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She opens it slowly. Two silver keys rest inside, simple but engraved—one with the Virelli crest, the other with a phoenix mid-flight. Her fingers shake as she picks them up.

"This is yours—your passion, your blood, your fire," I say. "And I’m always going to back you, every damn step of the way."

She looks up at me, eyes glassy but hard. "Why this? Why now?"

I step in, hand sliding around her waist. I don’t give her the usual Lazaro response. No power plays. No control.

Just truth.

"Because you’re not just my partner in blood, strategy, and war." My voice drops, raw and reverent. "You’re my wife. And a woman like you deserves more than a place in my world. You deserve your own empire."

Her breath hitches. Her lips press into a tight line like she’s trying not to feel it. I take her hand, kiss her knuckles.

"You fought for everyone else, Calla. Let this be a place that’s just yours."

She stares at the door again. Then she turns the key.

The lock clicks open. She steps inside.

The scent of fresh paint and possibility floods the room. Her machines sit waiting. The walls are lined with frames—some old designs, some new. It feels like her. It bleeds her.

She walks to the back counter, runs her hand over it slowly like she’s checking if it’s real. Her shoulders rise, then fall with a deep exhale.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"You gonna open today?"

She glances at me over her shoulder, mouth curling into a smirk.

"Tomorrow."

She turns fully, eyes sharp and wickedly dark.

"Today, I’m in the mood to put some fresh ink on my favorite canvas—and maybe make him squirm a little while I’m at it."

Fuck, I love this woman.