CHAPTER EIGHT #2
But a faint gleam flickered in his gaze. Approval. Enjoyment. Something dangerous that recognized my attempt to protect myself and rewarded it with twisted praise.
“That is right,” he murmured, voice low enough that only I could hear. “Pretend nothing is wrong. Good girl. You are learning.”
The words struck me like an open palm.
Heat flared behind my eyes.
But his taunt bought me a few seconds of silence. It bought me breath.
The cost, however, was steep.
Because now I hated him more fiercely than I had hated anything in my life. And that hatred became the only shield I had left, the only barrier between me and the two shadows closing in around me.
Riley’s cruelty on one side.
The anonymous watcher on the other.
And I stood between them, powerless, trembling, and walking straight into the reception as if nothing in my world were burning.
The path spilled us out with sudden, theatrical force, as if we had crossed an unseen barrier and stepped straight into another world. The jungle of hibiscus and palm trees fell away behind us, giving birth to a reception so extravagant it stole the breath from my lungs.
White linen draped every table like waterfalls captured mid cascade.
Hundreds of tiny golden lights hung in swooping lines overhead, shimmering like constellations caught in nets.
Orchids dripped from tall glass vases, their pale petals glowing as if lit from within.
Every breeze carried their perfume, mingled with the faint, decadent aroma of champagne already uncorked.
Soft jazz rippled through the warm air. Laughter floated and mingled with it, elegant and easy, the kind of laughter that belonged to people born into money.
People who had never known fear as anything but an abstract concept discussed in movies and whispered scandals.
Guests moved like a choreography of wealth, all effortless grace and tailored perfection.
It was stunning.
It was suffocating.
Riley and I walked into the center of it, and the world shifted again, this time sharper, colder. Heads turned. Cameras lifted. Smiles unfurled like practiced blossoms.
The new family has arrived.
The daughter of the bride and the son of the groom.
The photogenic pair brought together by matrimony.
A murmur swept through the gathering. Compliments disguised as sweetness but heavy with appraisal. How lovely you look. What a perfect match. Such beautiful children. What a merging.
Every pair of eyes became a weight, pressing against my skin.
I felt them mapping the angles of our bodies, the closeness of our stride, the illusion of unity.
I felt the invisible expectation settle over me like a delicate but choking veil.
Be graceful. Be serene. Be the daughter your mother deserves today.
Smile, Luna. Pretend.
I did. I lifted my chin and maintained the soft, polite smile that made me blend seamlessly with the curated, glossy aesthetic.
But inside, a storm churned without rhythm. Fear flickered. Rage simmered. And underneath both, a darker ache pulsed, humiliating in its persistence.
I hated that he could do that to me.
He intensified everything the moment we stepped deeper into the reception.
He did not merely walk beside me. He invaded the shifting inches of space around me.
His arm brushed mine again and again, a lazy, grazing contact that looked accidental to every watching eye but carried an electric charge strong enough to steal breath.
I could smell him. The clean bite of expensive cologne. The warm edge of male skin. Something darker that belonged to him alone.
Every inhale tangled with something forbidden.
Every exhale was an effort not to stagger.
He knew. I was certain he knew. Riley never left a weakness unexplored. A weakness was a door, and he was the kind of boy who would walk through it just to see what broke on the other side.
My fingertips tingled. My chest tightened. If he did not stop, I was going to lose all composure. I would scream. Or cry. Or dissolve. Any outcome would destroy the wedding my mother had dreamed of.
I wanted distance. I needed it like oxygen.
But he refused to give me even an inch.
His voice found me first, uncoiling through the noise, soft and low, heat-laced and cruel. Only for me.
“Relax, princess,” he whispered. “You look like you are marching toward execution. Enjoy the scenery. All these people think we are absolutely adorable.”
My jaw clenched. I kept my smile intact. My lips barely moved.
“Stop touching me,” I breathed, the words barely a vibration.
