Page 123 of PR Stunt

Grayson turns to me. My vision is blurry from crying. I’m trembling so hard that I can’t sit up. He drops to his knees in front of me, cupping my face with bloody hands.

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.” His voice breaks on the last word.

The gentleness in his voice cracks something in me. I sob, the sound broken and raw through the tape.

“I’m right here. You’re safe now.” He carefully peels the tape from my mouth and then reaches for the knife Freddy dropped on the floor, using it to cut through the rope binding my wrists.

“Grayson.” My voice is barely a whisper.

He instantly wraps his arms around me. Miranda and Anna rush in, eyes wide with horror. The police flood in behind them. The stalker groans from the floor as they slap handcuffs on him, but I don’t hear what anyone says. I don’t care. All I know is that I’m in Grayson’s arms, and I don’t want to let go.

Even when the medics kneel in front of me, checking my pulse and asking questions, he doesn’t move. His arm stays around me. His body, a shield.

“She’s okay,” one of them says gently. “Just shaken up.”

It’s all a haze after that. Voices. Lights. Hands. Uniforms. I answer the police when they question me, giving them everything I can. His name, the package, the notes—every detail I can force myself to hold on to.

“I want to go home,” I whisper.

Grayson moves instinctively, wrapping me in his arms with a kind of urgency that says, I’m not letting go. I melt into him, my body limp, head resting against his shoulder. My breath comes in shallow waves against his skin. Miranda moves quickly. Within minutes, she’s arranged a private exit from the hotel. Grayson stays close to me as we move through the back hallways, his hand at my back, guiding me toward the waiting car. I don’t even remember stepping outside. I only remember the way my fingers are still curled into his sleeve, how my body hasn’t stopped shaking. The car door shuts, and silence greets us. Grayson sits beside me, his knee pressed against mine. For the first time since he came through that door, I really look at him. The dark suit he was clearly waiting downstairs in is no longer sharp, the jacket rumpled, shirt collar pulled loose. His breathing is steadier now, but the adrenaline still sits in his shoulders, in the tight set of his jaw.

“You’re safe now,” he says quietly.

I nod. I know that, but my body hasn’t caught up. The city lights blur past the window. My thoughts are tangled. Flashing between the last hour, the stalker, the way things were left between us, the way I feel right now, in this moment, with him. And then it fractures, splintering outward, spiraling beyond just tonight. I press my forehead against the window, but it doesn’t help. My mind is too loud, my pulse hammering as the thoughts keep coming, tumbling over each other too fast to stop. The press is going to find out. Someone at the hotel will talk. Headlines will drop before the sun rises. My stomach turns again.

And then, the worst thought yet. I have to tell my parents before the press does.

“Oh God,” I murmur, pressing my fingers to my temples.

Grayson doesn’t let go of me. Not when the car slows in front of my house. Not when it rolls to a stop. Not even when I reach for the door handle with an unsteady hand. He slips out first, offering a hand. I don’t take it, but I don’t pull away when his hand settles at my back. Grayson follows me inside and closes the door behind us. For a moment, we just stand there. I feel wrecked, as though if I stop moving, I might fall apart completely.

“Would you like a bath?” he asks.

He lowers to one knee in front of me, careful and steady, undoing the delicate clasps at my ankles and then slipping first one heel free and then the other, setting them gently beside the door.

I nod. Everything feels slow and strange as we make our way up the stairs, like I’m watching myself from a few feet away. We step into my bedroom, and it isn’t until I see the way Grayson looks around, just briefly, that I realize he’s never been in here before. He walks into the bathroom. I hear him turn on the faucet, and then the sound of running water fills the space. I sink onto the edge of the bed. Everything is so messed up. A stranger was in my house. I swallow hard, my fingers curling against the mattress. He was in my bedroom. He had been in this room. Standing where I’m sitting. Walking where I sleep. How many times? I shake my head, squeezing my temples, but the thoughts keep coming. Had he opened my drawers? Walked through my closet? He watched me. My breath stutters. I think of all the times I left my curtains open. All the times I locked the door behind me, thinking I was safe. How long had he been watching me? How long had he been waiting? My stomach twists violently, and bile rises in my throat. I can’t be in here. I push up from the bed too fast, my legs shaky as I make my way toward the bathroom, needing to move. Grayson looks up as I step inside. His sleeves are still rolled up, forearms tense, but his expression softens the moment he sees my face.

“I’ll be right outside,” he says quietly.

As I reach for the edge of the counter, I remember. Grayson is supposed to be at his premiere right now.

I turn my gaze to him, my heart lurching for an entirely different reason.

“Oh my God,” I whisper. “Grayson, your premiere…”

His jaw tightens, but he just shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.” I exhale, trying to steady myself. “You should go. I’m fine.”

He stares at me, unmoving. “I’m not leaving.”

Grayson’s words settle in the air between us as he reaches into his pocket, pulls out my phone, and sets it carefully on the bathroom counter before walking out.

I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know what to do with anything. I grip the counter tighter, exhaling shakily, and then my gaze snags on the mirror. I freeze. I look like shit.

My dress is rumpled, the silky fabric twisted around me—a stark contrast to the way it looked when I first slipped it on hours ago. Black streaks run down my cheeks from my mascara. Smudged eyeliner surrounds eyes that are red-rimmed and tired. A shudder runs through me.

My fingers tremble as I reach for the zipper of my dress, dragging it down my back. The fabric slips from my shoulders, pooling at my feet. I step into the bath and lower myself into the warmth. The water engulfs me, rising up my arms, over my chest, licking at my collarbones as I slide down, slipping under the water. Sounds are muffled. The world goes quiet. I stay there, submerged for a time. Finally, I push up, breaking the surface with a gasp and dragging in a breath. I sink back against the tub, staring at nothing as the water slowly cools around me. Eventually, I drag myself out of the bath, my limbs heavy.