Scarlett #2
Conversations drop in volume, laughter thickening with champagne and secrets.
I feel it again.
That pressure between my shoulder blades.
I don’t look this time. I can’t. Because if I do and I’m wrong, I’ll look insane. And if I do and I’m right—My breath hitches.
Noah feels it immediately.
His fingers dig into my waist, not painful, just firm enough to ground me. His smile never slips as he leans in to greet another donor, but his voice is low when he speaks against my ear.
“Focus,” he says. Not unkindly. Not gently either. “You’re here with me.”
I nod. I smile. I play along but my skin feels too tight, like it doesn’t fit right anymore.
A woman laughs behind me—soft, breathy—and the sound slices through my chest because it’s the wrong pitch, the wrong rhythm. Kai used to laugh like that when he was standing too close, when he’d said something he knew would get under my skin.
I take another sip of champagne even though my glass is already empty.
He flags a waiter with a glance, replaces my flute with a fresh one before I can protest. “Pace yourself,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the inside of my wrist as he passes it to me. “You don’t need the extra nerves.”
I want to tell him I don’t need him managing me.
I don’t.
But the words stick in my throat.
Across the room, the doors shift as someone enters late. There’s a subtle change—heads turning, conversation faltering for half a beat. Not enough to draw attention. Enough to be felt.
My heart slams.
Noah’s gaze flicks up, scanning automatically, assessing threats the way he always does. His jaw tightens when he looks back at me.
“Did you invite anyone else?” he asks casually.
“No.”
The answer comes too fast.
He studies me. “You’re pale.”
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue this time. He pulls me closer instead, arm banding around my waist, drawing me into his side like he’s shielding me from something only he can see.
Or something he’s finally starting to believe.
“I know tonight is difficult,” Noah says quietly. “But you don’t need to be afraid.”
I almost laugh.
Afraid isn’t the word.
Fear implies I want to run.
What coils low in my stomach, what hums beneath my skin every time I imagine Kai out there somewhere—free, watching, remembering—isn’t fear.
It’s anticipation.
The realisation hits me hard enough that my knees weaken.
Noah feels it again. His grip tightens, fingers biting into silk. His voice drops, losing its polish.
“You’re with me,” he says, slower now. Firmer. “Say it.”
I swallow. “I’m with you.”
“Louder.”
“I’m with you.”
Satisfied—or close enough—he relaxes just a fraction. But his eyes stay sharp. Tracking. Guarding.
The auction begins. Applause ripples through the room as items are announced, numbers called out, money exchanged like it’s nothing more than a game. I barely hear it. My focus keeps snagging on movement at the edges of the room.
A man stepping back into shadow.
A reflection that disappears when I turn.
A presence that doesn’t need a face to be known.
My pulse is loud in my ears.
Noah leans in again, his mouth brushing my hair, his breath warm and steady. “If he’s trying to scare you,” he murmurs, “it won’t work. He doesn’t get to touch you. He doesn’t get access to this life.”
His hand presses flat against my stomach, grounding, claiming.
“He lost you,” Noah finishes.
The lie settles between us, heavy and fragile.
Because the truth—the one I never say out loud—is that Kai never lost me.
I lost myself trying to get away from him.
Applause erupts again. Noah claps, pulling me with him into the motion, into the performance. Cameras flash. Smiles bloom around us.
And somewhere beneath it all, beneath the silk and diamonds and suffocating perfection, something dark and patient shifts.
I don’t need to see Kai to know this much.
He’s close.
And this time, he’s not waiting to be invited.
Kai doesn’t appear.
That’s what breaks me.
I spend the entire night braced for him—for the shatter of glass, the sudden hush of the room, the moment every instinct in my body screams there.
I keep waiting for the air to change, for the shadow to solidify, for the past to step out of the dark and claim me in front of God and money and everyone who thinks they know my name.
But he doesn’t come.
The tension has nowhere to go.
It coils tighter. Sharper. Meaner.
Noah feels it unraveling before I do.
We’re standing near the bar now, the charity’s logo projected in gold against the far wall, donors laughing too loudly, the orchestra sliding into something lush and dramatic. Noah’s hand is on my lower back, fingers digging in just enough that it isn’t affectionate anymore.
It’s corrective.
“You’re embarrassing me,” he says quietly, smile still fixed in place.
My head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?”
He leans closer, lips barely moving. “You’ve been somewhere else all night. People notice.”
