Addison POV:

A strangled gasp escaped Kennedy's lips. Her face, already pale, turned ashen. Her eyes, fixed on us, filled with a mixture of shock and betrayal. Then, without a word, she turned and fled, her blue gown a whisper in the silent corridor.

The moment she was gone, Grayson's assault ceased. He pulled back, his chest heaving, his eyes still staring at the empty space where she had been. The look on his face was one of profound, agonizing regret. It was the look of a man who had just deliberately shattered the one thing he held sacred.

The coldness in my veins turned to ice. I was nothing. Less than nothing. I was a prop in his twisted, tragic play, a convenient body to be used to provoke a reaction from his true audience of one.

"A prostitute," I whispered, the word tasting like bile in my mouth. "You use me like a common prostitute."

My hand moved before my brain could process the command. I slapped him, hard, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the corridor. The force of it snapped his head to the side.

He slowly turned back to face me. The wild, pained look in his eyes was gone, replaced by a dazed, empty confusion, as if he was waking from a trance. He looked at me, a stranger in his own life, and the emptiness in his gaze was the final, killing blow.

I scrambled away from him, my hands shaking as I tried to smooth down my dress, to piece together the shredded remnants of my dignity. I ran, my heels clicking a frantic, desperate rhythm on the marble floor, away from him, away from the suffocating truth of my life.

I burst out of the corridor and almost collided with a small, trembling figure.

It was Kennedy.

"Mrs. Daugherty," she said, her voice soft, but her eyes anything but. There was no heartbreak in them now. Only a cold, hard hatred that was unnervingly familiar. It was the look of a rival.

"Get out of my way," I said, my voice hoarse. I was too tired, too broken, to deal with her.

She didn't move. "You think you've won, don't you?" she sneered, the fragile facade dropping completely. "Just because you have his name? He will never love you. He's mine."

"He's all yours," I spat, trying to push past her. "I don't want him."

Suddenly, she moved. She grabbed a half-empty champagne bottle from a passing waiter's tray and swung it. I saw a flash of green glass, a glint of reflected light, and then an explosion of pain at the side of my head.

The world dissolved into a cacophony of shattering glass and a high, piercing ringing in my ears. Black spots danced in front of my eyes, and the floor rushed up to meet me.

I woke to a throbbing, relentless headache and the sterile white of a hospital room. I was alone. For a moment, I thought I' d imagined the whole thing. Then I heard voices from the hallway. Grayson's voice, low and tense. And hers.

"I didn't mean to, Gray," Kennedy was saying, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I was just so angry. So jealous. She's so beautiful, and her family is so powerful. I saw you with her, and I just... I panicked."

It was a masterful performance. The vulnerable, frightened girl, driven to violence by love and fear.

I heard Grayson sigh, a sound of deep, bone-weary resignation. "I know, Kenny. It's not your fault."

My heart, which I thought had already been shattered into a million pieces, somehow found a new way to break.

"She's just a contract, Kenny," he said, his voice dropping to a soothing murmur. "That's all she's ever been. A necessary arrangement to keep you safe. She is nothing. You are everything. I'll handle this. I'll make it go away."

She is nothing.

The words echoed in the silent room, in the silent chambers of my soul.

She. Is. Nothing.

---

Addison POV:

The door creaked open, and Grayson stepped inside. He looked tired, his perfect suit slightly rumpled, a dark, healing bruise visible on his shoulder where Kennedy had bitten him. He carried the scent of her perfume.

He looked at me, his face a mask of cool authority. "Kennedy feels terrible about what happened," he began, the lie smooth and practiced. "It was an accident. She mistook you for someone else in the heat of the moment."

I just stared at him. The audacity of it, the sheer, insulting fabrication, was breathtaking.

"She's fragile, Addison," he continued, his voice taking on a warning tone. "I don't want this incident to cause her any more distress. For my sake, you will let this go."

A slow, dangerous anger began to burn through the ice in my veins. "Let it go?" I repeated, my voice a low growl. "She assaulted me, Grayson. She smashed a bottle over my head. And you want me to 'let it go'?"

His brows drew together in a faint line of annoyance. He wasn't used to being defied.

