverly Hills mansion, the TV blaring the Golden Globe Awards ceremony I should have been attending. The dress—a midnight blue Valentino that cost more than my first car—was supposed to be my victory attire. Seven years of building Grayson's career from nothing, and tonight was supposed to be our crowning achievement.

I smoothed my hands over the fabric, wondering if the alterations would have been worth it. The dress had been tailored to perfection, just like Grayson's career. Just like our life together. At least, that's what I'd thought.

"Faye?" Harrison's voice crackled through my phone. "Where are you? The ceremony's starting."

"I'm watching from home," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. "Grayson needed space to prepare."

Space. What a diplomatic way to say he'd disappeared three days ago with no explanation beyond a cryptic text about "needing time." The industry buzzed with rumors, but I'd managed them all. That's what I did—I managed things. People. Careers. Chaos.

The camera panned across the audience, and I searched for Grayson's familiar face. Empty seat. My stomach tightened.

"And the Golden Globe for Best Actor goes to..." The presenter paused dramatically. "Grayson Weaver for 'Midnight Confession'!"

The audience erupted in applause. I stood up, my heart racing despite knowing he wouldn't be there. Where was he?

"Unfortunately, Mr. Weaver couldn't be here tonight," the presenter continued, her smile faltering slightly. "I'll accept this on his behalf."

Twitter exploded instantly. My phone buzzed with notifications.

@EntertainmentWeek: Where is Grayson Weaver? #GoldenGlobes

@DeadlineHollywood: No-show winner Grayson Weaver—biggest mystery of the night?

@TMZ: We're on it. #GoldenGlobes #GraysonWeaver

I called Grayson's number again. Straight to voicemail. Again.

"Grayson, it's me. Again. The world wants to know where you are. Call me back."

I hung up, my fingers trembling slightly. Seven years of building his career, and he couldn't even bother to tell me where he was on the biggest night of our lives.

My laptop chimed with a Google Alert. Another notification. Then another.

"TMZ Exclusive: Grayson Weaver's Secret Romance!"

My blood turned to ice as I clicked the link. The page loaded slowly, each millisecond stretching into eternity.

There he was—my fiancé, my creation, my everything—kissing a woman outside Nobu Malibu. The timestamp showed it was taken during the ceremony.

I grabbed my iPad, zooming in on the image. The woman's face came into focus. Amelia Rogers. His first love. The one his family had deemed beneath him years ago.

But it wasn't her face that made my blood freeze. It was her hand.

"The ring," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

The vintage diamond ring—the one I'd taken off two days ago to get resized—sparkled on her finger as she clung to my fiancé. The ring I'd saved for, chosen, cherished. The ring that symbolized everything we'd built together.

Seven years. Seven years of shared dreams, shared struggles, shared everything.

And there it was, on her finger.

Something shifted inside me. The hurt didn't disappear—it transformed. Into something colder. Sharper.

I didn't cry. I didn't scream. Instead, I logged into Grayson's Instagram account—the one I managed, the one with twenty million followers.

My fingers moved with surgical precision as I uploaded a photo I'd taken years ago: the ring, sparkling on my finger, catching the light just so.

"The ring looks better on the woman who paid for it," I typed. "Congratulations on the win, and the loss. #GoldenGlobes #GraysonWeaver"

I hit post, then changed his password and deactivated his access.

Done.

The comments section exploded instantly. Notifications flooded in. The phone started ringing—producers, directors, journalists all wanting to know what was happening.

I silenced it and sat back, watching as my carefully crafted message spread like wildfire across every social media platform.

"Faye?" Harrison's voice came through the phone again, this time with urgency. "What are you doing? TMZ is going crazy!"

"I'm taking back what's mine," I replied calmly.

But as I stared at the screen, watching the chaos unfold, one thought remained crystal clear: this was just the beginning.

The sound of the front door slamming woke me at 6 AM. I didn't need to look to know it was Grayson. The scent of expensive whiskey and cheap perfume wafted up the stairs before he did.

I continued folding his shirts, each crease precise and deliberate. Seven years of practice had made me an expert in many things—including this.

"Faye?" His voice carried that familiar slurring that meant he'd been drinking since yesterday afternoon. "What are you doing?"

I didn't look up from his designer suit, carefully placing it in the suitcase. "Packing your things."

