“I’m fine,” I whisper.
He studies my face.
“You don’t look fine.”
I swallow hard.
“It was just… a lot yesterday. The argument. The heat. I didn’t sleep well.”
A soft hum leaves his throat — thoughtful, assessing.
“Take a shower,” he says, pressing a kiss to my temple that feels like a signature rather than affection. “We have a lunch meeting with Langford at one. You’ll wear the blue dress.”
The kiss lingers for exactly one second.
Then he steps away.
Walks to the wardrobe.
Pulls out clothes with the same clinical precision he applies to everything — tailored linen trousers, a crisp white shirt, a watch that costs more than my childhood home.
He buttons the shirt slowly, each click of the cufflink echoing through the silence.
“We’re going to enjoy this trip,” he says without turning around. “You will be calm. You will be presentable. You won’t embarrass either of us. And you certainly won’t entertain imaginary stories about strangers in our room.”
My nails dig into my palm until my skin burns.
“And when Sunday comes,” he continues, sliding his watch into place, “you’ll walk down the aisle without hesitation. Or I’ll know exactly what that means.”
My breath stops.
“What does that?—”
“It means you’re choosing your brother over your future,” he says coldly. “And I won’t allow that.”
He turns then.
His eyes are ice.
Beautiful, lethal ice.
“Shower. Now.”
I nod quickly, because my body has learned obedience the way some people learn languages — through repetition, through necessity, through survival.
I slip past him into the bathroom.
Close the door.
Lock it.
Lean my forehead against it as my breath trembles out in shallow, broken bursts.
My pulse screams under my skin.
My hands shake.
My reflection in the mirror looks wild-eyed and pale and not like someone who belongs in paradise.
