Page 55 of PR Stunt

Miranda raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. “We’ll see you tomorrow.” She gathers her things, giving me an amused look as she heads for the door.

Anna, on the other hand, moves at an infuriatingly slow pace, like she’s completely unbothered by the betrayal she just committed. As she passes, I fix her with a look.

“I won’t forget this,” I say, voice cool.

Anna just pats my arm, smiling like I won’t be plotting her downfall for the next twenty-four hours. “You’ll thank me later.”

I mutter, my voice flat, “Don’t count on it.”

“Oh! Genius move following each other on socials, guys. You’ve sent the Gen zs into a spiral. Of all the stunts, this one has really convinced them,” Anna says as she breezes out the door.

A blush creeps up my neck. I really don’t want to talk about that. And this morning already feels like it’s been going on for an eternity.

Grayson lingers by the front door, hands in his pockets, studying me with his tilted to the side.

I narrow my eyes. “Why are you still here?”

He leans cooly against the frame. “Just picturing you as a brunette. From all the mud, that is.”

I take a slow, measured breath. “Underestimate me, and you’ll regret it.”

“The only thing I regret is not meeting Hollywood’s golden girl sooner,” he says.

“Get. Out,” I grind through my teeth.

His grin is pure provocation as he pushes off the doorframe. “Looking forward to it, Miss Grace.”

And with that, he strolls out, leaving me alone with nothing but my rage and impending torment.

Chapter 19

Still standing in my foyer, I reel from the last twenty minutes. The follow. The dream. The meeting. The mud race. Grayson’s cocky, self-satisfied grin.

My fury simmers just beneath the surface. I need to burn off some steam.

I stalk into the living room and grab my phone, opening the Pilates schedule to see if there’s a last-minute class. Perfect. Two spots left.

I text Juno to see if she wants in.

Taking the stairs two at a time, thoughts spiraling, I head straight to my closet and pull out a black legging unitard with a matching fitted jacket. Head-to-toe black. Exactly the mood.

In the bathroom, I pull my hair into a slick ponytail. My phone dings. Juno’s in.

Back downstairs, I check the time. I can make it if I run…and right now, I need to move.

I head to the kitchen, yank open a drawer, and grab my headphones. In the garage, I rummage through my gym bag until I find my Pilates socks and shove them into my jacket pocket. Then I pull on my regular socks and sneakers. Standing, I scroll through my playlists. I need something to match my mood. All I’m seeing is red, my rage hot. One playlist catches my eye: Training to Become a Fantasy Heroine. I hit play without a second glance.

Phone in my pocket, I slam the garage door button and jog toward the opening, ducking under before it’s halfway up. I turn to the keypad, punch in the code, and watch the door slide closed behind me.

I take off to the right at a fast pace, my strides long and determined. The midday sun hangs high, warm but not overbearing, while a light breeze whispers through the streets. It’s that in between weather. Cool in the shade, just warm enough in the sun to make my skin prickle with heat. Each pounding step echoes my frustration. Anna and her scheming. Grayson and his smug, know-it-all face. The memory of it fuels me, makes me push harder. My breath comes sharp, but I welcome the exertion, the way my body burns off the anger simmering beneath my skin.

I weave past a slow-moving couple, barely registering their startled glances as I surge forward. The beat of the music pulses through my ears, fast and relentless, mirroring the racing thoughts in my head.

Why did I ever touch that paddle?

Why did I let him get under my skin?

Why does he—