A lie. A weak one. But she clung to it like a life raft.
The air between us thickened—sharp with tension, crackling like a storm that hadn’t hit yet.
I stepped into her space, voice dropping low and intimate.
“You can pretend all you want,” I said, soft and close, our breath tangling in the space between us. “But we both know this is more than fabric.”
Her gaze finally met mine.
Defiant.
Bright.
But flickering.
There was a crack in her armor—and I saw it. I felt it.
It tasted like victory.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t back down.
But her chest rose a little faster, and her hands stopped fidgeting.
“Just try not to look too good while we’re doing this,” I murmured, grinning like the devil I was. “Would be a shame if I forgot this was all just pretend.”
I turned slightly, watching her reflection. Watching her see herself the way I saw her.
Not a prisoner.
Not a pawn.
A queen.
Dressed for war.
And mine.
She fidgeted with the zipper. Again.
“Problem?” I asked, though we both knew the answer.
She didn’t speak.
Just turned.
Spine straight. Chin up. Back exposed like an offering she didn’t want to admit she was making.
“I can’t reach it,” she muttered, jaw tight.
Oh, sweetheart.
You reached something.
I rose from my chair slowly, deliberately—like I had all the time in the world and she’d never escape the clock.
Each step toward her felt like a choice.
