“What. Blindfold?”
I feel the blood drain from my face.
He sits forward, forearms braced on his knees, his stare pinning me to the mattress as easily as if he’d put a hand on my chest.
“Scarlett,” he says, tone steady in a way that terrifies me more than shouting ever could. “What blindfold?”
My pulse hammers so violently my fingers shake around the glass.
“Noah… stop.” It comes out barely audible. “You know what I’m talking about.”
His jaw clenches — a small, tight movement that sends a cold shiver straight through me.
“Explain,” he murmurs. “Slowly.”
Something is wrong.
So deeply wrong.
The man in front of me is not confused.
He’s not surprised.
He’s not hurt.
He’s calculating.
He’s dissecting the situation second by second, threading possibilities together in that meticulous mind of his, deciding which version of this story benefits him.
And none of them benefit me.
“I—”
My throat closes.
I swallow hard, gripping the sheets.
“You came into the room. After dinner. You didn’t say anything. You just?—”
My voice cracks.
His eyes don’t.
“You just put the blindfold on me,” I finish weakly.
A long, ugly silence stretches across the bed.
Noah’s expression finally shifts — not softening, not warming, just sliding into something darker, heavier, a mask cracking to reveal the rot underneath.
He laughs once.
A hollow, humourless exhale.
“Scarlett,” he says softly, “I didn’t touch you last night.” My blood turns to ice. “I didn’t come into this room until I went to bed at three thirty.” His stare sharpens. “You were asleep.”
My breath stutters out.
He stands.
