My head spins.
My body moves faster.
Noah shoves through the crowd, fury written all over his face.
He reaches the table.
“Get down.”
I look down at him.
At the perfectly sculpted, perfectly furious man who wants a perfectly curated fiancée.
And I smile.
“No.”
His nostrils flare.
His hand clamps around my ankle.
“Scarlett. Enough.”
“Let go.”
“You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Good.”
“Scarlett—”
I yank my leg.
Hard.
His jaw flexes.
“Get. Down. Now.”
My laugh is breathless, reckless, filled with the alcohol still fizzing through my bloodstream.
“Are you going to drag me off the table?”
“Yes.”
He says it like a vow.
And then his hand clamps around my wrist.
What happens next is fast—his grip tightening, my balance tipping, the room tilting, a brief flash of weightlessness—And then I’m in his arms, body slammed against his chest as he hauls me off the table.
People cheer louder.
Others gasp.
Phones capture it all.
Noah pulls me into the shadows of the club, breath ragged, jaw clenched so tight I’m shocked it doesn’t crack.
