My skin crawls.
Across the room, my father lifts his glass a fraction of an inch in my direction.
A nod. Approval. Transaction complete.
Something in me cracks.
I take a step back, out of Beatrice’s reach.
“Declan—” she starts.
“Don’t touch me again,” I say, low and lethal.
Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second before the amusement snaps back into place. “Careful,” she says lightly, brushing a thumb over the corner of my mouth, wiping away a smear of her lipstick. “Your father pays for composure. Not dramatics.”
“He doesn’t pay for me,” I bite out. “He rents the jersey.”
“Then be a good investment,” she says. “And stop glaring. People are starting to notice.”
I don’t care who’s noticing.
I turn and walk away before I put my taped fist through a wall someone else paid for.
The cold outside hits like a slap I’ve been waiting for all night.
The air tastes clean. Real. No perfume, no recycled heat, no fake laughter. Just exhaust, damp stone, and the faint scent of wet leaves.
I rip the tie from my throat the second the doors close behind me. The silk slides free, and I yank at the top button of my shirt until the fabric gives and the collar gapes.
I suck in a breath like I’ve been underwater for an hour.
Voices spill from the entrance, muffled as the door shuts behind another couple. Laughter. Glass. The jazz band’s music bleeding faintly through the walls. It all blurs together into noise I want to outrun and can’t.
I lean a shoulder against one of the stone columns, fists pressed to my thighs, and let the anger burn through the thin restraint I’ve been clinging to.
Last night: Talia’s hand curved around the back of my neck. Her mouth opening under mine, honest and hungry. Her body relaxing, inch by inch, because I gave her my control and she chose to trust it.
Tonight: Beatrice’s hand on my jaw, nails digging in. Her mouth on mine without asking. My father’s nod.
Talia saw that version of me.
The one in the cage.
I push off the column and head for the valet stand, needing distance, motion, anything. The kid scrambles when he sees me, checking his tickets.
“Ticket, sir?”
“Black truck,” I rasp. “Just get it.”
“It’ll be a few minutes, sir, we’re backed up—”
“I don’t care,” I snap, the violence I kept leashed inside finally bleeding out. “Get it now.”
The kid flinches and runs.
I stand there, vibrating with adrenaline, staring at the empty driveway. Every second feels like an hour. I pace the concrete, hands shaking, fighting the urge to walk into traffic just to feel something hit me.
Waiting. Impotent. Trapped.
