William's Pov.
She is my woman, for fucks sake. My head boils, racing from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, threatening to rip through my veins.
I grip the edge of the chair, mails pressing into the leather, trying to hold myself back from storming up that stage and dragging Clarissa off it.
"What is Mrs Moon doing, just standing there?" A judge says from somewhere in the row.
His voice echoes faintly in the background of my mind, but it's enough to feed the fire already burning in my chest.
"Yes, exactly. Wasn't she acting like a tigress about to devour contestant number 1080 minutes ago? Now look at her, like a pitiful drenched puppy." Another judge joins in, his voice slick with Mick annoyance.
My fingers twitch at my sides. 'Drenched puppy?' I thought, frowning. The urge to smash something is unbearable. How dare they speak about her like that?
My jaw tightened as I swallow the bitter taste of my own rising anger, pressing it back down into the pit of my stomach where it twists and churns.
"And…and look at that!" another voice bites out with frustration. "Sebastian Hale is even standing next to her. And she's still not acting? What the hell is going up there?"
Ding! The name rings in my head like a cruel taunt! Sebastian Hales. That smug bastard and she's standing close to Moon and holding her hand?
I don't know which part of the scene makes me more furious—the judges voices tearing into her, Clarrissa still ogling that stranger like he's a Greek god carved out of marble, or the fact that Moon's hand rests too comfortably in Sebastian's.
I shake my head trying to rid myself of the thought. Like, why was I even bothered? I try to act nonchalant, but the sight of them together on the stage clouds everything else.
Moon's hands in Sebastian's. The closeness between them. Her lack of resistance. It all eats away at me like acid.
"Director…" another judge starts his voice rising in irritation. "Don't you think she should just get the hell down already?"
"Yes, I mean look. She hasn't even said a single word since Sebastian stepped on stage. Is she planning to waste all our time?"
I clench my jaw hard, biting down on the inside of my cheek to stop myself from exploding.
Can they not shut their mouths for a damn second? Won't they allow her a minute, let her prove herself before tearing her apart like vultures?
I want to counter their bickering, but…
"Shhh…"
The sound slices through the room like a whip crack. My eyes darted to Mr Whitmore, and I stared, stunned.
He's leaning forward now, intensely focused, his eyes squinting as though he's seeing something no one else is.
He lifts his chin subtly, gesturing towards the stage, and his voice lowers, coated with an expression close to awe. "Look closely. My goodness… this woman… this Moon is extraordinary!"
There's a pause at his words. The energy in the room bends. The judges who had been quick to criticize now look towards the stage with slow realization spreading across their features.
I watch them blink, their mouths parting slightly in confusion as if suddenly waking from a trance.
What the hell are they seeing? Because I can't.
I squint at Moon. Like they all said, she hasn't spoken. She hasn't moved an inch, but the tension in her frame—the slightly tremble in her shoulders, the way her eyes glisten without even blinking—holds the room hostage.
Her silence is no longer empty; no, it now screams. Her posture tells a story, a story of a pain hidden deep into her core, which makes me wonder if she had a story she wasn't telling me?
But then, I can't remember when we had a decent talk together. Her very breath is laced with something raw and haunting. It's acting in its most stripped-down form, and it's messing with my head.
I sit back, unsure if I want to admit what I'm seeing.
"And that's why you all voted for Clarrissa," Mr Whitmore says smugly. "Because none of you are me!"
I frown. Why did I suddenly not feel angry when this director talked down on Clarissa?
A judge stammers, trying to recollect himself. "W-What do you see?"
I hold my breath, not because I care for Whitmore's answer but because I'm desperate to hear anything that could explain what's happening to my Moon.
The breath catches in my throat the moment Sebastian reaches forward and draws Moon into his arms. It's gentl, intimate and nerve racking. He holds her like she means the whole world to him.
My hands curl into fists. I watch in disbelief, muscles straining beneath my tux as she lets him do it. Her face nestles against his shoulder. She doesn't pull away, nor do she flinch. Was…was she enjoying it?
I lean forward in my seat, heat crawling up my neck and settling behind my ears. Sebastian's eyes flutters close slowly like he's savoring the moment, like he belongs in it.
That alone, almost makes me stand up and drag them apart.
Okay, that's enough!
I clear my throat sharply, a deliberate cough, loud enough to cut through the tension in stage.
Both their heads turn slightly, just enough to acknowledge the interruption. Moon blinks rapidly and at once, Sebastian's hold loosens.
I adjust my sleeves, slowly, precisely, even though there's nothing out of place.
My jaw ticks as I rise to my feet just enough to make them see me, then, I settle back down on my seat, one leg crossed over the other, arms spread comfortably on the armrest like a king watching fools act out a play in It his throne.
My stare is fixed, and unrelenting. I don't blink as I lock eyes with Sebastian, silently daring him to try that again. Right now, he knows he's crossed the line and that I'm watching him.
Moon looks shaken for a moment. Not because of fear, but as though my presence alone brought her back from wherever she'd gone inside that role.
A muscle jumps in my jaw as I observe her.
Her performance was good, but I somehow do not want anyone else to see this side if her.
This fire and quiet intensity. Don't want anyone else to see this strength that draws the eyes of everyone in the room.
Because it's mine. My wife, even though it's only in name.
Moon and Sebastian bows at the same time and the applause starts. First from Mr Whitmore, slow and crisp, then followed by the others.
But my hands remain still. I don't clap. Not when every nerve in my body is vibrating with the urge to remind them all who she belongs to.
I lean forward slightly, resting my chin on my knuckles, sharp, assessing eyes still locked on her.
They can praise her. They can fall in love, but only with the idea of her.
But I'll be damned if I let another man touch what is mine again!