Luckily, we were almost finished. The food was cleared, the toasts were done, and now, there was only the dancing.
My eyes scanned the dance floor, pausing briefly on Elliott. He was dancing with Penelope, Morgan’s best friend from college. She was a bridesmaid, and although we weren't as close as she and Morgan were, we’d always managed to play nice. I watched them move together. Penelope was typically tough—it was her default setting—but around Elliott, she transformed into a schoolgirl with a crush. It was glaringly obvious to anyone with eyes. I quickly averted my gaze; the sight felt far too personal, and the twist in my chest was even harder to ignore. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why we didn’t get along. She wanted Morgan and Elliott all to herself, and I was the only thing standing in her way—on at least one of those fronts.
I continued scanning the room. Despite it being Elliott’s coat, I kept it on—I needed the shield. There was no way he could have known this, but the dress wasn’t me. I felt exposed, on display in a way I never would have chosen for myself. I was working on my third "Mortini" when Rob—the man with the wandering eyes—sidled up to me.
“Wanna dance?”
Looking at Rob and then at Elliott, it made sense why they were friends. They looked like they had both walked straight out of aGQphotoshoot. It was disgusting. Rob had piercing blue eyes, a sharp, angular jawline, and high cheekbones framed by wavy, dark brown hair. He was stunning. I couldn’t imagine him being faithful to a religion, let alone a woman.
He stared me down while I appraised him. “C’mon, just say yes. It’ll make his head explode.”
I realized he wanted to be a co-conspirator. That, I could get on board with.
I placed my hand in his, and he gracefully pulled me onto the dance floor, moving with the ease of someone who did this for a living. I noticed immediately that his hands were tuckedunderneaththe coat rather than resting on top of it. A flame licked up my neck; I could practically feel Elliott shooting daggers from wherever he was leering.
“So, Rob,” I started, “where did you two meet? And is your name really Rob, or are you just too lazy to pronounce the second syllable?”
“Damn, you’re feisty,” he said, leaning in close to my face. “I can see why he’s obsessed with you.”
The words made me freeze. He wasn’t obsessed. His only obsession was watching me suffer, and I refused to let him know he was succeeding so brilliantly.
The air between Rob and me was thick with the scent of gin and the heavy, masculine weight of the coat still draped over my shoulders. I was about to retort—to tell him that Elliott didn't have a possessive bone in his body, only a hollow space where his heart should be—when the music didn't change, but the atmosphere did.
The temperature behind me seemed to drop ten degrees.
Rob’s smirk didn't fade, but his eyes shifted just an inch over my shoulder. He knew. The "head exploding" he had promised was officially in progress.
Suddenly, a hand—large, cold, and unmistakable—clamped onto Rob’s shoulder. It wasn't a friendly tap. It was the grip of a man reclaiming property.
“My turn,” Elliott’s voice rasped. It wasn't a request.
“We were just getting to the good part, El,” Rob said, his voice trailing off as he felt the pressure of Elliott’s fingers digging into his trapezius. He held my gaze for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, his blue eyes dancing with mischief, before he slowly raised his hands in a mock gesture of surrender.
He slid his palms out from under the coat—a move that felt like a slow-motion betrayal of my skin—and winked at me. “Don't let him bore you to death, Vanessa. He’s always been a bit of a buzzkill.”
With a final, lingering look at Elliott, Rob vanished into the crowd, leaving me in the eye of the storm.
Before I could even take a breath to protest, Elliott’s arm coiled around my waist like a vice. He didn't pull me into a traditional dance frame; he pulled me flush against him, chest to chest, forced and unyielding. There was nothing between my bare skin and his dress shirt.
“You’re making a scene,” I hissed, my hands flat against his chest, feeling the frantic, heavy thud of his heart.
“I’ll show you a scene if you ever let him put his hands under my clothes again,” he growled, his face dipping low, his breath hot against my ear. His hand on my lower back splayed wide, pinning me to him. “Did you enjoy it? The way he looked at you?”
I tilted my head back, meeting those whiskey-colored eyes. They weren't just dark; they were turbulent. “I enjoyed the conversation. He’s actually quite charming. Maybe he can teach you a thing or two.”
Elliott’s jaw set so hard I thought it might crack. He didn't move to the music; he simply held me there, a silent, dark statue in the middle of the whirling dancers.
“He has a different woman in his bed every night,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerously intimate register. “Is that the kind of guy you’re into?”
“It was one dance, you don’t get to control what I do or who I talk to. You don’t own me, at least not anymore.” I snapped, but the lie felt thin. Not when I was wrapped in his scent, wearing his clothes, and trapped in his arms.
“Keep telling yourself that,” he murmured, his grip tightening just enough to hurt. “But the coat stays on. And you stay with me.”
six
VANESSA
It had beena week since the engagement party, and I hadn’t moved from my bed except for bathroom breaks and pantry raids. At that point, the blankets felt glued to my skin.
