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I glance over at Henry, who is already pulling out his phone and scrolling through security feeds. “Henry, I want the surveillance video of this entire conversation before we leave. I wouldn’t want to be troubled with ‘wrongful termination.’”

The woman visibly wavers, her false confidence crumbling like a stale cookie. I step closer. Not threatening. Not raising my voice. Just… watching her.

“Three: I am not one to tolerate disrespect. Neither is my family. My name is Fallon Creed.”

She gulps.

I let out another low chuckle, watching as the realization clicked into place. “And what store are we in?” I ask, tilting my head. “Ahh, that’s right. House of Creed.”

The color drains from her face. This time, the emotion is real—no hiding behind her mask.

I tsk, shaking my head. “Four: I just don’t like you. You’re fired. And I will be blacklisting you from all my stores and subsidiaries. I hope you have the day you deserve.” I point to the front door.

Her jaw drops, and she lets out a wordless sputter, but I’m already turning away, effectively dismissing her. Henry steps in, guiding her toward the back to get her belongings. That’s his problem now. I refocus on the employee who told the truth—and the group of other employees who have gathered at a safe distance, watching the downfall of their boss unfold in stunned silence.

“Which one of you has been here the longest?” They all point at the first girl.

I nod. “You’re promoted. Will you help me today? Tomorrow, I’ll send someone to train you until you’re confident in your role.”

Her entire face lights up. “Ms. Creed, I would be honored.” She straightens her shoulders and seems to stand up taller. It’s horrible what one terrible person in power can do to another.

I smile softly. “Please, just call me Fallon.”

I gesture to my best friends, who finally step forward now that the storm has passed. “These are my best friends, Odette and Violet.”

Violet, of course, immediately breaks the tension.

She starts giggling. “Fallon, that was amazing. I’ve known you all my life, but you still manage to surprise me.”

The employees visibly relax, the entire store exhaling like it’s been holding its breath. Odette watches, amused, as Violet loses her shit.

“My name is Rose, and I would love to help you find your dream dress.”

The only other person in the room is the man. I can see clearly, now that I don’t have tunnel vision. He is a tall, suited figure who glides effortlessly to the counter where a man stands to help him.

I turn back and smile. “Lead the way, Rose.”

Chapter Two

Kingston

February 10th

9:36 A.M

I glance around the living room, my gaze drifting lazily over a space that's somehow both perfectly organized and chaotically us. It’s easily my favorite room in the house, even when tensions run high—lately, that's been more often than I'd like.

The massive charcoal sectional couch sprawled across the center of the room practically begs someone to sink into its soft cushions. Beside it sits a matching armchair that is mine to always claim.

Two coffee tables sit nestled in front of the couch—one sleek, modern glass top, pristine despite Romano constantly leaving fingerprints behind, and another older, wooden one that's scarred from years of use and occasional abuse. It bears the marks of spilled whiskey and coffee mug rings we’ve long since stopped trying to prevent, the imperfections telling the story of our journey from barely surviving in a one-bedroom apartment to where we are now.

A wall of exposed brick lends warmth, the rustic texture softened by a series of shelves displaying an eclectic mix of books, framed photos, and expensive gadgets Romano insists are “essential.” My eyes drift to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows opposite, the afternoon sun bathing everything in a gentle gold that briefly masks the darkness we've faced recently. Outside, the city stretches out, deceptively peaceful beneath the fading sunlight.

The moment of peace is shattered when Romano bursts in like a human hurricane.

“I think our soon-to-be wife will fit in just fine!” he announces, grinning like he just won the lottery.

He’s a blur of energy. Dark jeans slung low on his hips, an oversized hoodie swallowing his frame, covering the ink sprawling across his arms and chest—except for the ones crawling up his throat and hands. His short black hair is a perpetual mess, strands sticking up in chaotic defiance, and his round glasses slide down his nose as he waves a tablet in the air like it holds the secrets of the universe.