“Shut up.”
But she only smiled wider, as if daring him. “Did I ever beg you to sleep with me that first time? It was you who couldn’t resist and pinned me down. And just a few days ago, you were the one who brought me home. You came to my room in the middle of the night. I never forced you.”
Her voice turned sharp, slicing through the air. “Violet’s death is on you. You drove her to it.”
1/3
Chapter 17
Deep down, Grayson had always known this. His betrayal was the knife that ended her life. But hearing it spoken aloud, so bluntly, felt like someone had twisted that knife, carving open a wound that would never heal.
+15 BONUS
Meanwhile, the news of his affair with his assistant had already set the internet ablaze. The hashtags trended without pause:
#GraysonWarholScumbag
#GraysonWarholCheatingScandal
#VioletHudsonSuicide
Just a month ago, his grand proposal had caused a sensation. He had boasted that their wedding would be the most extravagant
the world had ever seen. Everyone had been waiting for the spectacle of the century.
But instead of a wedding, there was a funeral. The bride, unable to bear the groom’s betrayal, had taken her own life. And her
casket had been delivered to the ceremony.
In an instant, Grayson’s image as the devoted lover shattered.
He was no longer the most desirable man online. Now, he was the villain who had driven his fiancée to her death.
[I’ll never believe in love again. What a disgusting excuse for a man.]
[Violet deserved so much better. Why would she die for trash like him?]
[Men really do say one thing and do another. I can’t believe I ever envied their so–called perfect love.]
One after another, tire companies that had partnered with the Warhol Group began terminating their contracts. The corporation.
spiraled into chaos.
Yet Grayson locked himself away in his bedroom, clutching the torn remnants of a wedding dress, his eyes shut tight, as if doing
so could bring back the scent of Violet’s presence.
His parents, who had been abroad on business, rushed back upon hearing the news. They used every ounce of their influence to
stabilize the company, barely managing to appease the enraged shareholders.
Once the corporate crisis was contained, they hurried to the villa.
The moment they stepped inside, a servant anxiously approached them. “Sir, Madam–Mr. Warhol hasn’t left his room for an
entire day and night. We brought food up, but he won’t eat. He won’t even open the door. We’re afraid something might have happened to him…”
A cold dread spread through the couple. They had expected their son to be struggling, but this–this was something else entirely.
They rushed upstairs. Just as the servant had said, no matter how hard they knocked, there was no response. No matter how loudly they called his name, silence was the only answer.
Grayson’s mother, Emily Warhol’s face paled. “Georgie… what if something happened to him in there?”
2/3
ter 17
Without hesitation, Georgie Warhol ordered the bodyguards to break down the door.
With a heavy crash, the door burst open.
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Inside, the room was shrouded in complete darkness. The curtains had been drawn so tightly that not a single sliver of light could
enter.
And there, curled up on the bed, was Grayson. The tattered wedding dress remained clutched in his arms. Even with the sudden
intrusion, he didn’t stir.
Emily’s breath caught. Her son’s face was gaunt, his once–sharp features hollowed by exhaustion. Tears welled in her eyes.
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