Strong ones.
For him to watch over.
For me to become manageable.
He doesn’t say it.
He doesn’t need to.
But tonight, the alcohol doesn’t soften me.
It sharpens me.
It strips away the silk and polish until all that’s left is the girl who once set fire to her own life just to see what the ashes tasted like.
One drink.
Two.
Three.
The music thumps through my bones like a pulse I haven’t felt in years.
Women laugh.
Men stare.
The night vibrates with possibility and danger and recklessness.
My fingers tap against my glass.
Noah touches my knee. “Slow down.”
I smile. “And why would I do that?”
His eyes harden. “Because we came here to relax.”
“No,” I say, leaning forward, breath warm with alcohol, “you came here to control.”
He stiffens. “What the hell does that mean?”
I don’t answer.
Instead, I stand.
Noah’s hand shoots out. “Scarlett. Sit.”
I laugh—loud, sharp, too real. “Make me.”
Someone gasps.
A woman in the next booth sips her drink with wide eyes.
Noah’s jaw ticks, a muscle twitching under his skin.
I turn and walk straight into the crowd.
He calls my name once—firm, warning—but it drowns under the bass drop. His voice disappears as bodies move around me. Perfume. Heat. Strobe lights slicing the air.
