His smile widens. "That's my girl. I knew you'd understand." He raises his glass. "To us. To our future."
I clink my glass against his and drink. The wine is delicious, but all I taste is the salty burn of tears in the back of my throat that I force down.
The rest of dinner passes in a blur of small talk. Thad tells me about the house he's looking at for us after the wedding, outside of Charleston. He regales me with the description, how it has six bedrooms, a pool, a tennis court, how it’s perfect for raising a family. He talks about the wedding, about his mother's ideas for the reception, about the honeymoon he's planning for us at a resort in Costa Rica.
I nod and smile and say all the right things, but inside, I feel like I'm drowning.
The halibut, when it arrives, is perfectly fine. I eat it mechanically, barely tasting it, while Thad cuts into his lobster with obvious satisfaction.
Throughout the meal, I notice other diners glancing our way. It's nothing overt—just the casual looks that happen in restaurants, people watching other people. But every time someone's eyes linger on me for a moment, Thad's hand finds mine across the table, or his foot presses against mine under it.
"You look beautiful tonight," he murmurs after a man at the bar glances in our direction. "Can't blame them for looking. But you're mine."
The possessiveness in his voice makes my skin crawl, but I smile and squeeze his hand because that's what I'm supposed to do.
After dinner, we walk through the city. Thad keeps his hand on my lower back, guiding me through the crowds. His touch isconstant—adjusting my hair, brushing my shoulder, his fingers trailing down my arm. It's too much, too constant, and I find myself creating small distances that he immediately closes.
We end up at the rooftop bar he mentioned, and the view is spectacular. The city is spread out below us, lights twinkling like stars. It should be romantic. It should make my heart flutter.
Instead, I feel trapped.
Thad orders cocktails for both of us. Mine is something with gin that I don't particularly like, but I don't protest. We find a corner with a view, and he pulls me close against his side, his arm around my shoulders.
"This is nice," he says, his lips close to my ear. "Just the two of us. No distractions."
His hand slides down from my shoulder to my waist, then lower to my hip. I shift away slightly.
"Thad—"
"What?" His voice is innocent, but his hand doesn't move. "We're engaged, Savannah. We're going to be married. This is normal."
"I know, I just..." I search for the right words to deflect without offending him. "There are people around. It's not appropriate."
"Not appropriate." He pulls back slightly. He looks annoyed now, his eyes turning flinty. "You sound like your mother."
"I just think we should wait. Until we're married. It's important to me. My faith, my values—" The words sound hollow to me, because I don’t actually mean it… I just don’t want him touching me, and this is the quickest way to slow him down.
"Your values." He takes a drink, and his jaw is tight. "Right. Your Southern belle routine."
The words sting, but I keep my face neutral. "It's not a routine. It's who I am."
"Is it?" He studies me for a long moment. "Or is it just another way of keeping me at arm's length?"
"That's not fair?—"
"Isn't it?" He leans closer, and his voice drops. "We're engaged, Savannah, and you barely let me touch you. A kiss here and there, always chaste, always appropriate. I'm starting to wonder if you're actually attracted to me at all."
My face flushes. "Of course I am. I just... I want to do things right. The way I was raised."
He's quiet for a moment, then his expression softens. "I know. I'm sorry. That was unfair." He kisses my temple. "I just miss you. And sometimes it feels like you're a thousand miles away, even when you're sitting right next to me."
He's right. I am a thousand miles away. I've been a thousand miles away since my father first suggested the match, and I realized that my life was being planned without my input.
But I can't say that. So instead, I lean into him and smile. "I'm here. I promise. I'm just... adjusting. To all of this. To us."
"I know." He kisses me then, and it's more aggressive than usual. His hand cups the back of my neck, holding me in place, and I have to resist the urge to pull away. When he finally releases me, I'm breathless, and not in a good way.
"Let's get you home," he says. "It's getting late."
