Scarlett
The club is the kind of place Noah loves—all polished chrome, curated lighting, velvet ropes, and people who pretend their money makes them untouchable.
It smells like champagne and sweat and ego.
It looks like a kaleidoscope of wealth—crystal glasses catching strobe lights, glitter dripping from dresses, expensive cologne clinging to the air like hunger.
It feels like a place where everyone knows their role.
Except me.
I’m not playing mine tonight.
I can feel Noah’s hand warm at the small of my back as we enter, a silent command disguised as affection. His grip tightens whenever someone looks too long, too hard, too interested.
The real problem is me because I woke up angry.
I walked into these woods pissed off at the world.
A knife with LIAR engraved on it is lodged in my ribs because Kai is out there breathing my air.
I’m done pretending to be perfect.
The moment we reach the VIP booth, Noah orders drinks.
Strong ones.
For him to watch over.
For me to become manageable.
He doesn’t say it.
He doesn’t need to.
But tonight, the alcohol doesn’t soften me.
It sharpens me.
It strips away the silk and polish until all that’s left is the girl who once set fire to her own life just to see what the ashes tasted like.
One drink.
Two.
Three.
The music thumps through my bones like a pulse I haven’t felt in years.
Women laugh.
Men stare.
The night vibrates with possibility and danger and recklessness.
My fingers tap against my glass.
Noah touches my knee. “Slow down.”
I smile. “And why would I do that?”
His eyes harden. “Because we came here to relax.”
“No,” I say, leaning forward, breath warm with alcohol, “you came here to control.”
He stiffens. “What the hell does that mean?”
I don’t answer.
Instead, I stand.
Noah’s hand shoots out. “Scarlett. Sit.”
I laugh—loud, sharp, too real. “Make me.”
Someone gasps.
A woman in the next booth sips her drink with wide eyes.
Noah’s jaw ticks, a muscle twitching under his skin.
I turn and walk straight into the crowd.
He calls my name once—firm, warning—but it drowns under the bass drop. His voice disappears as bodies move around me. Perfume. Heat. Strobe lights slicing the air.
I don’t stop walking until I reach the centre of the dance floor.
The music hits like a hurricane.
I throw my arms up.
I move.
I let the beat tear everything loose inside me.
For the first time in years, I feel—Not safe. Not free. Just alive.
Hands brush against my hips—men dancing too close, women laughing, people cheering—and I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except the way the anger winds through the alcohol and turns into something reckless and wild.
Something Kai would recognise.
I climb onto a low table without thinking, without planning, without permission.
The room tilts as I rise above the crowd.
Lights flash off diamonds on my wrist.
My hair spills down my back.
The music shakes the floor beneath me and I dance.
Fuck being perfect.
Fuck being quiet.
Fuck being obedient.
I dance like I’m burning every invisible leash.
I hear my name again—Noah’s voice, sharp and furious—but the crowd swallows him whole.
People cheer.
Phones go up.
The air pulses with heat and attention and danger.
Someone grabs my ankle to steady me, thinking I might fall.
I yank my foot away and laugh—a messy, drunken, rage-soaked sound.
I can almost hear Kai laughing with me.
Or at me.
Or because of me.
His voice curls behind my ear like smoke.
That’s it. Show me you’re still alive.
It sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with alcohol.
My heart races.
My head spins.
My body moves faster.
Noah shoves through the crowd, fury written all over his face.
He reaches the table.
“Get down.”
I look down at him.
At the perfectly sculpted, perfectly furious man who wants a perfectly curated fiancée.
And I smile.
“No.”
His nostrils flare.
His hand clamps around my ankle.
“Scarlett. Enough.”
“Let go.”
“You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Good.”
“Scarlett—”
I yank my leg.
Hard.
His jaw flexes.
“Get. Down. Now.”
My laugh is breathless, reckless, filled with the alcohol still fizzing through my bloodstream.
“Are you going to drag me off the table?”
“Yes.”
He says it like a vow.
And then his hand clamps around my wrist.
What happens next is fast—his grip tightening, my balance tipping, the room tilting, a brief flash of weightlessness—And then I’m in his arms, body slammed against his chest as he hauls me off the table.
People cheer louder.
Others gasp.
Phones capture it all.
Noah pulls me into the shadows of the club, breath ragged, jaw clenched so tight I’m shocked it doesn’t crack.
“What the fuck was that?” he demands, voice low enough to shake the air.
I laugh again.
Slurred.
Dangerous.
Alive.
“You wanted me relaxed, didn’t you?”
His grip tightens on my waist, dragging me closer.
“That’s not relaxed,” he growls. “That’s self-destruction.”
“Well,” I whisper against his cheek, “maybe I’m good at that.”
He flinches.
Barely.
But I see it.