"I will go to the police," I said, my voice gaining strength. "And I will press charges. The Talley family may have disowned me, but our lawyers are still on retainer. I wonder how the Daugherty Corporation's stock will fare when its heir's precious 'white moonlight' is facing an aggravated assault charge."

I had him. I saw it in the flicker of panic in his eyes. He had underestimated me. He'd assumed the broken, lovesick girl he'd married was still there. She wasn't. She had died on a rainy street corner, been buried at a family dinner, and had her grave desecrated on a ballroom balcony.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice tight. It was the language he understood. A transaction.

"I want her to drink," I said, a cruel smile twisting my lips. I pointed to the bottle of whiskey a well-meaning visitor had left on my bedside table. "The whole bottle. Right here, right now."

Kennedy, who had been hovering in the doorway, let out a small gasp. Her face went white. "Gray, I can't... I don't drink..."

"Oh, I know," I purred, my eyes fixed on her. "But you're so good at swinging bottles, I thought you might be just as good at emptying them. Or should I call those men from the bar? I'm sure they'd be happy to help you with a drink."

Her eyes filled with terror. She looked at Grayson, her lip trembling.

He looked from her to me, his jaw tight. Then, he snatched the bottle from the table. "I'll drink it," he said, his voice grim. "She made the mistake. I'll take the punishment."

"Grayson, no!" Kennedy cried, grabbing his arm. "You can't! You're allergic! It could kill you!"

He gently but firmly removed her hand. "Stand aside, Kennedy."

My heart gave a painful lurch. He was willing to risk his life for her. For her honor. The proof was irrefutable, a searing brand on my soul.

I watched, my face a stony mask, as he tilted the bottle back and began to drink. He didn't stop, didn't pause for breath. He drank it like it was water, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow. The amber liquid disappeared, bottle after bottle. He'd sent his assistant for more. The room filled with the sharp, cloying smell of whiskey.

Red blotches began to appear on his neck, spreading up to his face. His breathing grew labored. But he kept drinking. When the last bottle was empty, he slammed it down on the table and looked at me, his eyes bloodshot but defiant.

"Are you satisfied?" he rasped.

At that moment, a nurse came in. "Mrs. Daugherty, it's time for your check-up."

It was the perfect distraction. As Grayson swayed on his feet, his body fighting the allergic reaction, I moved. I snatched an empty whiskey bottle from the table.

Kennedy saw me coming. Her eyes widened in terror.

"You hit me once," I said, my voice deadly calm. "I believe in paying my debts. In full."

I swung the bottle. It connected with her head with a sickening thud. She crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

I dropped the bottle, its clatter loud in the sudden silence. I turned and walked out of the room, not looking back.

"Addison!" Grayson roared my name. It was the first time he had ever yelled at me, his voice a raw, broken sound of fury and disbelief. I heard him scrambling, calling for a doctor, his voice full of frantic concern. For her. Always for her.

I didn't stop walking. I let the nurses guide me to the examination room. Lying on the cold table, listening to the hurried footsteps and panicked shouts outside, a single, hot tear finally escaped and traced a path down my temple.

He never came to see me again in the hospital. I spent a week there, alone, with only the hum of the machines for company. When I was discharged, I didn't go back to the penthouse. I called Chloe.

"Find me the most expensive, most decadent, most unapologetically sleazy club in this city," I told her.

That night, surrounded by pulsing music and hedonistic strangers, I tried to burn the memory of him out of my system.

"Are you sure about this, Addy?" Chloe asked, her eyes full of worry as she watched me down another glass of champagne.

"I am a Talley," I said, the name tasting like ash. "We don't break. We just get even." I slammed the glass down. "Now, find me the prettiest boy in this room. I'm paying."

Chloe sighed but did as I asked. Minutes later, a young, beautiful man with eyes the color of the sea and a smile that could melt glaciers was sitting beside me. I leaned in, my lips brushing his ear, ready to lose myself in a meaningless, physical oblivion.

A hand clamped down on my wrist, the grip like steel.

I looked up into the cold, furious eyes of Grayson Daugherty.

---

Addison POV:

For a second, I was paralyzed by shock. He looked terrible. His face was pale and drawn, the allergic reaction still visible in the faint redness of his skin, and his eyes were dark with a rage I had never seen directed at me before. Not for me, anyway.

