“I want you here,” Noah snaps under his breath. “Not half-gone. Not twitching like you’re waiting for someone else to show up.”
“I’m here,” I shoot back, voice rising despite myself. “Isn’t that enough?”
His grip tightens painfully now, fingers biting into my skin through silk. He turns his head just enough that I can see his jaw flex, his eyes hardening.
“You’re going to be my fucking wife,” he says, the words low and furious. “You don’t get to drift. You don’t get to fall apart because some convicted bastard is back in the world.”
My breath stutters.
A few heads turn.
I yank my arm out of his grasp. “Lower your voice.”
“No,” he says flatly. “You don’t get to police me when you’re the one unraveling.”
Anger flares hot and fast. “You don’t own me.”
His laugh is short. Sharp. “I’m the one standing here with you. I’m the one putting a ring on your finger. I’m the one protecting you from men like him.”
The name sits unspoken between us, a third presence.
“You don’t get to use him to scare me into behaving,” I spit.
Noah steps closer, invading my space, eyes blazing. “You should be scared. Because I see what he did to you. I see how deep he’s still in your head, and I will not compete with a fucking ghost.”
Something in me snaps.
“Then stop trying to cage me,” I say, voice shaking. “Because you’re starting to feel a lot like him.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve crossed a line.
Noah’s face goes still. Dead calm. That’s worse.
“We’re done talking,” he says quietly. “Go fix your face.”
I turn and walk away before he can grab me again, heels clicking too loud against marble, breath coming too fast, vision narrowing. I push through the crowd, past curious glances and murmurs, until I find the bathroom tucked down a quiet corridor, gold signage gleaming under soft light.
I barely make it inside before the door swings shut behind me.
The room is all white marble and mirrors—too bright, too clean, too reflective. I grip the edge of the sink and lean forward, gasping, lungs refusing to cooperate.
I can’t breathe.
My chest tightens, panic blooming fast and brutal. I fumble with the neckline of my dress, fingers shaking, eyes locked on my reflection as if it might tell me what’s wrong.
“Get it together,” I whisper.
The woman in the mirror looks wrong.
Her eyes are too wide. Her pupils blown. The smile she tries to force trembles and collapses.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
When I open them again—He’s there.
Not really. I know that. I know that.
But my body doesn’t.
