It isn’t even about ownership.
It’s a deadline.
And somewhere in the jungle, a man who never learned how to let go is counting down with us.
The party is obscene.
There’s no other word for it.
Lanterns float over the infinity pool like fallen stars, their reflections shattering across black water that bleeds straight into the sea beyond the cliffs. White marble terraces spill with guests dressed in linen and diamonds, champagne flutes catching the light, laughter rising in polite, curated waves. Somewhere, a string quartet plays something soft and expensive, the kind of music designed to make people feel important instead of human.
It’s beautiful.
It’s a cage with flowers braided through the bars.
Noah’s hand rests at the small of my back as we move through the crowd, his grip light but unmistakably possessive. He introduces me with a smile that never wavers.
“My fiancée.”
“My wife-to-be.”
“In two days.”
Each time he says it, something inside me flinches.
People congratulate us. Women kiss my cheeks and tell me I’m glowing. Men shake Noah’s hand like he’s just closed the deal of the century. No one asks if I’m happy. No one asks if I’m afraid.
Why would they? I look perfect.
My phone vibrates against my clutch.
Once.
Twice.
I don’t look immediately. I can feel the message like a pressure point under my skin.
Noah feels it too.
His fingers flex once, a silent warning.
“Smile,” he murmurs near my ear. “This is for you.”
I smile.
It hurts.
When I finally glance down, the screen lights up like a flare in the dark.
Did you really think I’d stand here and watch that fucking bastard try to lock you up like a prize horse?
My breath stutters.
Another message comes through before I can stop myself from reading.
Look at you. Wrapped in silk. Smiling like you’re not screaming inside.
The room tilts slightly. Or maybe that’s just me.
