This place isn’t paradise.
It’s a cage with very good lighting.
The music swells again—deeper bass now, slower, almost hypnotic—and I realise my hands are still trembling.
I curl them into my lap, force my shoulders back, force my face into something neutral. Around me, laughter ripples.Glasses clink. Someone dives into the pool fully clothed and everyone cheers like it’s charming instead of desperate.
My phone buzzes again.
I don’t wait this time.
He put his hand on you like you were furniture.
My breath stutters.
I type before I can stop myself.
Stop watching me.
Three dots appear instantly.
Disappear.
I can’t.
My chest aches. I keep my eyes on the pool, on the torchlight trembling in the breeze.
This is dangerous.
So is pretending you’re safe.
I swallow hard.
Noah’s hand slides back to my spine, fingers spreading, claiming. He leans down to murmur something to one of his friends, but his grip tightens just enough to remind me he knows exactly where I am.
My phone buzzes again.
You look like you’re suffocating in silk.
Tears sting the backs of my eyes. I blink them away fast.
You shouldn’t be here.
There’s a pause this time. Long enough to make my pulse skitter.
You shouldn’t be with him.
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
Instead, I take a sip of the drink—sweet, cold, wrong—and nearly choke on it. Noah notices immediately, his hand lifting to my chin, thumb brushing my lower lip.
“Careful,” he says softly. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”
The word lands like a slap.
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
