The car ride home was silent, suffocatingly so. The kind of silence that wasn't peaceful, but loaded—tense and calculated. You sat pressed against the leather seat, arms crossed over your gown, the cool silk of it now irritating against your skin. Clayton sat beside you, legs crossed, hand resting over his knee in a position that looked relaxed but wasn’t. Nothing about him was relaxed. Not tonight. Not after what he’d done. Not after the way he’d let her touch him. Let her laugh too close. Let her exist in a space that used to belong only to you.

You hadn’t said a word since the gala. Not when the cameras flashed. Not when he placed his hand on the small of your back but didn’t grip it the way he used to. You'd smiled for the press, just enough. Laughed politely. Tilted your chin and kissed the air. You knew your roles. But now, without the eyes of Manhattan society on you, the mask was gone. Yours. His. Both. And that silence? It was screaming.

He exhaled slowly, then turned his head, eyes dark and unreadable in the dim cabin light. “You haven’t said anything.” His voice was quiet, composed, but beneath it—challenge. Not apology. Not explanation. Just a slow, subtle push. His favorite kind. “You’re usually more... vocal when you're upset.” The nerve of him. As if you hadn’t spent the entire night watching some trust fund darling cling to his arm like she belonged there. As if he hadn’t let her. Encouraged her. Danced too close, smiled too easily.

You turned your face toward the window, but he leaned in then, not enough to touch, but enough to make your skin burn. His cologne—sharp, familiar—wrapped around you like it knew what he was doing. “Did you think I didn’t see the way you looked at her?” he murmured, his voice just low enough to crawl under your skin. “The way your jaw tightened. The way you sipped your wine like it might stop you from throwing it in my face.” He smiled, slow and cruel. Not because he meant it—but because he was testing you. Because it was easier than saying I miss you.

He brushed a knuckle along the curve of your jaw. Still not touching you. Still holding back. “So you do still care,” he whispered. “Good. I needed to know.” You finally turned to face him, eyes sharp, throat tight with everything you didn’t say. And that’s when he broke—just a little. His smile faltered. The edge in his voice softened. “You’ve been pulling away,” he said. “Pretending like you don’t see me anymore. I had to know if I still existed in that head of yours. In your heart.”

Then, softer: “Do I?”