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But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except ensuring she never has to wear Vega’s ring again. If that costs me my relationship with Ben, so be it. Some things are worth any price.

I close the door and head for my office. Three days to finalize everything. Three days to prepare for war.

The cabin feels too fucking quiet without her. I’ve been pacing for the last hour, checking my phone every few minutes like some lovesick teenager. Seven-thirty. She should be back at her hotel by now, done with whatever wedding torture her stepmother subjected her to today. My fingers itch to dial her number, but I force myself to wait. Let her get settled. Let her eat dinner. Let her think she has a moment to breathe before I remind her who she belongs to.

The whiskey in my glass does nothing to dull the edge of need scraping at my insides. Twenty-four hours since I left her bed, and my body is already going through withdrawal. I can still smell her on my skin despite the shower. Still feel the phantom pressure of her curves pressed against me. Still hear the soft sounds she made when I pushed inside her.

Fuck it. I’m calling.

She answers on the second ring, slightly breathless. “Reign?”

Just her voice saying my name sends heat straight to my cock. “Hey, baby. You alone?”

“Yes.” A pause, then softer, “I was hoping you’d call.”

“Told you I would.” I settle into my leather chair, phone pressed to my ear like a lifeline. “Every night, remember?”

“I remember.” There’s rustling in the background, like she’s getting comfortable. “It’s good to hear your voice. Today was...”

“Tell me.” I close my eyes, picturing her in some sterile hotel room. Probably wearing one of those prim outfits her stepmother selects. But underneath, she’s all soft skin and desperate need. Just like me.

“Exhausting.” She sighs, and I hear the weight of performance in that single sound. “Wedding dress after wedding dress. Each one more elaborate than the last. Lucille insisted I try on at least twenty.”

“And?” My jaw clenches at the thought of her in wedding whites meant for another man.

“And they all felt like costumes.” Her voice drops. “Like I was playing dress-up for someone else’s life.”

Good. She’s starting to see the truth of it. “Because it is someone else’s life, baby. Not yours.”

“Reign...” There’s warning in her tone, but also longing.

“Tell me about the show. What else did they make you look at?”

She launches into descriptions of floral arrangements and table settings, her voice gaining animation as she mocks the overwrought displays. I let her talk, content to listen, filing away details about what she hates. Everything she describes sounds like the opposite of what I know she’d actually want. Elaborate where she prefers simple. Formal where she craves authentic. Performance instead of truth.

“The worst part was the cake tasting,” she continues. “Fifteen different samples, and Lucille critiqued every single one. Toosweet, too dense, not elegant enough. I thought the baker was going to cry.”

“What did you actually like?”

She pauses, surprised by the question. “The lemon one. It was simple but perfect. Of course, Lucille immediately vetoed it.”

I make a mental note. Lemon cake. Simple. Real. Like her.

“Where are you now?” I ask, my voice dropping to that tone I know affects her.

“In my hotel room.” Her breath catches slightly. “Sitting on the bed.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Reign.” Now there’s definite breathlessness in her voice. “You can’t just?—”

“I can, and I will.” I shift in my chair, already half-hard from just talking to her. “Answer the question, baby. What are you wearing?”

A pause. Then, quietly, “The dress from dinner. Navy blue. Lucille picked it.”

“Take it off.”

“What?” Her voice spikes higher.