And when he starts pulling her toward the back hallway like he has every right in the world to do so?
I’m already standing.
The barstool scrapes softly against the floor as I rise, slow and controlled. Anyone watching would think I’m calm. Measured. In command.
They’d be wrong. Because inside, everything goes red.
Every instinct in me sharpens, narrows, locks onto one thing—him touching what’s mine. My hands curl at my sides, not because I’m unsure, but because I’m choosing restraint.
For now. I take one step forward. Then another. The distance between us closes fast.
And Elliott still hasn’t realized his mistake.
Beautifully Devastating
Sabrina
Idon’t see him until he’s already there.
Too close. Inside my space. Close enough that my body reacts before my brain does—spine stiffening, smile slipping, breath catching in my throat.
“Hey,” he says, like we’re old friends. Like he didn’t disappear from my life in a way that still makes my stomach twist. “I need to talk to you.”
I don’t return the smile. I don’t soften. I school my face into something cool and distant, something I learned a long time ago.
“No,” I say flatly. “You don’t.”
He scoffs, leaning in like he’s entitled to my attention. “You owe me that much.”
I almost laugh.
I don’t owe him shit.
Before I can say it out loud, his fingers wrap around my arm. Not rough enough to draw eyes. Not gentle enough to be okay. Just enough pressure to remind me of who he thinks he is.
“I said I need to talk to you,” he insists, already turning, already tugging me toward the back hallway.
My heart starts to race.
I could yank my arm back. Make a scene. Call him out right here in the middle of the Reserve.
But I don’t.
Because I won’t give him the satisfaction.
So I go with him.
Willingly.
I keep my posture calm, my steps measured, like this is my choice and not something I’m doing to keep things from escalating. I tell myself I’ll stop him in the hallway. Tell him whatever he needs to hear to make him leave.
I glance back into the room—hoping, stupidly, that Langston is distracted. Caught in conversation. Looking anywhere but at me.
He isn’t.
He’s standing from his barstool.
Already moving.
