The Cage Of Their Perfect Lie

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.

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