The air in the dressing nook was stagnant, charged with the kind of electricity that precedes a lightning strike. Roman’s forehead was still pressed against mine, his breathing a ragged, rhythmic heat against my skin. In the triple-mirror, we were a blur of white silk and black cotton—a portrait of two people who shouldn't exist in the same frame.
"Roman," I whispered, my fingers tightening in the fabric of his hoodie. "Why did you act like I was invisible today? You let Sienna say those things. You let her treat me like a servant."
He didn't pull away. If anything, he leaned harder into my space, his hand sliding from my hair to the side of my neck, his thumb resting right over my pulsing carotid artery.
"Sienna isn't just a girl I go to school with, Scarlett," he muttered, his voice a
