Phantom lifts his glass, the slice of lemon catching the glow as he sips. Condensation slides down the crystal, a bead tracing the curve before dropping onto the linen.
His eyes stay locked on mine—unwavering, consuming—as if the rest of the restaurant has dissolved into shadow.
“Kelsa hates me,” I whisper, the words bitter, heavy.
His mouth curves, slow, deliberate, savoring the denial before speaking it aloud. “Why would you say that? She was upset because you were late. What you did on that field today—Maryelle, it impressed her. It impressed me.” His voice is velvet, threaded with certainty, coiling around me like smoke.
The knife flashes as he carves into his chicken. Steam curls upward, fragrant with rosemary and garlic. He blows softly across the morsel, then raises it t
