“Smile,” he murmurs under his breath as we pass security. “You look like someone’s taking you to a funeral.”
I force my mouth to curve upward.
It feels wrong on my face.
We move through the lounge like a photograph come to life—him confident and polished, me poised and hollow—and I can feel eyes on us, strangers clocking the expensive clothes, the easy authority with which Noah moves through the space. This is the image he wants. This is the story he’s telling the world.
I sit when he tells me to sit.
Drink the champagne he orders without asking.
Let the bubbles numb my tongue and the alcohol take the edge off my nerves just enough to keep me functional.
My phone vibrates again.
Longer this time.
I excuse myself to the bathroom before Noah can stop me, the words “freshen up” falling from my mouth automatically, and lock myself into a stall like I’m sixteen and hiding from something I can’t name.
My hands are shaking when I pull the phone out.
Three messages.
All from the same unknown number.
You still have time.
My chest tightens.
Once you leave the ground, it gets harder to turn back.
I sink onto the closed toilet lid, breath coming shallow and fast, the hum of the airport muffled through the walls.
The third message appears slowly, deliberately.
He thinks this trip seals you to him.
It doesn’t.
My vision blurs.
I type back before I can stop myself, the words spilling out sharp and panicked.
Stop doing this.
The reply comes immediately.
I will.
When you stop lying to yourself.
I drop the phone into my lap and press my forehead to my knees, breathing through the surge of sensation tearing through me—fear and heat and something dangerously close to hope. This isn’t safe. None of this is safe. And yet, the thought of him out there, watching, knowing, refusing to let me disappear into the life Noah is building around me like a cage—it does something to me.
It makes me feel seen.
I flush the toilet even though I don’t need to, splash cold water on my face, and straighten my spine until my back aches with the effort. When I leave the bathroom, Noah’s eyes flick up instantly, sharp and assessing.
“Everything alright?” he asks, voice smooth.
