Not bruising.
Not yet.
But claiming.
“You don’t get to do this,” he hisses. “You don’t get to humiliate me in my own house.”
“I didn’t ask you to read them.”
His fingers tighten.
“I don’t care,” he snaps. “I don’t care what you asked. I care about what you owe.”
There it is.
The word that always comes eventually.
Owe.
“You’re mine,” he says. “You’re about to be my wife. And I won’t have another man—especially not some fucked-up family mistake—writing himself into you like this.”
I pull my hand free.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
“Kai isn’t a mistake,” I say.
The room goes dead silent.
Noah stares at me like I’ve just confessed to murder.
“You’re defending him,” he whispers.
I don’t answer.
Because there’s nothing left to defend.
He exhales sharply, then nods—once, like he’s reached a conclusion.
“Fine,” he says. “Then we’re done pretending.”
He gathers the letters, folds them neatly, and tucks them into his pocket like a decision.
“We’re moving the wedding forward,” he continues. “We leave for the island early.”
My heart stutters.
“What?”
“You need distance,” he says. “From him. From this.”
He looks at me like he’s already won.
“And you’ll thank me for it.”
I glance at the stove.
