A reflection that disappears when I turn.
A presence that doesn’t need a face to be known.
My pulse is loud in my ears.
Noah leans in again, his mouth brushing my hair, his breath warm and steady. “If he’s trying to scare you,” he murmurs, “it won’t work. He doesn’t get to touch you. He doesn’t get access to this life.”
His hand presses flat against my stomach, grounding, claiming.
“He lost you,” Noah finishes.
The lie settles between us, heavy and fragile.
Because the truth—the one I never say out loud—is that Kai never lost me.
I lost myself trying to get away from him.
Applause erupts again. Noah claps, pulling me with him into the motion, into the performance. Cameras flash. Smiles bloom around us.
And somewhere beneath it all, beneath the silk and diamonds and suffocating perfection, something dark and patient shifts.
I don’t need to see Kai to know this much.
He’s close.
And this time, he’s not waiting to be invited.
Kai doesn’t appear.
That’s what breaks me.
I spend the entire night braced for him—for the shatter of glass, the sudden hush of the room, the moment every instinct in my body screams there. I keep waiting for the air to change, for the shadow to solidify, for the past to step out of the dark and claim me in front of God and money and everyone who thinks they know my name.
But he doesn’t come.
The tension has nowhere to go.
It coils tighter. Sharper. Meaner.
Noah feels it unraveling before I do.
We’re standing near the bar now, the charity’s logo projected in gold against the far wall, donors laughing too loudly, the orchestra sliding into something lush and dramatic. Noah’s hand is on my lower back, fingers digging in just enough that it isn’t affectionate anymore.
It’s corrective.
“You’re embarrassing me,” he says quietly, smile still fixed in place.
My head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?”
He leans closer, lips barely moving. “You’ve been somewhere else all night. People notice.”
“I’ve done everything you asked,” I hiss back. “I’ve smiled. I’ve danced. I’ve stood where you put me.”
“That’s not enough,” he says.
Something in his tone—sharp, frustrated, possessive—makes my chest tighten. “What do you want from me?”
His smile finally cracks.
