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"He killed two prospects in the club, not to mention countless others!" She's screaming now. "They might not have been my blood, but everyone in the club is my family. Why don’t you see that?"

"And killing him won't bring them back!"

"But sitting across from him at my wedding will?" She finds her shoes, shoves them on. "I can't believe you did this."

"Revna—"

"No. I need... I need space. I need to think." She heads for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Away from you." She pauses at the door, turns back. "You know what the worst part is? I was starting to believe you. When you said you wanted a partner, not a prisoner. But partners discuss things. Partners make decisions together. You just proved that's all bullshit."

"That's not fair?—"

"Fair?" She laughs, but it's bitter. "Was it fair when you watched me for five years without my knowledge? Was it fair when you eliminated thirteen men who showed interest in me? Nothing about this has been fair, Doran. The least you could do is pretend my opinion matters."

"Your opinion does matter?—"

"Actions speak louder than words. And your actions say I'm just another possession to control."

The door slams behind her, leaving me standing naked in my bedroom, wondering how everything went wrong so fast.

I pull on pants, grab my phone.

Mikhail answers on the first ring.

"She just left," I say without waiting for him to say anything. "Follow her. Make sure she's safe."

"On it. Do you want me to bring her back?"

"No. Just... watch her. Let her cool down."

"Understood."

I hang up, run my hands through my hair.

She's right—I should have discussed it with her.

But old habits die hard, and I'm used to making decisions alone.

My phone rings. Mum.

The second I answer, she’s snapping at me. "What did you do?"

"Why do you assume I did something?"

"Because you're calling me at—wait, I called you. Because Rhiannon texted saying Revna looked ready to commit murder when she left your building."

"I invited Bembe Reyes to the wedding."

Silence greets me for a few moments. "You invited a cartel leader to your wedding without discussing it with your bride?"

"It's strategic?—"

"It's stupid." Her voice is sharp. "Doran, that girl has already given up her choice in husband, her normal life, her freedom to choose. And you couldn't even give her a say in the guest list?"

"When you put it like that?—"

"How else should I put it? You're treating her like she’s an asset to you and not a person."

"That's not?—"

"It is. You’d better fix this." She sighs. "Where is she now?"

"I don't know. I have Mikhail following her."

"Of course you do. More surveillance instead of communication."

"What should I do?"

"Apologize. Actually apologize, not that thing you do where you explain why you were right."

"But I am right. The Bembe invitation?—"

"May be strategically sound but emotionally idiotic. Your bride should matter more than strategy."

"She does?—"

"Then act like it. And Doran? Whatever you do, don't send some half-assed gift with a clever note. She needs sincerity, not gestures."

She hangs up, leaving me thinking about what just happened.

I pace my penthouse, checking my phone every few minutes for updates from Mikhail.

She's driving. Seems upset but safe.

Then:

She's at her parents' house.

Her mother let her in. Looked... displeased.

Great.

Now her parents will hate me even more.

I try to focus on work, on wedding preparations, on anything but the memory of her face when she left—Hurt. Betrayed. Disappointed.

After an hour, I crack.

I ignore my mother's advice and call my assistant, order wine—the expensive Pinot Noir she likes—and cupcakes from the boutique bakery near her parents' house.

Maybe a peace offering will help.

I write the note myself:

Something sweet, since you already have a sour attitude. I love you, little wolf.

Perfect. Light, teasing, reminding her of what we have.

Mikhail texts twenty minutes later:

Gift delivered.

It’s not long after I get another update:

She... threw the cupcakes at the door. The wine she kept.

Fuck.

My phone rings. Rhiannon.

"You absolute fucking idiot," she starts right off the bat. "That note? 'Sour attitude'? Are you trying to get her to call off the wedding?"

"It was meant to be light?—"

"It was meant to be condescending, and that's exactly how she took it." I hear noise in the background. "I'm at Runes’ house. Revna showed me the note. She's ready to kill you."

"Is she okay?"

"She's hurt, you daft bastard. You made a major decision without her, then sent a passive-aggressive note dismissing her feelings."

"That wasn't?—"

"I don't care what you intended. I care that my future sister-in-law is crying in her childhood bedroom because my brother is emotionally stunted."

