I swallow, throat aching.
“Downstairs,” I rasp. “I didn’t… sleep well.”
“That’s obvious,” he says.
No warmth.
No concern.
Just cold calculation as his gaze flicks to the wine stains on the hem of my robe, the tremor in my fingers, the faint redness under my eyes.
“You were drunk,” he says plainly.
I flinch.
“I—”
“And you were alone.”
It’s not a question.
It’s a verdict.
His gaze drops to the locket again, lingering—slow, assessing, dangerous.
“Where did that come from?”
My heartbeat spikes so hard I nearly stumble.
“I found it,” I say quickly, too quickly, voice cracking in a way that gives me away immediately.
Noah’s eyes narrow.
“Found it where?”
“In the house,” I lie, throat tightening. “In a drawer. I—I must’ve forgotten I still had it.”
His head tilts slightly.
“Scarlett,” he says slowly, each syllable measured, “this house has been inventoried eight times since we moved in.”
I freeze.
His eyes sharpen.
“If that was here,” he continues quietly, “I would know.”
A cold ripple slides across my skin.
My fingers twitch toward the pendant without meaning to.
His gaze follows the movement.
Then he stands.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
