Page 27

T he doorbell rings.

I frown.

That’s odd.

It’s too early for the caterer, and my cousins haven’t arrived yet either.

Still holding my phone from checking the group chat, I cross the foyer and open the door— and instantly wish I hadn’t.

A deliveryman stands on the doorstep, arms overflowing with tiger lilies. The bright orange blooms nearly glow against the soft morning light, and the scent— bold, sweet, wild —hits me like a wall.

It’s overpowering. There must be at least two dozen.

“Delivery for Mrs. Cruz,” he says, cheerful and oblivious.

Mrs. Cruz . That name still makes something flutter low in my stomach, but this? This doesn’t feel right.

My finger hovers over the intercom button before pressing down on it.

“How did you get past security?”

The driver blinks, surprised by my tone. “Uh, the guard signed off?—”

The intercom crackles to life. “Mrs. Cruz? The driver checked out. We sent the delivery through. Is that okay, ma’am? Do you need assistance?”

The deep voice of our gate guard comes through clearly, calm and professional.

The delivery guy stiffens. He looks ready to bolt.

I inhale deeply, trying to calm my racing thoughts.

“No, I’m fine,” I manage to say, first to the guard, then, more gently, to the poor delivery man who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Thank you,” I add, and he practically shoves the bouquet into my arms before retreating.

The intercom buzzes again.

“Mrs. Cruz, your guests are here.”

I pause, heart still pounding, before glancing back at the ridiculous bouquet. Something pale and rectangular peeks from between the petals.

An envelope.

I tug it out with unsteady fingers, my gut already churning.

Congratulations on your wedding, Bella.

But you and I both know, the story’s not over.

Enclosed is the demo for the next song.

“Ella es de él, pero yo la quiero”

– R

There’s a QR code at the bottom, but I don’t dare scan it. My fingers are numb. My brain is buzzing.

And that signature—R. I don’t need a full name to know who it is.

El Tigre.

“Hey!!” Clementine’s voice cuts through the haze.

She’s coming up the path, waving, dressed in a flowy sundress and sandals.

Her bright energy is a balm.

Normally. But not today.

Something is off. It’s this delivery. This garish bouquet of flowers.

I didn’t expect them. And I don’t want them.

But here they are.

Clementine breezes past the fleeing delivery guy without so much as a glance.

Neither of her two adorable red-headed babies are with her, which means one of her sisters or Connor must be minding the children.

Typical Volkov parenting.

We don’t generally trust outsiders when it comes to our babies.

Andrea and Aella are right behind her.

Aella is glowing, cheeks pink and round belly hidden beneath a breezy blouse.

She’s newly married to Sammy, and they just announced their pregnancy in the most adorable family newsletter.

Normally, I’d be squealing with them. But not today.

Right now, my fingers are clenched around that note like it’s a ticking bomb.

“What does ‘Ella es de él, pero yo la quiero’ mean?” I ask Clementine, barely hearing my own voice.

I can already guess, but I need confirmation.

Clementine frowns. “ She belongs to him, but I want her. Why?”

Her gaze sharpens. Aella’s brows furrow. And Andrea leans in, sniffing the bouquet.

“Pretty flowers, cuz.”

I hold them out, and she takes them from me, distracted.

My stomach drops.

Shit.

I hand Clementine the note.

She reads it. Her mouth opens. Gasps.

Aella grabs the note next. Her eyes widen in alarm, and she lets out a gasp loud enough to make the hair on my arms rise.

“Uh oh. Lucy, who the heck is R? And does he have a death wish?” she asks, voice laced with disbelief.

I’m left wondering the same as we hustle inside just as another guard delivers our lunch.

The kitchen is large and there is an island with chairs where we gather to eat.

I leave the flowers on the dining room table. For now.

For a few minutes we chatter about nothing and make our plates. The food is delicious, but I knew it would be and I can’t help but wish Balor was here to enjoy it with me.

“Okay, so sexy but boundary allergic rock star guy is seriously stepping over the line with these flowers to entice you to do another video.”

