The lie slides out like honey.
Noah doesn’t buy it.
He hands me the box.
The weight of it nearly knocks my breath out.
Not heavy like jewellery.
Heavy like metal.
Heavy like danger.
I push a perfect, practiced smile onto my lips.
“Oh—wow. It’s… beautiful wrapping.”
Noah leans against the console table, arms crossed, tattoos flexing as he studies the box like it might bite him.
Or like the person who sent it already did.
“Open it,” he says.
Not a suggestion.
A command.
My throat goes dry.
But I become her again?—
The perfect fiancée.
The rich man’s dream.
Poised. Serene. Unbothered.
I glide toward the marble kitchen island, letting my robe swish around my legs like I don’t feel like I’m walking toward a bomb.
“Don’t look so tense,” I tease, voice light. “It’s probably something boring. Candles. Or champagne. Or…” I swallow. “…a wedding thing.”
Noah follows me into the kitchen.
His presence is a shadow pressed against my spine—warm, heavy, suspicious.
I slide a manicured finger beneath the red ribbon, undoing it with elegant finesse.
Inside, the velvet box gleams like a bruise under the lights.
I lift the lid.
My breath stops.
Inside is a single object:
A silver pocketknife.
Old.