He slowed his stride. Just enough to pull me closer. He boxed me subtly against his side, creating the illusion that I had drifted toward him willingly.
“Touching you?” His tone was smooth, almost amused. “We are walking. A shoulder brushing yours is not a crime. You are simply so wound up that you feel electricity where everyone else would feel nothing at all.”
His eyes flicked toward me, slow and knowing, and the spark of delight in them was merciless.
He was enjoying this. My tension. My confusion. The thin thread of hunger beneath my fury that he could sense even when I buried it.
His voice dropped lower, carving itself straight into the place between my ribs.
“You truly believe you can avoid me tonight?” His words curled with an arrogant intimacy. “Look around. We are at the head table. Assigned together. Side by side. I am your seatmate. Your buffer. Your reminder. Your guard for the entire night.”
The implication struck me like a cold gust.
Hours.
Hours next to him, under the string lights, pretending to be the perfect daughter while the boy who tormented me sat close enough to feel my breath.
The evening stretched before me like a sentence.
A bitter taste coated my tongue.
“I would rather sit with the caterers,” I said, my voice quiet venom.
His smile sharpened into something predatory and triumphant.
“Too bad,” he murmured. “There is no other place you can run to. Not from me.”
The words struck with precision.
I opened my mouth, ready to lash out, ready to tell him exactly what I thought of his threats.
But a familiar voice drifted toward us, warm and unguarded, and my heart lurched with relief at the interruption.
My mother appeared first, her smile glowing through the warm light like a beacon that had found its harbor at last. She had changed out of the gown she wore during the ceremony, slipping into something softer, something she could breathe in.
A pale champagne dress that swayed like silk poured from a glass.
It made her look ethereal. It made her look cherished.
Her hand rested on the arm of the man beside her. Not clinging. Not grasping. Simply settled there, as if that space had been carved for her alone.
Marcus.
He was tall. Broad in a way that was not bulky, but refined.
The charcoal fabric of his suit hugged his frame with such clean precision it almost seemed like the threads themselves respected him.
His hair was thick and ink dark, streaked with silver that caught the lights like a secret burnished crown.
At his temples, the silver was more pronounced, giving him a deliberate, distinguished air.
He had the look of a man accustomed to private jets, but who would still take the helm of his own yacht simply because he preferred steering things himself.
Everything about him exuded quiet, effortless authority. The kind of power that whispered instead of shouted. The kind of presence that could steady entire rooms by entering them.
His gaze, sharp and clear hazel, swept over me with a faint but unmistakable appraisal. Not predatory. Not indulgent. Simply observant. Intelligent. Measuring.
I felt exposed under that look, the way a diamond might feel beneath the eyes of a jeweler, its flaws revealed with merciless clarity.
He seemed kind. He seemed strong. He seemed like a new beginning wrapped in the shape of a husband.
He was everything my mother deserved.
He was everything I wanted for her.
Marcus extended a hand toward me. His palm engulfed mine in a warm, steady clasp. Not crushing. Not overfamiliar. Adult to adult. Equal to equal.
“Luna,” he said, his voice smooth and deep, the kind of voice one wanted to trust. “I am truly honored to meet you. Your mother speaks of you constantly. You look absolutely beautiful.”
His words wrapped around me like silk, pulling me into a fragile, temporary sense of safety.
“Thank you,” I whispered. The steadiness in his gaze forced me to hold my mask in place, to present myself as the poised stepdaughter. He radiated calm so profoundly it almost became contagious.
“Mr. and Mrs. Maddox, Miss Luna, Mr. Riley,” an unfamiliar voice interrupted us.
The wedding planner appeared again, gliding toward us with her clipboard clutched to her chest like a polished shield.
She moved with such efficient, predatory grace that I thought of her as a shark in nude heels, slicing through clusters of laughing guests without ever disturbing a single champagne bubble.
Her smile was polite, practiced, and absolute, and when she lifted her perfectly manicured hand, people obeyed.
Including us.
