God, I never sound like this. I’m not this girl. I shouldn't have agreed to Quinn's stupid plan.
He clears his throat, gaze still fixed on me. “Where are you going?” he asks, voice measured, “dressed like that?”
Elijah leans forward slightly, eyes dragging over me with intent, and I can't decide if that's a good sign or a very bad one. He didn't answer my question. That feels… telling.
“I’m going out with Quinn,” I say, lifting my chin a fraction, trying to reclaim some of my confidence.
His jaw tightens. “You can't go out dressed like that.”
Oh my goodness, he really doesn't like it.
“Why not?” I ask. “I think the dress is pretty.”
It really is. Maybe a little on the slutty side, but it makes me feel good—confident even.
“I’m not saying it isn't, but one wrong move and you'll be flashing your ass to half the room. Someone's going to get the wrong idea—that you're looking for more than just a dance tonight.”
He stands, all quiet authority and broad shoulders; the air between us tightens. “Go and change.”
Oh. No.
That wasn't part of the plan. He was supposed to like it—not tell me what to do.
I straighten, planting my feet. “I’m not changing, Elijah. I like the dress, and I’m keeping it on.” I hold his gaze, unflinching.
No way am I backing down—no matter how much he looks like he's seconds away from ripping the dress off himself, and part of me really wants him to, even if it is wrong.
“You're not leaving this house until you change.”
I cross my arms, irritation flaring hot and fast. “And who do you think you are?” I snap. “I’m twenty years old, Elijah. I’m not a child for you to order around. I’m notyourchild.”
“No, you aren’t, but I’m the only adult here who actually gives a shit about you. Dressing like that is going to attract the wrong kind of attention. So go and change. I won't repeat myself.”
Any lingering shyness evaporates instantly.
Oh, absolutely not.
“How dare you?” I say, heat rushing through me. “You don't get to dictate what I wear or tell me I’m a child. So, no, I fucking won't.”
He clearly doesn't have any feelings for me if he thinks I’m a child.
His eyes darken as he closes the distance between us. “Don't be a brat, Willow.”
“I’ll do whatever the hell I want,” I fire back. “You don't get to order me around. If I want to dress like this, I will. If I want to slap you across the face, I will. And if I want to go out and have an orgy, then I will.” I prod his chest. “You are not my dad.”
The words hang heavy the second they leave my mouth.
I press my lips together, realising I've gone too far. His expression shifts, jaw locking, the skin between his brows creasing as anger flashes across his face.
“Never accuse me of trying to act like your dad. But I’m not letting you out of this house dressed like that. Do you think Leon would be okay with this?”
I raise a hand instantly. “Don't,” I warn. “You don't get to use my dad in an argument.”
Regret flickers across his face—brief, unmistakable—but he still doesn't back down. The sight of it only makes everything worse. This whole thing has turned into a complete mess. The plan didn't make him jealous. Didn't make him confess anything. All it did was turn him into someone who thinks he gets to control me.
I hate that more than anything.
“Is this because of last night?” He asks. A short, disbelieving laugh slips out as he carries on. “Is that why you're acting like this?”
