I feel her like pressure in my chest, like a missing organ screaming to be put back where it belongs.
Noah thinks he owns this place.
Thinks money and guards and white linen mean control.
Men like him always confuse access with possession.
I watch a couple stumble past below me, drunk and happy and careless. I imagine how easy it would be to snap their necks.How little sound it would make. How quickly the night would swallow it.
I grind the cigarette out on the rail.
Scarlett doesn’t belong in rooms like that. She never has.
She belongs in the quiet moments before something breaks.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I don’t check it right away.
I like knowing it’s her before I prove it.
When I finally look, it’s a single message. Short. Careful.
Stop.
I laugh under my breath.
That word used to mean something different between us. It used to be a challenge. A lie she told herself while leaning closer instead of backing away.
I type back slowly.
You don’t get to tell me that anymore.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
She’s scared.
Good.
Fear strips the bullshit away.
I can already picture her — sitting stiffly, pretending to listen, pretending she belongs. Noah’s hand heavy at her back like an anchor. Like a threat disguised as affection.
I flex my fingers.
He put his hands on her.
That thought settles low and dark in my gut, not hot — cold. Precise. The kind of rage that doesn’t burn out. The kind that builds structures.
I didn’t come here to explode.
I came here to take her apart piece by piece until there’s nothing left of the girl who said yes to him.
My phone buzzes again.
Please. Don’t do this.
I stare at the word, jaw tightening.
