I tilt my head enough to let a few drops slide in.
He relaxes.
His hand stays on my thigh.
The beach lights blur, the sound of the waves a throbbing pulse behind the noise of laughter and cutlery and the murmur of money disguised as conversation.
I stare at the ocean because it feels like the only honest thing here.
Noah follows my gaze and then he smiles a slow, calculated smile.
As if the sea gave him an idea.
He taps his glass gently, drawing attention.
The conversation tapers.
He stands.
I stiffen.
His hand slides from my thigh, leaving cold panic in its wake.
“To future partnerships,” he begins, voice carrying easily over the surf and chatter, “and to decisions that shape the rest of our lives.”
People raise their glasses.
To him.
To the man whose charm is a weapon and whose money buys silence.
He doesn’t toast back.
Instead, he turns to me.
The crowd follows his gaze.
My skin prickles.
My heartbeat goes jagged.
“This week,” he says, voice warm enough to be mistaken for loving by people who don’t know him, “isn’t just about business.”
My breath locks.
He takes my hand.
Raises it to his lips.
Kisses it.
A display.
An announcement.
A claim.
“This week,” he continues, “is about the woman beside me.”
