“I’m not?—”
“You lied to me.”
His voice is calm.
Too calm.
It should terrify me more than it does.
“I didn’t?—”
His fingers tighten suddenly, bruising-tight, a sharp squeeze that makes a gasp tear out of me.
“There,” he murmurs, leaning back, studying my reaction. “Truth always shows itself if you press the right places.”
The SUV continues its glide up the coastline, passing manicured gardens exploding with orchids and hibiscus, villas tucked behind wrought-iron gates, and glimpses of cliff edges where waves crash violently below—reminders that beauty and danger coexist here in equal measure.
I pull my thigh away.
His jaw flexes.
“You’re being dramatic,” I whisper, staring out the window, pretending the water glittering in the distance is enough to anchor me, pretending the world outside doesn’t feel like a set piece in a horror film where I’m the heroine who dies halfway through.
“You’re wearing someone else’s locket.”
My stomach drops.
I keep my gaze fixed on the view.
“It’s mine,” I say.
“No,” Noah replies, voice like ice cracking. “If it were yours, I would have seen it before.”
“You don’t see everything.”
He laughs softly — a hollow sound.
“I see enough.”
The SUV pulls off the private road and up to a villa carved into the cliffside — white stone, dark wood beams, huge glass walls overlooking miles of impossible ocean.
Beautiful.
Suffocating.
A gilded cage with an ocean view.
Noah gets out first.
A driver opens my door, offering a polite nod, but his eyes flick briefly to Noah like he’s checking for permission.
Because even strangers sense it.
The tension.
The control.
The ownership.
