You didn’t even want to come to the party.

You almost stayed home — wine, Netflix, robe. But Rafe insisted. Said you deserved to feel hot. Said you’d regret it if you didn’t. So you gave in. You pulled on the black dress — that black dress — the short, fitted one that hugs your curves like it was made for you. Hair done, heels on, lips glossed.

When Rafe saw you step out of the bedroom, his jaw clenched like he forgot how to breathe. And he didn’t even say anything for a second — just looked you up and down, slow, deliberate, eyes dark.

“Everyone’s gonna have a problem tonight,” he finally said, tugging his sleeves down on that tailored black suit. “Because they’re gonna see you and know they don’t stand a chance.”

And he meant it. Every word.

Now, at the party, his hand hasn’t left your lower back all night. Not possessive — just there. Protective. Calm. You mingle, drink in hand, music low and classy. Laughter clinks off champagne glasses. You catch a few stares. Some jealous. Some thirsty.

You don’t mind.

Until you hear her.

You’re not even close at first. Just across the room, near the corner. But her voice carries — a little too loud, a little too fake. And your name? Falls out of her mouth like venom.

“She really thinks that dress is working for her? Like, babe, no shade, but I’ve seen more class at a clearance rack.”

You freeze.

Your spine straightens. You don’t look over right away — you wait. Let it settle. Let the heat rise just a little. You hear her friends giggle, the ones that always pretend they like you when you’re around.

“She always does this,” the girl continues, loud enough for a small audience. “Posts like she’s some model, shows up like she’s the main character. It’s exhausting.”

Rafe is mid-sip when he hears it too. He pauses.

You look at him.

He doesn’t say anything — just raises a brow, reading your face like a book.

“I’ll be right back,” you say, quietly.

His jaw flexes. “Want company?”

You nod once.

So you walk.

Head high, heels confident on the polished floors, black dress hugging every step. And the crowd parts — slowly, just enough — like they can feel it coming.

Rafe follows behind you like a shadow — tall, broad, black suit crisp, expression unreadable. Every step he takes is silent, but impossible to ignore. You don’t even have to look to know he’s scanning every eye in the room.

The girl — Chloe or Cleo or whatever the hell her name is — looks up just as you stop in front of her little group.

“Oh my God, hey!” she says, too bright, too fake. “Didn’t see you over there!”

You tilt your head slightly. “No? Sounded like you saw me just fine.”

Her smile falters.

You keep your tone even. Calm. A little sharp.

“It’s funny,” you continue. “You’ve always had something to say, but never to my face.”

Her eyes flick behind you to Rafe, then back. She laughs nervously. “It was just a joke.”

“Mm.” You take a step closer. “If I were you, I’d be really careful about hiding cruelty behind jokes. That habit makes people think you’re insecure. And I get it — if I looked at me in this dress, I’d talk shit too.”

Her jaw tightens. Her friends are dead silent now.

“You done?” you ask. “Or do you wanna say it again? But, y’know — to me this time.”

Chloe scoffs, crossing her arms. “You really think I’m scared of you just because you brought your bodyguard?”

You hear Rafe shift behind you.

You turn slightly, just enough for your voice to carry.

“He’s not my bodyguard. He’s my boyfriend.”

Rafe takes a slow step forward, standing just behind your shoulder. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. His presence alone says it all — all six-foot-four of him, dark eyes cold now, hands loose at his sides but ready.

Chloe swallows hard.

You glance at her once more. “Thought so.”

And then you turn.

You don’t need to wait for a response. The silence is louder than anything she could’ve said. You walk away, Rafe right behind you, close enough to let the room know exactly where he stands — and who he stands for.