Slowly.
Too slowly.
Every step he takes toward my side of the bed feels like a countdown.
He stops beside me, fingers brushing the headboard, posture so controlled it looks painful.
His voice drops to a soft, almost affectionate murmur — the kind he uses right before he ruins something.
“Tell me exactly what you think happened.”
“I—” My lungs seize. “I told you.”
“No,” he says, leaning down, his face inches from mine. “You told me a delusion.”
My heartbeat is a trapped thing against my ribs.
“Noah… someone was here.”
He smiles.
A soft, chilling curl of his lips that has nothing to do with humour.
“So now we’re inventing intruders?”
I flinch.
His hand comes up fast — too fast — fingers tilting my chin until I have no choice but to meet his stare.
“You’re lying,” he whispers. “Or you’re confused.”
A pause.
“Or you’re trying to provoke me.”
I shake my head, panic rising so fast I can barely speak.
“I’m not lying. I swear, Noah?—”
He straightens abruptly, the mattress shifting under his weight as he steps back.
“Well,” he says, voice clipped and terrifyingly calm, “then you must have imagined the whole thing.”
“I didn’t?—”
“Because if you didn’t imagine it—” he cuts in sharply, “—then the alternative is that another man was in my villa. In my bed. Touching my fiancée.”
My stomach twists violently.
“Noah—please?—”
“Which,” he continues, ignoring me entirely, “would mean you let him.”
The accusation hits like a slap.
“I didn’t—Noah, I didn’t let anyone?—”
He slams his hand into the nightstand so hard the lamp jumps and my whole body jerks backward.
