His fingers glide around my waist, anchoring me to him.
The guests glance over — smiles too white, too shiny, too paid for — and Noah’s grip tightens like he’s reminding me he’s the one steering this performance.
I smile.
Or something like it.
Not wide.
Not warm.
Just enough to survive.
Just enough for him.
He leads me to the long table, murmuring to businessmen in tailored linen suits, their watches catching the candlelight in violent flashes. Their wives glance from me to Noah, eyes glittering with quiet judgment — the kind that says they’ve heard the rumours.
The kind that says they believe them.
Overhead, the moon hangs low — swollen and peach-coloured — haloed by thin clouds that drift like smoke. Even the sky feels too staged, too perfectly artistic, like the island is trying to seduce us into forgetting the danger woven through every grain of sand.
My dress clings to me in the heavy heat, the silk sticking to my spine, the locket cold against my chest as if Kai himself has iced the metal.
I can’t swallow.
I can barely breathe.
Noah’s wine glass is full before we even sit.
Mine too.
Red.
Deep.
Dark.
I don’t touch it.
I’m not that stupid anymore.
“Drink,” Noah murmurs without looking at me.
My stomach twists violently.
I keep my hands folded in my lap.
He places his hand on my thigh under the tablecloth — polite in appearance, threatening in pressure.
“Drink,” he repeats, voice low, smooth, a razor wrapped in silk.
I lift the glass.
Let it touch my lips.
Don’t swallow.
He watches.
