The Yanceys want to thank me for the scholarship I gave their son.
Mrs. Shiflett wants to discuss the library expansion.
I give them all what they want. A moment of my attention. The performance of being a good man.
But my blood is pounding in my ears, and my skin feels too tight.
Every step that brings me closer to Liberty makes the ache in my chest sharpen into something that borders on pain.
She sees me coming.
I watch her body tense, her fingers tighten on her glass, the war play out across her face—fight or flight, rage or retreat.
She doesn't run.
Good girl.
I stop in front of her, close enough to see the pulse fluttering in her throat.
Close enough to smell her—vanilla and something darker underneath, something that's purely her.
I breathe it in like a drowning man breaking the surface.
"Liberty." I keep my voice pleasant. Conversational. Give nothing away. "Enjoying the party?"
Her eyes blaze, green fire in the fading light. "You know I'm not."
"Do I?" I tilt my head, letting a smile curl at the corner of my mouth. "You seem upset. Is something wrong?"
She laughs, and the sound is harsh, broken. Heads turn nearby.
"Is something wrong?" She crosses her arms, fingers digging into her biceps hard enough to leave marks. "You want to do this here? In front of everyone?"
"I'd prefer somewhere more private." I gesture toward the upper terrace, the one that overlooks the lawn and the valley beyond. "The fireworks will be starting soon. Best view in the house."
"I'm not going anywhere with you." She plants her feet, jaw tight.
"Aren't you?" I step closer, dropping my voice so only she can hear. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her skin. "We both know you have questions. I have answers. And I'd rather not have this conversation where the whole town can watch you fall apart."
Her jaw tightens.
I see the calculation behind her eyes—the soldier assessing the battlefield, weighing her options.
She has none. She knows it.
"Fine." She bites the word off like it tastes foul, then turns toward the stairs without waiting for me.
I follow, letting myself watch the rigid fury in her shoulders, the way her hands curl into fists at her sides.
The white dress clings to her hips as she climbs, and I have to force myself not to reach out and touch her.
Not yet. Not yet.
The upper terrace is empty. I planned it that way—had Grady rope it off an hour ago, citing safety concerns. No one will interrupt us up here.
Liberty and me. And the fireworks. And the truth she's been circling for days.
I stop at the stone railing and turn to face her.
