Too controlled.
“You think this is funny?”
“Oh, it’s fucking hilarious,” I slur, waving my arm wide like a drunken ballerina. “The way you manhandled me out of there? Iconic. Truly. I bet the group chats are on fire.”
He grabs my wrist.
Not gentle.
Not violent.
Just… claiming.
“Do you have any idea how reckless you were?”
“I have every idea,” I sing, swaying toward him, “and I don’t care.”
He stares at me.
Something cracks behind his eyes.
“Let’s get inside.”
“I don’t wanna go inside.”
“Scarlett.”
“Noooah,” I mimic, voice high and mocking. “Say please.”
His jaw clenches so hard I hear it.
He drags me inside anyway.
The door slams behind us—the sound echoing through the foyer, bouncing off marble and glass and polished silence.
Inside, everything feels too big.
Too bright.
Too echoing.
Like the house is waiting for someone to scream.
Noah releases my wrist only to shove his hands through his hair, pacing.
“Jesus Christ, Scarlett. What the hell is happening to you?”
I lean against the hallway table, almost knocking over a vase worth more than my university degree.
“Maybe I’m done being your little princess,” I say with a mocking smile. “Maybe I’m bored.”
He stops pacing.
He stares at me like I just stabbed him.
“You’re drunk.”
“Very.”