"Where are you going?" He stumbled into the bedroom, his hair disheveled, eyes bloodshot. The vintage diamond ring—my ring—was conspicuously absent from his finger.

I finally met his gaze. "I'm not leaving, Grayson. You are."

He blinked, confusion clouding his features before anger replaced it. "You can't be serious. After one mistake?"

"Mistake?" I folded another shirt, my hands steady despite the tremor in my chest. "Is that what you call publicly humiliating me on the biggest night of our careers?"

"It was a moment of weakness!" He ran his hands through his hair—that nervous tell I'd pointed out countless times during interviews. "Amelia just showed up at Nobu. She was upset about something. I was comforting her."

"And the ring?" My voice remained eerily calm.

His eyes darted to the nightstand where he'd carelessly tossed it two days ago. "She must have picked it up. It wasn't intentional."

"Liar." I reached into my pocket and pulled out a printout of his contract with my agency. "Section 8, paragraph 3—the morality clause. I've highlighted it for you."

He snatched the paper, his eyes scanning the document I'd drafted years ago. The one he'd signed without reading because he trusted me to handle everything.

"You're firing me?" Disbelief colored his voice. "As my agent?"

"As your everything." I stood, meeting his gaze directly. "Get out, Grayson."

---

The Four Seasons ballroom buzzed with anticipation. Camera flashes punctuated the air as I walked to the podium, my white Armani suit a stark contrast to the sea of black-clad reporters.

I adjusted the microphone, surveying the crowd. Harrison had done his job well—every major entertainment outlet was represented.

"Thank you all for coming on such short notice," I began, my voice steady. "Today marks the end of my professional and personal relationship with Grayson Weaver."

I paused, letting the whispers ripple through the room.

"For seven years, I built his career from nothing. For seven years, I believed we were building a future together."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the diamond ring—the one I'd retrieved from his nightstand this morning.

"The ring Mr. Weaver's companion was photographed wearing belongs to me. I purchased it myself, as I have purchased many things in Mr. Weaver's life."

The cameras flashed furiously as I held up the sparkling diamond.

"I will be auctioning this ring for charity—specifically, for women who need to start over without men who don't deserve them."

The room erupted with questions, but I held up my hand.

"I wish Mr. Weaver the best in his future endeavors. However, Phoenix Management will no longer represent him."

---

"Did you see his face when you said 'Phoenix Management'?" Harrison asked, sliding a folder across my desk. "He looked like he'd seen a ghost."

I smiled slightly, flipping through the list of Grayson's upcoming projects. "He's about to see a lot worse."

The office felt different now—lighter, somehow. Without Grayson's constant demands and last-minute crises, the space seemed to breathe easier.

"What's first?" Harrison asked, his loyalty evident in the way he'd already transferred all of Grayson's files to my new company.

I dialed the number for Millennium Studios, where Grayson was set to begin filming next month.

"Jonathan? It's Faye Spencer. I'm calling about Grayson Weaver's contract."

The studio executive's voice carried genuine concern. "Faye, what's going on? We saw the press conference."

"I'm withdrawing as Mr. Weaver's representation," I said smoothly. "And I suggest you consider doing the same."

"Is there something we should know?" Jonathan's tone shifted from concern to wariness.

I chose my words carefully. "Mr. Weaver has been experiencing some... instability recently. The drinking has become more frequent."

The silence on the other end spoke volumes.

"We'll need to pause production for review," he finally said.

---

Amelia's Instagram post appeared three hours later—a carefully staged photo of a positive pregnancy test with the caption "New beginnings" and Grayson tagged.

Harrison showed me the post as we finished our strategy session.

"She's making her move," he observed.

I studied the image—the delicate placement of her hand, the soft lighting, the calculated vulnerability in her expression.

"She's been planning this for months," I replied, remembering the texts Elena Rodriguez had sent me last week. "But she's about to learn that timing is everything in this town."

My phone buzzed with Grayson's number—the fifteenth call since the press conference.

This time, I answered.

"Amelia's pregnant," he blurted out, panic evident in his voice. "Faye, I need you to fix this."

I leaned back in my chair, watching the Los Angeles skyline through my window. "Fix what, exactly?"

"The narrative! The story! Make it go away!"

For the first time in seven years, I heard fear in Grayson Weaver's voice.