“I’ve done everything you asked,” I hiss back. “I’ve smiled. I’ve danced. I’ve stood where you put me.”
“That’s not enough,” he says.
Something in his tone—sharp, frustrated, possessive—makes my chest tighten. “What do you want from me?”
His smile finally cracks.
“I want you here,” Noah snaps under his breath. “Not half-gone. Not twitching like you’re waiting for someone else to show up.”
“I’m here,” I shoot back, voice rising despite myself. “Isn’t that enough?”
His grip tightens painfully now, fingers biting into my skin through silk. He turns his head just enough that I can see his jaw flex, his eyes hardening.
“You’re going to be my fucking wife,” he says, the words low and furious. “You don’t get to drift. You don’t get to fall apart because some convicted bastard is back in the world.”
My breath stutters.
A few heads turn.
I yank my arm out of his grasp. “Lower your voice.”
“No,” he says flatly. “You don’t get to police me when you’re the one unraveling.”
Anger flares hot and fast. “You don’t own me.”
His laugh is short. Sharp. “I’m the one standing here with you. I’m the one putting a ring on your finger. I’m the one protecting you from men like him.”
The name sits unspoken between us, a third presence.
“You don’t get to use him to scare me into behaving,” I spit.
Noah steps closer, invading my space, eyes blazing. “You should be scared. Because I see what he did to you. I see how deep he’s still in your head, and I will not compete with a fucking ghost.”
Something in me snaps.
“Then stop trying to cage me,” I say, voice shaking. “Because you’re starting to feel a lot like him.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve crossed a line.
Noah’s face goes still. Dead calm. That’s worse.
“We’re done talking,” he says quietly. “Go fix your face.”
I turn and walk away before he can grab me again, heels clicking too loud against marble, breath coming too fast, vision narrowing. I push through the crowd, past curious glances and murmurs, until I find the bathroom tucked down a quiet corridor, gold signage gleaming under soft light.
I barely make it inside before the door swings shut behind me.
The room is all white marble and mirrors—too bright, too clean, too reflective. I grip the edge of the sink and lean forward, gasping, lungs refusing to cooperate.
I can’t breathe.
My chest tightens, panic blooming fast and brutal. I fumble with the neckline of my dress, fingers shaking, eyes locked on my reflection as if it might tell me what’s wrong.
“Get it together,” I whisper.
The woman in the mirror looks wrong.
Her eyes are too wide. Her pupils blown. The smile she tries to force trembles and collapses.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
When I open them again—He’s there.
Not really. I know that. I know that.
But my body doesn’t.
Kai stands behind me in the mirror, close enough that I swear I feel his heat. He looks the way he always does in my head—dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes burning with something that feels like hunger and accusation all at once.
My breath catches in a sob.
“You’re not here,” I whisper.
His reflection smiles. “You keep saying that,” he murmurs. “But you never sound convinced.”
I shake my head hard, hands gripping the sink. “You’re not real.”
“And yet,” he says calmly, tilting his head, “here you are. Talking to me.”
Tears blur my vision. “You’re dead. You’re gone. I put you there.”
His smile fades. “That’s the thing, Scarlett,” he says softly. “You didn’t.”
My chest aches, splitting open with old guilt and newer fear. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“You always had a choice,” he replies. “You just chose yourself.”
The words hit like a slap. “I did what I had to do to survive,” I choke.
Kai steps closer in the mirror until his face is right behind mine, his mouth near my ear. “You built a pretty cage,” he says quietly. “Does it feel safer with him watching you breathe?”
I squeeze my eyes shut again. “Stop.”
“You look tired,” he continues, relentless. “Polished. Perfect. Empty.”
“Stop,” I repeat, louder now.
“You traded me for quiet,” Kai says. “For clean lines and pretty lies.”
My reflection’s lips tremble. “I’m happy.”
He laughs softly. “No, you’re obedient.”
I sob then, a sharp, broken sound that echoes off marble. My hands come up to my face, smearing makeup, smudging the lie I worked so hard to perfect.
When I look up again, the mirror is empty.
Just me.
Alone. Shaking. Breathing too fast.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Scarlett,” Noah’s voice calls, controlled again, measured. “Are you finished?”
I stare at my reflection—ruined mascara, flushed skin, eyes red and wild.
Finished.
The word feels like a joke.
I straighten slowly, wipe my face with trembling hands, and square my shoulders.
Because whatever is breaking inside me?
It’s already too late to put it back together.
The car ride home is silent in the way storms are silent—all charged air and waiting violence.