Noah cups the back of my neck, fingers pressing into my skin, not hurting, but controlling.
“We’re leaving,” he says through gritted teeth. “Now.”
“Make me.”
He lifts me.
Literally lifts me—one arm under my thighs, the other at my back—and carries me out of the club while I laugh into his shoulder and the crowd stares like we’re a storm tearing through the night.
Outside, the cold air hits me like a slap.
Noah shoves me into the car gently but firmly, hands shaking with anger and something darker.
He leans in close, breath hot, voice shaking with restrained fury.
“You’re going to tell me what’s going on. All of it. No more lies.”
I smile up at him, mascara smudged, hair wild, heart still pounding with Kai’s voice in my head like a second pulse.
“I don’t owe you the truth,” I whisper.
The door slams and Noah stalks around the front of the car, shoulders tight, jaw carved out of stone.
The street outside the club is still vibrating with music spilling out of its doors—bass thumping through the pavement, laughter rising in sharp bursts, cold night air spinning cigarette smoke into thin silver ribbons.
Everything feels too bright.
Too loud.
Too alive.
I’m slumped in the leather seat, head tipped back, breath warm with alcohol that’s pulsing through my bloodstream like wildfire.
The car door opens.
Noah drops into the driver’s seat with the kind of controlled fury that makes the entire vehicle feel smaller, hotter, more dangerous.
He doesn’t start the engine.
He just turns to me.
Slowly.
Like he’s afraid he might snap the steering wheel in half if he moves too quickly.
“What the hell was that?” he says quietly.
Quiet is worse.
Quiet is a threat wrapped in velvet.
I grin sloppily. “I was having fun.”
“That wasn’t fun.” His voice tightens. “That was reckless.”
“Same thing.”
He exhales through his nose, gripping the wheel hard enough that the tendons in his forearm stand out like ropes. Lights from passing cars paint his face in flashes—cold blue, burning red, bright white—each one making him look more furious.
“Scarlett, you were dancing on a fucking table.”
“Mhm.” I nod dramatically. “I was very high up. Point of pride, actually.”
“Point of—” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face. “Do you even hear yourself?”
I tilt my head back against the headrest, staring at him through heavy eyelashes, my smile lazy and sharp at the edges.
“Noah, you drag me to these fancy, pretty clubs and expect me to sit still like a decorative lamp. I got bored.”
“You were drunk.”
“Oooh, was I?” I tap my fingers against my thigh. “Shocking.”
He slams his palm against the steering wheel—not hard enough to make me jump, but hard enough to make a statement. The horn blares for half a second, earning a glare from a passerby.
“You embarrassed yourself,” he snaps.
I laugh. Actually laugh.
The sound fills the car—warm, messy, uncontained.
“Noah,” I say slowly, “sweetheart… I’ve been embarrassing myself since the day I met you. You just didn’t notice until other people looked.”
His eyes narrow.
“Who’s getting to you?”
I blink.
And his voice sharpens like a blade.
“Don’t fucking lie. Something changed. Overnight. One minute you’re shaking in the bathroom, the next you’re dancing on tables. You’re hiding something.”
I scoff, leaning toward him with exaggerated seriousness. “Yes. I’m hiding the secret desire to become a Vegas showgirl. Busted.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“It kind of is,” I whisper.
He grabs my wrist—not hurting, just holding—trying to anchor me to him.
“Scarlett. I’m losing patience. Tell me the truth.”
The streetlights drift across the windshield like ghosts, flashing across his face, carving every line of tension deeper into him. His breathing is rough. His jealousy is a presence in the car—hot, thick, suffocating.
I stare at him with half-lidded eyes, my pulse buzzing.
“You’re not angry because I danced on a table,” I say softly. “You’re angry because I didn’t look at you while I did it.”
His jaw locks tight as a fist.
I smile.
He tries again. “Who’s influencing this? Who’s getting into your head?”
My heart stutters.
Kai’s face flickers across my mind—dark, wild, smirking from the shadows of the woods.
You woke screaming for me.
I swallow hard.
Noah sees it.
His grip tightens on my wrist. “There it is. You flinched.”
“I did not flinch.”
“You did. And you’re lying again.”
I snap back, “Oh please. Everything isn’t a conspiracy because I had a breakdown in the bathroom.”
“You didn’t have a breakdown,” he growls. “You were terrified.”
“I was hungover.”
“Scarlett.”
“Stomach bug?”
“Scarlett.”
“I was crying over mascara. It’s tragic how fast it runs—”
“STOP IT!”
His voice cracks like a whip through the space between us.
Silence drops heavy.
Thick.
Tense.
My vision swims for a second from the alcohol and the adrenaline and the sheer force of the moment.
Noah drags a shaky breath, trying—failing—to calm himself.