To me, it feels like a warning.
A silent, firm reminder:
You are not going anywhere.
Tourist smiles beam from the staff waiting nearby—white linen uniforms, gold-plated name tags, and hollow politeness trained into perfection. They bow with the kind of deference given to a king, not a man whose kindness is a costume.
I swallow, the locket cold against my chest beneath my silk slip dress.
I didn’t take it off.
I couldn’t.
Noah notices every time his eyes flick downward like a shark scenting blood but says nothing.
That’s worse.
Silence with Noah is a blade.
We step onto the runway where a black SUV waits — polished chrome, tinted windows, the kind of luxury car that screams wealth and whispers danger.
It gleams beneath the harsh sun like a predator lying in wait. The engine purrs, low and expensive, the type of smooth tone that lets you know the vehicle was built not just for travel, but for dominance.
His security team moves like shadows, loading our bags into the back.
Noah watches me instead.
“Smile,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
I flinch.
He notices.
“Scarlett,” he says, voice low and cold beneath the sugar-smooth surface, “people are looking.”
I force a smile.
It feels like pulling barbed wire across my teeth.
He nods, satisfied, and guides me to the SUV.
Inside, the air is cold enough to raise goosebumps along my arms.
The scent of leather and expensive cologne tightens my lungs, the interior spotless and dark, the kind of enclosed space where secrets suffocate and screams go unheard beneath reinforced glass.
Noah’s hand slides onto my thigh as the vehicle pulls away from the runway, heading down a private road lined with palm trees and impossible wealth.
“You’ve been distant,” he says.
His thumb strokes my skin.
It feels like interrogation disguised as affection.
“I’m tired,” I say softly.
“No,” he corrects, leaning closer, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “You’re hiding.”
My pulse spikes.
