Everyone at the table was staring at Sarima by the time she finally looked up, the weight of their silence pressing in before she even spoke.
"…What?" she muttered under her breath. "Never seen someone drop a glass before?Relax, I promise I'm not upgrading to the whole table next."
No one laughed. No one even reacted.
Of course they didn't. Boring.
She took a small step back, steadying herself, but before she could fully regain her balance, someone was already beside her.
Luke Houston.
Too fast. Too close. Concern written carefully across his face, as if it belonged there.
Her eyes dropped briefly to the shattered glass as a servant knelt to clean it, but her attention refused to stay grounded. It kept pulling back to him, then away again, as if something in the air had shifted and she couldn't find where it came from.
Wrong.
Something felt wrong.
And then it happened again—that scent.
Sharp. Spiced. Familiar in a way that made her chest tighten before she could think.
The one that had haunted her for two years.
For a fraction of a second, it felt real. Too real. Like someone was standing just behind her shoulder, close enough for the air to change.
Her breath caught.
And a thought, dark and immediate, slid through her mind without permission.
What if he just ended all of this?
All of them.
This family.Even hers.
Wiped them out completely.
Silence.
That was all she had ever wanted.
Absolute silence.
But just as quickly as it came, the scent was gone.
Nothing lingered. No presence. No pressure in the air. No proof of anything.
Only her.
And the realization settled in slowly, colder than anything else.
She had imagined it.
Not him. Not his presence. Not the impossible certainty she had grown used to feeling in empty spaces.
Just her mind recreating something it had learned to expect. To fear. To chase.
Her fingers curled faintly at her side as unease replaced certainty, because if her own senses could betray her this easily, then nothing around her could be trusted anymore.
Luke was still there, watching her carefully, his expression softened into something almost believable. Almost gentle.
Like he cared.
Like she wasn't a piece in a transaction unfolding in front of everyone.
Disgusting.
A polished performance wrapped in expensive fabric and inherited confidence.
A puppet dressed like a prince.
Sarima moved before she fully decided to, grabbing his arm—not delicately, not gently, but firmly, as if anchoring herself to something solid so she wouldn't drift back into uncertainty.
But her gaze never settled on him.
It kept searching.
Scanning faces. Corners. Space. Anything that might explain what she had just felt and then lost.
She leaned closer to Luke, fingers curling into his sleeve just enough to make it look deliberate, intimate, chosen. An illusion crafted in real time.
Let it look real.
Let it look like she meant it.
Because if someone had been watching her for two years, if something had been circling her life without ever revealing itself, then maybe it was time to pull it closer.
To force it to react.
A slow, unsettling thought settled deeper into her chest.
If he was obsessed with her…
Then maybe he should break.
"My hand slipped," she said softly, her voice carefully unsteady.
Luke steadied her instantly, like it was natural. "It's alright."
She barely heard him.
Because she was still listening for something that wasn't there anymore.
Around them, the room returned to its rhythm as if nothing had changed. Conversations resumed. Glasses lifted. Smiles reset.
Normality, rebuilt in seconds.
"Looks like they're already falling," her mother said lightly, almost amused.
Sarima shot her a sharp look but said nothing.
Luke's voice followed smoothly, effortless in its control. "Your daughter is remarkable. Any man would fall for her. I suppose I'm the fortunate one."
Her father responded with a quiet hum of approval.
Agreement.
Acceptance.
Transaction continuing exactly as planned.
Sarima lowered her gaze to her plate, though she no longer saw it. Her appetite had vanished, replaced by something quieter and far more unstable.
Because nothing about this felt secure anymore.
Not Luke. Not her parents. Not even her own mind.
She looked at him again.
The Houstons' only son.
The center of this arrangement.
And a thought surfaced uninvited, cold and certain.
He's not surviving this.
It wasn't fear.
It wasn't pity.
It simply existed.
And worse than that—
she didn't know why.
What exactly were her parents gaining from this?
Silently, she set her utensils down and leaned back, posture perfecting itself out of habit.
Composed.
Controlled.
The version of herself they expected.
A doll waiting for direction.
Her gaze lifted once more—and met his.
Predictable.
The smile. The charm. The calculated ease.
Basic.
Still—
she smiled back anyway.
Because that was what was required of her.
Then Luke stood.
And walked toward her again.
"Want to get some air?"
Perfect.
She placed her hand in his and allowed him to guide her away, not because she wanted to, but because distance often revealed more than presence ever did.
The balcony opened into darkness, overlooking a stretch of forest swallowed by night. The air was cooler here, quieter, stripped of voices and performance.
Sarima stepped forward and rested her hands on the railing.
Cold metal.
Still air.
For a moment, it almost resembled peace.
Then she turned slightly, looking at him again.
Measuring.
Studying.
He stood as if the space already belonged to him, as if every outcome of the night had already been decided long before she arrived.
"I know your type," he said suddenly.
Her brows lifted slightly.
"Girls like you are… predictable."
Something inside her shifted at that.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Ah.
There it was.
The beginning of a crack.
A slow smile formed on her lips as she moved past him, settling onto the couch with deliberate ease. She poured herself a drink, took a slow sip, and let the silence stretch before it broke into laughter.
Soft at first.
Then louder.
She saw his expression change immediately.
Good.
He stepped closer, lowering himself slightly in front of her.
"What's funny?"
She stood without answering.
Turned and walked away.
But before she could reach the edge of the balcony, his hand closed around her wrist and pulled her back with controlled force.
Not hesitation.
Not gentleness.
Control.
"Let me go," she said quietly.
He didn't.
The grip tightened.
Her eyes lifted to his.
"Let me go."
This time, her voice carried no softness at all.
Only warning.
He leaned in slightly, his expression cooling.
"You'll get used to this," he said. "All of it. Once we're married."
Something inside her tightened.
"And we both know that's going to happen."
His voice dropped lower.
"Then we'll see how bold you are when there's no one to interrupt us and you're beneath me."
Disgust surged through her in an instant.
Her hand lifted—
But footsteps and voices cut through the moment.
Their parents.
Luke released her immediately.
Like nothing had happened.
Like the grip hadn't meant anything at all.
Sarima forced her expression into place as the adults arrived.
Luke took her hand again, this time gentle, composed, and lifted it to press a light kiss against her knuckles.
A performance.
A return to order.
Her wrist still ached faintly beneath it.
Still—
she smiled.
Of course she did.
Because that was what she had been taught to do.
The ride home remained silent, thick with unspoken things, the kind that pressed against the walls of the car without ever being said aloud.
Sarima glanced at her parents.
They weren't looking at each other.
They never did.
And in that quiet distance between them, she understood something without needing it spoken.
Nothing in this arrangement had ever been about love.
And nothing about it was stable enough to survive what was coming.