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“You’re being cruel.”

“I learned from the best.”

His eyes go cold.

“Sit,” he snaps, pointing toward the living room.

“Oh, fuck off,” I mutter, stumbling toward the sofa anyway. “You don’t get to order me?—”

“Sit down, Scarlett.”

The command hits like a slap.

I drop into the cushions, breath uneven.

He disappears into the kitchen.

I scoff loudly, rolling my eyes so hard they practically scrape the ceiling.

“Don’t pout!” I shout after him. “It’s not attractive!”

No answer.

The house feels too quiet suddenly.

Too still.

My pulse stutters.

I push myself upright, trying to blink the blur out of my vision. Everything tilts. The room swims for a second—like my brain is lagging behind my body.

“Noah?” I call, trying to sound annoyed instead of uneasy. “What are you doing?”

He returns with a glass.

Crystal. Filled with something amber and glittering under the lights.

Whiskey.

His go-to.

He forces a soft tone that makes my skin crawl.

“You need to calm down, Scarlett. Please. Just drink this.”

He offers it out.

I take it automatically because my body is working on autopilot—obedient muscle memory drilled into me over years of curated perfection.

I raise it to my lips.

Noah watches me drink.

Too closely.

Too intensely.

His shoulders drop a fraction when the first swallow hits my tongue.