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Clapping Nick lightly on the shoulder, he gives me one last wink that feels more like a goodbye than a tease, then disappears into the crowd with the same easy swagger.

But his words linger in the space between us. My pulse is still racing, my body pressed against Nick like we’re caught in the middle of something neither of us fully understands anymore.

The music is loud, the bass vibrating through the floor, the lights flashing in rhythmic pulses—but all I can hear is my own breath, too fast and too shallow.

And Nick. Right behind me. Holding me like he’s afraid I might disappear again.

But we already disappeared from each other once. And I don’t know what comes next.

I take a breath, ready to step forward and put some space between us—just a little distance so I can think, breath, feel something other than the chaos inside my chest.

But the second I shift, his arm tightens around me like a reflex, like his body refuses to let me go even if his mind is battling with every damn reason he should.

Then I hear his voice—low, firm, already laced with decision. “Thalia, do you have a safe ride?”

I turn, surprised, just in time to see him looking straight at her across the club. She’s standing beside Theo, eyes wide, lips slightly parted in surprise.

“I’ve got it,” Theo calls over the music, his tone light, easy. The half-smile never leaving his face.

Thalia nods, enthusiasm bubbling on her lips before she can help it. Of course she’s excited. She’s been waiting for this—for him and me, together again. Touching. Speaking. Something.

But I don’t get the chance to overthink it. Nick grabs my hand. Not gently, not painfully either—just decisively. Like there’s no room for protest. And honestly, I’m too stunned to even think about pulling away.

His grip burns into my skin, and before I even realize it, he’s weaving us through the crowd—parting people like a wave crashing through still water, with all the force and urgency of something that cannot be stopped.

All around us—flashing lights, phones raised, gasps, voices whispering our names. Shocked faces. Judging faces. Women glaring at me like I’ve stolen something that doesn’t belong to me. Like he doesn’t belong to me.

And suddenly, the fire that’s been simmering low in my belly ignites, exploding into something hot and uncontrollable.

Back off, bitches. He’s my fucking husband.

I don’t say it out loud—God, how I want to—but I bite down the words, clench my jaw, lift my chin, and keep up with him. I refuse to let the heels slow me down or give the cameras anything but strength. They won’t see me stumble.

Outside, the car’s already waiting. The door swings open, courtesy of the driver—who looks just as stunned as everyone else. Nick doesn’t speak. He just gestures toward the backseat with a nod that demands obedience.

And I… I climb in.

He follows a second later, flashes still popping outside, shouts from the paparazzi echoing behind the closing door.

Click.

Silence.

Too thick. Too loud.

I whip around to face him, chest heaving, the storm inside me finally ready to break. “What the hell, Nickolas?”

His eyes cut to me—sharp, glinting, furious. But more than that—wounded. Like I’ve clawed my way into the most fragile part of him and now he doesn’t know if he wants to scream or collapse.

“Not a single fucking word, Sierra.” His voice is hard. Absolute.

My lips part, shocked by his venom. Then I shut them again, swallowing down the heat in my throat.

My pulse is pounding in my ears, each beat louder than the last. I can feel the tension rolling off him in waves—the heat of his body, his fists clenched on his thighs. But he doesn’t look at me again.

I don’t know where we’re going—to my hotel, to his place, to hell itself—and honestly, I don’t care right now.

I let out a slow, angry breath, then turn my body away from him and lean into the cold, dark window. My arms cross tightly in front of me, and the silence between us stretches—loud, hostile, deafening.