"What do you think you're doing?" he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

He hauled me to my feet and began dragging me out of the club. I stumbled after him, my wrist screaming in protest.

"Let go of me, you psycho!" I yelled, trying to dig my heels in. "You have no right!"

"I have every right," he growled, shoving me towards the exit. "You are not allowed to be with other men."

The hypocrisy of it was so astounding it made me laugh, a harsh, humorless sound. "And who are you to tell me that? My husband? The man who throws me out of his car for his mistress? The man who drinks himself into anaphylactic shock for her honor? That husband?"

The words hit their mark. I saw him flinch. He didn't answer, just tightened his grip and forced me into the back of his car, slamming the door behind me.

As the car sped away, I lunged for the door handle. "I'd rather jump out of a moving car than spend another second with you," I spat.

He grabbed me, pinning me against the seat, his body a heavy, suffocating weight. "Addison, stop it," he said, his voice suddenly weary, the anger draining out of him, leaving only a hollow exhaustion. "Don't do this."

I turned my head away, staring out at the blurred city lights, my heart a cold, dead weight in my chest. He didn't speak again. The silence in the car was thick and heavy, broken only by the sound of his ragged breathing.

After a few minutes, his breathing evened out. His head lolled to the side, coming to rest on my shoulder. He had fallen asleep.

The driver, an older man named Arthur who had been with Grayson for years, cleared his throat. "Ma'am," he said, his voice soft. "He's been working for three days straight. He hasn't slept."

I didn't answer.

"He was worried about you," Arthur continued, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. "After the... incident at your family's home. He made calls. He was afraid they'd blame you for the divorce, that they'd... hurt you."

A bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat. Of course. It was all part of the act. Protecting the shield. Keeping the asset undamaged.

And then, Grayson murmured in his sleep. A single, soft, heartbreaking word.

"Kenny..."

It was a whisper, a breath of a name, but it sliced through me with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. Even in his sleep, in his exhaustion, his heart and his mind were with her. Every doubt, every tiny, foolish flicker of hope I might have harbored, was extinguished in that one, damning moment.

I shoved him away from me, my touch like I'd been burned. He slumped against the window, not stirring.

We arrived back at the penthouse, our "home." The place felt alien, contaminated. I went straight to my darkroom, the one place that felt like mine. I needed to lose myself in my work, in the smell of chemicals and the magic of a picture emerging from nothing.

He followed me. He stood in the doorway, watching me, and then walked over and closed my laptop.

"It's late," he said. "You need to rest."

He scooped me up into his arms. I was too tired to fight, too emotionally drained to protest. I let him carry me to the bedroom, my body limp and unresponsive. I was done. Done fighting, done caring.

The next morning, I woke up alone. I scrolled through the news on my phone, my thumb moving mechanically. And then I saw it. A headline that made my blood freeze.

"Rising Star Kennedy Dillard Unveils Stunning New Photography Exhibition."

I clicked the link. The pictures were breathtaking. Raw, emotional, full of a wild, untamed beauty. They were also mine.

Every single one of them. My trip to the Atacama Desert. The portraits of the gauchos in Patagonia. A series I had been working on for years, my most personal, most precious work.

And then I remembered. A few weeks ago, Grayson had come into my darkroom. He'd said he was interested in my work, that he wanted to see my latest projects. I, like a fool, had been flattered. I'd given him the USB drive containing my entire portfolio. He had "borrowed" it to "show to a curator friend."

The curator, it seemed, was Kennedy Dillard.

He hadn't just used my heart. He had stolen my soul.

The numbness shattered, and a pure, white-hot rage erupted in its place. I flew out of bed, my mind singular in its purpose. I was going to find her, and I was going to tear my work, my soul, off her gallery walls with my bare hands.

I burst out of the bedroom and ran straight into Grayson. He was standing in the hallway, dressed for work, looking as calm and controlled as ever.

He caught my arms, his grip steady. "Addison, where are you going?"

"Let go of me!" I shrieked, struggling against him. "Did you know? Did you give her my work?"

He didn't answer, but his silence was a confession.

"You knew," I whispered, the horror of it sinking in. "You let her steal my work. You helped her."

---