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Henry is in his forties, with graying hair, broad shoulders, and the kind of dominant presence that makes grown men rethink their life choices. He’s been calling me “kid” since my mom hired him when I was twelve, and at this point, I’ve accepted that I could live to be a hundred years old, and he’d still call me “kid.”

I roll my eyes but don’t argue, instead looping my arms through Odette’s and Violet’s.

“Let’s go look at some dresses.”

Henry holds the door open, and we stride inside like we own the place. Which I actually do technically.

A sharp-looking blonde woman in a perfectly tailored cream-colored business suit strides toward us. “Can I help you?” Her voice is clipped, disinterested, just polite enough to be professional but laced with thinly veiled disdain.

The three of us turned to face her. I don’t like her tone. This is not the type of person I would typically employ.

I feel Henry’s presence behind me, standing beside the door, scanning the boutique with that imposing bodyguard energy. He’s watching everyone, tracking who comes and goes like the security demon he is.

I straighten my spine. Going from easygoing omega to Fallon Creed.

“Yes, you can help me,” I say smoothly. “My name is Fallon. I have an appointment to find a dress.”

She narrows her eyes, scanning me like she’s searching for a lie. “You’re getting married?” she asks, the disbelief practically dripping off her words.

Odette and Violet take an instinctive step back because they already know. I might be sweet. I might be kind. But I do not tolerate disrespect. Violet always tells me when I get angry, my eyes darken, and those around us can practically feel the violence in the air.

“Yes,” I say evenly, meeting her eyes without a flinch. “I am getting married. My soon-to-be husbands will be covering all costs. They should have their card on file.”

The woman snorts. She actually snorts, like I just told her I plan to pay for my dress with Monopoly money.

“Like whoever you’re marrying could afford us.” She rolls her eyes, the condescension thick enough to choke on. “You might want to try the thrift store around the corner.”

The sheer audacity of this bitch.

Before I can tear into her, I catch movement from the corner of my eye—a man stepping through the door, speaking quietly to Henry. Henry doesn’t even glance at me when he gestures toward me in response.

I turn my attention back to the bitch in front of me. Tilting my head slowly, my expression slipping into something calm, collected, and just the right amount of menacing.

“Now, Ms. Whatever-The-Fuck-Your-Name-Is,” I say pleasantly. “I genuinely don’t care. But what I do care about is the fact that I will not tolerate this judgmental bullshit.”

Her smug expression flickers.

“My soon-to-be husbands, whom you might have heard of—the Rosetti pack?”

She pales so fast I laugh. Watching her, however, I don’t miss the flash of anger in her eyes. Filing that way for later, my amused laugh curled into something dark and humorless, the kind of sound that makes people instinctively take a step back.

And she does. She steps back.

An employee hovers awkwardly behind her, trying to blend into the background. I won’t let her.

“Is this how she treats all her customers?” I ask her instead; my voice is deceptively light.

The poor girl looks like she wants to evaporate into thin air, but after a moment of painful hesitation, she stammers, “O-Only the ones she thinks are poor.”

Ah. So, she’s just a bitch all around. I turn back to Ms. Condescending Dragon Lady. “Well. I suppose I will need your name after all.”

Her mouth opens, eyes darting nervously. “Why?” she demands, her timid mask slips for a second. Hmm, interesting.

I smile. It’s not friendly. “Why?” I echo. “Oh, there are a few reasons.” I hold up my finger. “One: You’re a bitch, and you shouldn’t be helping people on one of the happiest occasions of their lives.”

Another finger. “Two: I will be telling my husbands about this interaction.”

Her breath hitches. I ignore it.