Leah
I was still perched on Samuel’s lap, the slow sway of the wheelchair beneath us matching the languid pulse of the waltz. His arms encircled my waist—firm, possessive, the kind of hold that looked romantic from the outside but felt like a velvet-lined cage. His ice-blue eyes searched mine, warm on the surface, probing underneath.
And just like that, the memory crashed in.
The last time I’d seen that face up close, it had been cold—beautifully, cruelly cold—as he watched the knife descend toward my chest. No regret. No hesitation. Just clinical efficiency. The man who’d whispered “I love you” for three years had become the architect of my death in a single heartbeat.
My palms itched to shove him away. I tensed, muscles coiling, ready to push off and bolt.
But his grip tightened—sub
