“No,” I said.“Because of me.”
The music swelled somewhere behind us.Laughter drifted past.The gala continued, oblivious.
“I don’t need an escape,” I continued quietly.“And I don’t need permission.What I’m doing...what I’m choosing...is intentional.”
His gaze flicked to the collar again.“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
Final.
Bane exhaled slowly, then chuckled under his breath.“Damn,” he said.“That bastard really did pick the right woman.”
I didn’t smile.“I picked myself,” I said.
That was the moment he stepped back.
I turned.
Creed stood across the ballroom, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass, his posture unchanged, still, commanding, and watching.
Not Bane.
Me.
My pulse didn’t spike.It settled because this time I wasn’t bracing for impact.
“Goodnight, Peyton,” Bane said, inclining his head.No mockery this time.No invitation.He moved away, disappearing into the crowd without another glance in my direction.No lingering.No second attempt.That alone told me something had ended.
I stayed where I was.
Didn’t smooth my dress.Didn’t touch the collar.Didn’t search for permission in Creed’s face.
I held my ground.
Creed’s gaze never left me—measured, assessing.
It was the look of a man reassessing not what he controlled, but what he stood beside.His fingers tightened briefly around the glass, just once, then loosened.
No anger.
No jealousy.
Something quieter.
Something heavier.
He shifted his stance into my line of sight, offering presence instead of claim.
It wasn’t an invitation.It was acknowledgment.
I met his eyes just for a second.He didn’t smile.Didn’t nod.He inclined his head, barely—not with approval, but with recognition.
My breath left me slowly, evenly.The tension that had been coiled tight in my chest didn’t vanish, but it changed shape.
Because for the first time that night, I understood something with absolute clarity:
He hadn’t been testing my obedience.He’d been watching to see if I would choose myself without running.And I had.
