ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY

GRAYSON'S POV

As I sat on the edge of the couch, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Jocelia, with her perfectly calculated crocodile tears, was spewing all sorts of lies and venom on national television. The words "Sylvia stole Grayson from me" echoed in my head, and I couldn't help but wonder how I had ever been in love with someone like her. There she was, painting herself as the victim, while slandering Sylvia in every way she could think of. She called her a whore, claiming that Sylvia only rose to power by "climbing on men’s dicks," as she so crudely put it. My blood boiled as I listened to her tirade.

I glanced over at Sylvia, who was sitting next to me, her eyes fixed on the TV. I knew that Jocelia had always been a thorn in her side, someone who never missed an opportunity to try and bring her down. But this was different—this was public, and this was low, even for Jocelia.

The host of the late-night show, a man who thrived on controversy, leaned in with a smug expression.