Page 151 of Their Arrangement

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Already soaking through the lace.

A flush of red in a world that had been black and blush and silk and secrecy. It wasn’t supposed to happen now. Not here. Not like this.

I pressed my legs together, as if I could stop it. As if I could will it back. I had nothing on me. No tampon. No pad. No dignity. Just slick lace and rising panic. My breath hitched.

The corset tightened around my ribs. Too tight now. Too much. I couldn’t breathe. I sat down on the toilet. Hard. Didn’t even pull my panties down.

Just sat. Knees together. Head down. Like maybe stillness could stop it. Like shame might be strong enough to keep it all in. My hands covered my face. My shoulders shook.

The tears came hot and immediate. Unforgiving. I hadn’t cried like this since Camille’s funeral. The door creaked. Footsteps. Measured. Male.

Wolfe.

“Cloe.”

He said my name like a verdict.

I didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

He stepped closer.

The air shifted with him.

Then—another sound.

Lighter footsteps.

Quick.

Another voice.

“Sorry—”

“Find another bathroom.”

Wolfe’s voice snapped like a whip.

Cold.

Unmovable.

Final.

The door shut again.

A lock turned.

Click.

Silence. Except for my breath. The corset groaned with every inhale. My thighs were damp.

Sticky.

And I hated it. Hated being seen. Hated being known.

I didn’t look up. Couldn’t. But I felt him. Still there. Still watching. Still not moving.

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