“Yeah, because the first one didn’t bring her enough attention from psychos,” Aella snorts.

I shrug. It’s not like it’s a lie.

“And you’re married to an over-the-top husband with possessive issues—don’t argue,” she says and narrows her eyes.

Again, I shrug because, yeah I am and yes he is.

“I knew it! I could tell he’s just like the rest of them, you lucky bitch,” she says that part with affection and now I smirk my response.

“Anyway, so you already had some creep bust into your apartment and do gross things. Which, by the way, why didn’t you tell us when that happened?”

“Yeah, Lucy, we would’ve all come for you,” Clem says softly.

“Sorry, I just, I didn’t want it to be a big deal. Our family always has so much going on, and well, Balor had me,” I tell them, feeling the truth of that last statement to my bones.

Balor really does have me. Body, heart, and soul.

“Never mind all that. Okay, Lucy, I don’t have to tell you this is so not good,” Andrea summarizes, reaching for another empanadilla.

Like she needs the comfort of fried carbs to process the tension rippling through the room.

Maybe she does. Hmm. Maybe it’s a good freaking idea.

I snag one, too.

Clementine isn’t even pretending to be chill. Her mouth is a tight line, her eyes fixed on me with an expression that’s equal parts you okay and oh, fuck no .

“Oooh. Yum. No shit, this is not good,” she mutters, setting her drink down with a soft clink.

“Guys, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the details about the break-in,” I begin, thinking my cousins are pissed about that.

“Oh, it’s not that, Lucy. I just think you better prepare yourself for when your husband gets home,” she says, with a knowing grin.

“What do you mean?”

“Balor is gonna come straight here like a bat out of hell. Then he’s gonna fuck that little prick’s shit up.”

Shit. She’s right.

I sit there, completely still, my heart thudding like a war drum in my chest. Because despite everything, I know damn well what my husband is capable of.

See, before I ever let Balor Cruz slide that beautiful blue diamond ring onto my finger— or curl his body around mine in the dead of night —I did my own homework.

While he was busy rejecting me at first, then negotiating my future with my father behind closed doors, I was doing recon of my own.

Digging into the man behind the sharp suits and the quiet stares and those arresting, bi-colored eyes.

What I found?

Balor isn’t just smart. He’s not just handsome, or intimidating, or rich.

He’s a force.

Before Volkov Industries ever knew his name, he was already carving a path through the shadows.

A low-level soldier in the Callahan syndicate— yes, the old school Callahan family.

But under Connor’s leadership, he rose fast.

Ruthlessly. Quietly.

Like smoke seeping under doors and through cracks until it fills the whole damn room.

I don’t know all the details. No one does. But I know enough.

Enough to understand that people do not fuck around with Balor Cruz.

Not if they value their bank accounts. Or their online presence. Or business reputations.

Or other things like their limbs and breathing.

Uncle Josef once told me— offhand, like it wasn’t a big deal —that Balor single-handedly prevented a software breach in Sigma International’s internal systems.

A glitch that would’ve cost billions.

He said Balor identified the issue, hacked through their firewall, and fixed everything before their own IT department ever suspected a thing.

That’s the kind of man I married.

A man who hides a warlord’s mind behind a calm demeanor and brilliant code.

So yeah.

When Clementine says he’s going to lose it over this?

I believe her.

And here’s the worst part.

I’m not sure if El Tigre is just some fame-hungry pop star with boundary issues and bad timing—or if he’s something darker. Something dangerous.

Someone capable of breaking into my home and scaring the shit out of me.

Because anyone who’d send two dozen tiger lilies to a married woman with a song titled “Ella es de él, pero yo la quiero” isn’t playing around.

He’s making a move.

He’s crossing a line.

And now that he’s stepped into our world— mine and Balor’s —I don’t think he realizes just how catastrophic the fallout could be.

Because my husband may be quiet.

But he’s the kind of quiet that comes right before the storm.

