He was there.

The man from last night.

The stranger whose mouth had kissed me in the dark, whose fingers had pinched into my flesh I could still feel, whose name I did not even know.

And he was looking directly at me.

My lungs, for a moment, had forgotten how to breathe. His eyes were trained, unblinking — but there was something. The slightest quiver, the faintest tremor, like a match that had burned a long time ago but still retained the faint wispy memory of smoke on the air.

"There you are, sweetheart!"

My mother's voice sliced the air between us. She was panting, laughing — a teenager on the cusp of meeting her dream boy.

"Come," she said, reaching out her hand. "I want you to meet someone really special."

Special. My stomach twisted.

I dragged myself down the last steps. Every movement deliberate, too choreographed, as if if I budged at all, I would be betraying something.

He moved forward. The subtle arrogance of the movement was bordering on obscene — as though the room itself adjusted to fit him. His eyes sliced across me — not slowing, not accelerating — just a little enough to make me feel the hairs on the back of my neck lift.

"Elena," my mother said, speaking in a warm enough voice to melt ice, "this is Dominic Hayes. My fiancé."

Dominic. The name rippled through me like ink spreading in water — slow, dark, staining everything it touched.

He extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Elena. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

His voice was silky, the type that would slide under your skin before you could erect a wall around yourself. There wasn't a glint of recognition in his voice, but his eyes. his eyes were communicating something entirely different.

I slipped my hand into his. His palm was warm. Firm grip. And then — the gentle brush of his thumb across mine. Enough to be felt, but not enough to be noticed, and yet enough to tell me that last night had happened.

"Likewise," I said, my mouth curling up into a smile that did not even reach my eyes.

His lips curled into a gracious, well-rehearsed smile. "Your mother wasn't lying," he continued smoothly. "You're as lovely as she made you sound."

I opened my mouth to answer when Sienna strode into the room, her perfume going before her hard eyes. Her gaze flicked to me, then him, before she curled her lip into a parody of a smile.

Dominic stood her to even formality. "And you are Sienna."

"Thats me," she replied, a touch of blush creeping up her cheeks.

My mother, beaming with the brightness of sunlight, looped her arm over his. "He's been so kind to me, hearing me go on and on about my wedding. I fear I'm going to have to curb myself before I overwhelm him."

Dominic's smile was so self-absorbed, up close — one that you'd think only hers could be. "I like to hear you dream," he whispered to her.

But she laughed. I laughed. I couldn't remember when I'd ever seen my mother look at a man this way — not even my dad.

My chest ached. It was revolting the way so readily she capitulated to this blatant… and more, knowing there was some of him she'd never even know anything about.

We walked into the dining room, where the great mahogany table gleamed under golden candlelight. All the silver forks and wine glasses gleamed with sterility-like neatness.

My mother and Sienna had an argument about blush-pink bed linens, ivory dinner plates, live music, and who else's Santorini honeymoon cottage had the better view. Dominic played his role to perfection — the obedient fiancé, the considerate soon-to-be stepfather, the man who fit so well into the photo-perfect picture my mother would rather have over her mantelpiece.

"Spoiling me," my mother sighed, leaning on him as if he were the whole world.

"That's the idea," he breathed back to her, his eyes catching hers for an instant only long enough to make her flush.

I stared rigidly at my plate, where the roast chicken congealed and untouched. Occasionally, I felt his glancing in my direction — careless, deliberate, as if to gauge the grip of my silence.

"So, Elena," a voice broke through me, my mother's. "What do you think about blush-pink linens and ivory china?"

I struggled to get my throat working. "I'm sure it'll be. perfect."

She smiled at Dominic. "See? She has good taste."

By the time dessert rolled around, I was wound tighter than a clock spring and afraid something would snap me in two. After dinner, Dominic stood up and said goodnight and thanked us for dinner and then left with my mom, their laughter low and rumbling, leaving Sienna and me to wash the dishes.

"You've been spacing out the whole evening," Sienna complained, stacking plates with just a bit too much enthusiasm to ring the china.

"Plainly exhausted," I responded curtly.

She was going to press for more when our mother came back in, her face as bright as if someone had thrown a switch on inside of her. "Thank you, girls, for being your best tonight," she said sincerely. "It means everything to me."

I nodded, my throat closing up. She had no idea what she was thanking me for — no idea that my silence was the only thing that was keeping her happy.

"Of course," I whispered.

I went and retreated back to my room. The door closed with a click, and I stood there barricaded for a moment, panting like I'd run a mile.

Then my phone buzzed.

Private Number

I opened the message.

“Thanks for keeping our secret.”