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Uncle Josef and Aunt Meredith.

Plus a few of the cousins.

So basically the whole damn Volkov Clan.

Great.

This is either a celebration or an interrogation.

Probably both.

I finish my coffee and head upstairs, rifling through my closet.

I don’t want to overdress, but I’m not showing up looking like a slob either.

Not when they’ll all be analyzing everything from my shoes to my lipstick.

I settle on a pair of wide-legged palazzo pants that float when I walk and a sleeveless pale silk top that clings just right.

Classy but effortless.

I pull my hair up into a sleek high ponytail and keep my makeup light—just a little concealer, mascara, and a swipe of tinted gloss.

As I give myself a final once-over in the mirror, my gaze lingers on the blue diamond Balor put on my finger.

Elegant. Powerful. Understated.

Like him.

I run my thumb over it, heart racing in sync with the steady pulse beneath my skin.

Tonight is a family dinner. But it feels like more.

I love my family. They’ve always been a fortress—warm, affectionate, fiercely loyal.

We’ve shared thousands of dinners, celebrations, holidays.

Laughter spilling across polished tables, stories thick with history and inside jokes.

But tonight? Something feels different.

Maybe it’s because, until now, I’ve never really been one of them.

Not fully.

Not as part of a devoted couple—the kind that’s stitched into the fabric of the family tree, rooted deep and unshakable.

I’m talking about the love stories that make romance novels seem tame.

The kind of obsession so fierce it borders on unhinged.

These are the couples I grew up watching—idolizing.

Relationship goals isn’t just a hashtag in our family.

It’s gospel.

Something my parents and aunts and uncles practically invented with the way they held each other, defended each other, loved like their lives depended on it.