Just stands still, shoulders squared, the polished silhouette of a man who believes he owns every inch of the house he walks through — including the woman he’s talking to.
“And Scarlett?”
My heart stutters.
His voice is quiet.
Too quiet.
“If someone is trying to get between us…”
A beat.
The air tightens.
“…I will take care of it.”
A shiver slices through me.
Not from him leaving.
From the door closing behind him.
And the terrifying realisation that settles in my bones the second the house falls silent again:
He didn’t believe me.
Not for a second.
Noah is suspicious.
Kai is watching.
And I am trapped between two men who do not lose.
Scarlett
The onions burn before I realise I’ve stopped stirring.
The smell hits first—sharp, acrid, wrong—and I jerk the pan off the heat, my hand shaking just enough to slosh oil onto the stove. It hisses like it’s alive. Like it’s warning me.
I’m barefoot on cold marble, wearing one of Noah’s shirts because mine still smell like salt and blood and jungle rot, and I keep telling myself this is normal. This is what normal looks like. Cooking. Waiting. Playing house with a man who thinks love is ownership with a cleaner label.
My phone is face-down on the counter. I haven’t touched it all morning.
I don’t need to.
Kai doesn’t text when he wants to be heard.
He leaves things behind.
I’m reaching for the salt when I hear it.
Not footsteps.
Not the polite, measured cadence Noah uses when he wants to appear calm.
This is fast. Heavy. Uneven.