She guided us toward the long, rectangular family table that dominated the center of the reception.
It stretched beneath an archway of palm fronds that swayed lazily in the warm island breeze.
Strings of tiny lights wrapped around each frond and dripped overhead, shimmering like a net made of stars.
The glow kissed everything it touched. It softened harsh lines, smoothed worries, and made every guest appear unreal and golden.
Every guest except me.
I felt as though I had been dipped in shadow while everyone else bathed in light. My skin was chilled despite the heat. My thoughts were loud despite the music. My heartbeat thudded against my ribs with the panicked rhythm of prey sprinting through an unseen forest.
I walked blindly, letting the planner lead the way. The white linens blurred. The crystal glasses caught the lights and fractured them into tiny shards that stabbed at my eyes. I stared at place cards as if each one might offer salvation.
But salvation was not on tonight’s menu.
Riley’s prophecy, delivered minutes earlier in a voice that slid beneath my skin like a blade, hung over me with the weight of inevitability. Of course he had been right.
My place card sat beside his. Not across. Not even one chair away. Side by side, as if fate and the wedding planner herself delighted in stitching nightmares from perfectly curated romance.
Riley paused at my chair and pulled it out for me.
The gesture was elegant, courtly, and obscene.
A gentleman’s etiquette wrapped around a villain’s intention.
He waited for me to sit, and the weight of his attention pressed between my shoulder blades until I lowered myself into the velvet backed seat.
Only then did he sink into his own place with that devastating, effortless confidence he wore like a second skin. He lounged, possessing the space, claiming it without words. Claiming more than that. Claiming proximity.
Air became scarce.
The distance between our bodies was nonexistent.
Our knees brushed under the tablecloth and the contact jolted through me like a live wire.
My breath stumbled. A sound rose in my throat, embarrassingly soft and startled, and I forced it into a cough, hoping no one noticed the tremor that rippled through me.
I tried to angle my body away. A subtle shift. A small escape. But the movement only pressed more of me against him. My thigh met the warmth of his suit pants. Heat radiated from him as if he carried fire beneath his skin and I was the unfortunate moth forced too close to his flame.
Across the table, my mum glowed. Her happiness was so bright it almost hurt to look at her. Beside her, Marcus looked relaxed. They exchanged a quiet look, a small moment of shared bliss, entirely convinced that the world had settled into place. Their world had. Mine had not.
They saw two teenagers seated beside one another, two newly merged families blending seamlessly beneath strings of lights. They did not see the battlefield beneath the white linen, or the way Riley leaned into the war with a smile.
He lifted one long leg beneath the table and stretched it out, nudging my knee more firmly. The contact was deliberate. Dominant. A chain disguised as a touch.
Then he moved.
He draped his arm across the back of my chair with a lazy, relaxed indifference that made my pulse slam painfully against my ribs.
His hand hovered just beyond my shoulder, close enough that I felt the air stir each time his fingers shifted.
The tips of them occasionally brushed the sheer fabric of my dress, a ghost of contact that scorched through me every time.
It was a gesture that should have looked innocent to anyone watching. Casual. Brotherly. New family bonding.
But there was nothing innocent about Riley.
The gesture was a taunt. A possession. A declaration spoken without sound.
I own this space.
I own your attention.
I own your reactions.
I straightened my back, trying to find a thread of distance, a breath of space, anything, but the cage he built around me was made of silk and velvet and meticulously polite touches.
I could not stand without creating a scene.
I could not lean forward without drawing everyone’s eyes.
I could not shift away without brushing some other part of him.
He had trapped me with nothing but proximity.
And he knew it.
I felt the heat of him at my side. The steady rhythm of his breath. The faint scent of his cologne, something dark and clean, wrapping around me like smoke. My pulse refused to calm. My thoughts skittered like frantic birds.
I looked at my mum again. At Marcus. At the soft joy radiating from them.
They were already living inside the happily ever after.
And I was seated beside the boy determined to burn it all to ash.