And El Tigre?

That asshole just became his next target.

“So, are you gonna call him?” Clementine asks after we start clearing away the food and we’re all finally seated back at the dining table with glasses of sparkling lemonade.

I run my fingers over the cool tabletop. It really is a beautiful piece— reclaimed wood, heavy wrought iron base, and thick panes of dark glass to protect the top.

It’s the kind of table that says stability, the kind you build memories around.

Like the rest of Balor’s house, it’s stylish and masculine, but not cold. It feels lived in.

Solid. Powerful.

Just like him.

And I’m trying so hard not to let that solidity unravel me.

I stab at my arroz con gandules with my fork, ignoring the nervous flutter in my stomach.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just wait till he comes home?—”

But even as I say the words, something clenches in my chest.

I shake my head and reach for my phone.

No. That’s not right.

That’s not us— or at least, I don’t want it to be.

I’ve been accused of playing games before.

Of acting aloof.

Of being manipulative.

And I hated it.

All I ever wanted was to be understood, to be safe in my own skin.

And now that I have a husband who actually sees me? Who might actually be as into me as I am into him?

Well, I simply refuse to start playing games now.

I can’t start hiding things from him.

Not even something like this.

It feels sneaky if I don’t tell him right away.

So I open a new message and start typing, completely aware that all three of my cousins are leaning over to read along.

Me:

Hey, So I wanted you to know the girls are here, and the food came. It’s every bit as good as you said so thank you for that. Also, you should know someone sent a delivery of flowers to me congratulating me on our wedding. They’re from El Tigre.

M y fingers tremble when I hit send.

For a long moment, the text just sits there.

Unanswered.

Then the three dots appear.

He’s typing.

My heart climbs into my throat.

Husband:

I’ll be there in ten minutes.

“Wow. That was fast,” Aella says, wide-eyed.

Clementine lets out a low whistle and pops another empanadilla into her mouth like she’s settling in for a show.

“Are you kidding? The security guard probably called him the second that delivery truck pulled up.”

“Well, I think that is something you two might need to address alone,” Andrea says and everyone rises.

She’s right. And after I walk them to the door, apologizing for the craziness that is my life, I promise we will get together soon.

“Don’t stress about it, cuz,” Clementine says, squeezing my hand before catching up with Andrea and Aella.

She turns back before I close the front door.

“Oh! And don’t forget about the photoshoot tomorrow for Drew’s House . DeSoto’s team already confirmed everything. And they made it very clear the photographer they hired—some genius with a God complex—is on a tight schedule. One o’clock sharp at the Washington Square Arch.”

I nod slowly, trying to school my face into something calm.

Shit.

I’d completely forgotten about the photoshoot.

But I can’t cancel. I won’t.

Not when it’s for Drew’s House— my cousin’s heart-and-soul project.

It’s more than just a shelter. It’s a sanctuary. A second chance for people clawing their way out of impossible situations.

And this photoshoot? It’s for the calendar they’re releasing this Christmas, something that could fund entire programs for months.

And of course, since I’m the internet famous cousin, Clementine is counting on me to draw the attention, to help make it go viral.

I can’t let her down.

Even if my world feels like it’s shifting beneath my feet.

Even if my brand-new husband is about to go full-on vengeful cyber god on a pop star with no concept of boundaries.

I look at my phone again, and suddenly my stomach is full of lead.

This is exactly what I didn’t want— secrecy. Drama. Trouble.

I glance toward the front windows, my nerves buzzing now with something that isn’t quite fear but feels an awful lot like shame. Not because of what I did, but because I even hesitated.

Because this man— my husband —deserves better than that.

And I hope when he walks through that door, I’ll be able to explain that to him.

Before he goes from zero to sixty, jumping to conclusions.

Before this new foundation we built on our honeymoon crumbles before it has a chance to set.

I remain standing by the now closed front door, looking through the glass until I see it.

The black SUV Balor took to the city just a few hours ago.

He’s home. And now I have to face the music.