“You’re being cruel.”
“I learned from the best.”
His eyes go cold.
“Sit,” he snaps, pointing toward the living room.
“Oh, fuck off,” I mutter, stumbling toward the sofa anyway. “You don’t get to order me?—”
“Sit down, Scarlett.”
The command hits like a slap.
I drop into the cushions, breath uneven.
He disappears into the kitchen.
I scoff loudly, rolling my eyes so hard they practically scrape the ceiling.
“Don’t pout!” I shout after him. “It’s not attractive!”
No answer.
The house feels too quiet suddenly.
Too still.
My pulse stutters.
I push myself upright, trying to blink the blur out of my vision. Everything tilts. The room swims for a second—like my brain is lagging behind my body.
“Noah?” I call, trying to sound annoyed instead of uneasy. “What are you doing?”
He returns with a glass.
Crystal. Filled with something amber and glittering under the lights.
Whiskey.
His go-to.
He forces a soft tone that makes my skin crawl.
“You need to calm down, Scarlett. Please. Just drink this.”
He offers it out.
I take it automatically because my body is working on autopilot—obedient muscle memory drilled into me over years of curated perfection.
I raise it to my lips.
Noah watches me drink.
Too closely.
Too intensely.
His shoulders drop a fraction when the first swallow hits my tongue.
