His hand slides into mine and he pulls me in before I can answer, palm warm, fingers firm. His other hand settles at my waist again, thumb pressing just enough to remind me he’s there. Watching. Measuring.
Noah dances like he does everything else—precise, practiced, confident. He leads without hesitation, body close but proper, forehead almost touching mine as we sway beneath the lights.
“You’re not present,” he murmurs.
“I am,” I lie.
He exhales through his nose, something close to a laugh. “Scarlett, you’re a terrible liar when you’re distracted.”
I swallow and focus on the room instead of the thoughts clawing at my skull. On the way the chandeliers throw fractured light across the floor. On the murmur of conversations drifting around us.
On the man across the room who looks at me too long.
My breath stutters.
He’s nothing special. Dark suit. Average build. A face I wouldn’t remember twice. But the way he stands—still, watchful, detached from the flow of the room—sends a jolt straight through me.
For a heartbeat, my mind betrays me.
Kai.
The word slams into me without mercy.
I miss a step.
Noah catches it instantly, grip tightening, body angling protectively. “Careful,” he murmurs, pleasant enough that no one would notice. “You’re trembling again.”
“I’m just tired.”
His eyes flick past me, following my line of sight, then return to my face sharper than before. “Who are you looking at?”
“No one.”
“Scarlett.”
The warning in his voice is subtle. Polished. Dangerous.
I force myself to look back at him, to anchor to the familiar blue of his eyes instead of the imagined burn of Kai’s gaze. Noah studies me for a long moment, then smiles again, slow and deliberate.
“There you are,” he says, like he’s found something that wandered too far. “Stay with me.”
His hand slides higher on my back, fingers pressing between my shoulder blades, pulling me closer. The proximity should be comforting. Reassuring.
It isn’t.
It feels like being boxed in.
We finish the dance to polite applause. Noah accepts it with a nod, then steers me toward the terrace doors again, away from the noise. The cool night air hits my skin like a shock, raising goosebumps along my arms.
He turns me to face him, both hands on my waist now.
“You’re slipping,” he says quietly.
“I told you?—”
“This isn’t about being tired.” His jaw tightens. “This is about him getting into your head.”
“I don’t think about him.”
