To me, it was a chain.
My spine locked, breath catching. Every instinct screamed to refuse. To walk away. To break whatever this was before it grew teeth. But then my mother’s eyes, hopeful, unguarded, found mine.
And that was my undoing.
She’d never looked happier. Never looked younger. I couldn’t be the shadow across that light.
So I swallowed my pride, swallowed my fear, and placed my hand in his.
His fingers closed around mine, gentle for the audience, iron beneath.
The moment my hand slipped into his, the room changed.
It was subtle, like a shift in weather you feel in your skin before you see the clouds, but it was there. The chatter faded, the music dimmed, the fairy lights seemed to blur at the edges. My awareness tunneled until there was nothing but the heat of his palm and the inexorable lock of his fingers around mine.
Warmth shouldn’t have felt like a trap. But his was.
This wasn’t the polite firmness of a gentleman guiding a partner. This was ownership. A claiming. The way you might hold something that belongs to you, daring anyone to take it away.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The pressure of his grip was its own silent instruction,move. And I did, because fighting here, in front of everyone, wasn’t an option.
He led me into the open, where the band’s slow melody curled around us like smoke. Every step was deliberate, his stride slow enough that I could feel the faint drag of resistance, as though he was making sure I knew he was in control.
Then he turned, facing me fully, and pulled me into him.
It wasn’t the respectable embrace of a stepbrother forced into a ceremonial waltz. No. This was too close. His left hand stayedlocked with mine, fingers binding, while his right settled lower than it should have, just above my hip, that dangerous strip where the fabric of my dress exposed bare skin. The pressure was insistent, dragging me until my body molded to his.
The tailored lines of his suit became a thin disguise for the reality beneath: the steady rise and fall of his chest pressed against my ribs, the solid plane of muscle beneath expensive wool, the unmistakable tension of his thigh brushing mine every time we shifted.
I sucked in a breath, quick and sharp.
This wasn’t a dance.
This was a performance. A private joke delivered in public. A show for everyone else, a message for me alone.
I tried to create space, tilting my head back just enough to avoid the suffocating proximity, letting my spine curve subtly to gain an inch. But the inch never came. His hand at my back flattened, dragging me tighter, and his fingers around mine became a steel vice.
He leaned in then, his face angled so close that the heat of his breath threaded through my hair. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t loud enough for anyone else to hear. It was meant for me alone.
“Relax, princess,” he murmured.
The endearment was a lie. A blade. A collar snapped into place.
“It’s just a dance.”
But the low rumble of his tone slipped under my skin, bypassing thought and reason, vibrating straight into my bones, and I knew… this was anything butjusta dance.
The photographer’s flash exploded in front of my eyes. A sudden burst of white that seared through the haze of Riley’s relentless stare. For a fraction of a second, the world blurred, and I almost tasted freedom in that blindness.
But then the light faded.
And so did my illusion of escape.
We swayed, slow and languid, to a ballad dripping with promises of eternal love, a cruel soundtrack that underscored the silent war between us. Each note wrapped around us like a noose tightening with every beat.
His breath brushed the shell of my ear, warm and dangerous, and I could feel the weight of his presence crushing the space around me.
“Your heart’s racing,” he whispered, voice silky venom. “Do I affect you that much?”