"She's crying?"

"What did you expect? You showed her she has no voice in this marriage. That's her worst fear brought to reality."

"Fuck." I sit down heavily. "What do I do?"

"Grovel. Actually grovel. None of this alpha male bullshit where you explain why you were right."

"But the strategic value?—"

"Fuck your strategy! This is your wife. Your partner. The woman you've been obsessed with for years." Her accent gets thicker with emotion. "You finally have her, and you're fucking it up over a business deal?"

The line goes dead.

I stare at my phone, her words echoing.

Revna's crying. I made her cry.

I've tortured men without blinking, ordered deaths without remorse, built an empire on blood and fear.

But the thought of her tears breaks something in me.

I text Mikhail:

Is she still there?

Within a few seconds I have a response:

Yes. No movement from the house.

I want to go to her.

Every instinct screams to fix this, to make her understand.

But maybe that's the problem—I always try to make her understand my perspective instead of understanding hers.

My phone rings again.

Unknown number.

"Hello?"

"You fucking bastard." Dalla. "She's trying so hard to make this work, to find something good in this arrangement, and you just proved every fear she had right."

"Dalla—"

"Shut up. I'm talking. My sister has given up everything for your family's alliance. Her choice, her freedom, her future. The least you could do is treat her like her opinion matters."

"I do?—"

"No, you don't. You treat her like a pet. Your 'little wolf' that you can dress up and show off and make decisions for." Her voice cracks. "She was happy, you know? After Vegas, after you. She was actually happy about marrying you. And you ruined it."

"I'll fix it?—"

"How? With more surveillance? More controlling behavior? More decisions made without her input?"

"I... I don't know."

"Figure it out. Because if you don't, if you keep treating her like property instead of a person, I'll help her run. Alliance be damned."

"You wouldn't?—"

"Try me. I'll get her so far away you'll never find her. And before you threaten me, remember—I'm about to be your family too. Hurting me hurts her."

She hangs up.

I sit in my empty penthouse, surrounded by luxury that suddenly feels hollow.

There’s only a few more days until our wedding, and I've managed to break us before we even begin.

My phone buzzes.

Mikhail:

Movement. She's leaving.

I type back:

Going where?

He responds:

Unknown. Want me to follow?

Like he really needed to even ask me that.

Yes. Discreetly.

I wait, pacing, checking my phone obsessively.

Eventually, he replies:

She's at her apartment. Dalla's with her.

At least she's safe. At least she has her sister.

I text her:

I'm sorry.

No response.

Can we talk?

Nothing.

I know I fucked up. Please.

Read receipts show she's seen them.

She's choosing not to respond.

The cupcakes were a mistake. The note was worse. I'm an idiot.

Still nothing.

You're right. I should have asked you. We should have decided together.

The read receipts disappear.

She's turned them off.

I call her.

Straight to voicemail.

"Revna, I..." I stop, not sure what to say. "I'm sorry. Not the kind of sorry where I explain why I was right. The kind where I know I fucked up and I don't know how to fix it. Call me. Please."

I hang up, pour myself a whiskey, then think better of it.

I need a clear head.

My phone rings. For a moment, I hope—but it's my father.

"Mikhail briefed me," he says immediately. "The girl left?"

"Revna. Her name is Revna."

"Your bride left. Only a few days before the wedding." His voice is cold. "This is unacceptable."

"I'm handling it."

"By having her followed? By sending gifts she throws back?" He laughs humorlessly. "You're handling it poorly."

"Do you have a point?"

"Cancel the Reyes invitation."

"What?"

"You heard me. Cancel it. Choose her over whatever you think is smart right now."

"But the alliance?—"

"Will mean nothing if she doesn't show up to the wedding." His voice softens slightly. "Your mother was right. I treated her like property at first. It took years to repair that damage. Don't repeat my mistakes."

"And if Reyes retaliates? He demanded to come, remember. I might be able to help her understand why Reyes needs to attend."

"Then we handle it. As a family." He pauses. "She's going to be your wife, Doran. That makes her family. Start acting like it."

He hangs up, leaving me with a decision.

I stare out at the city lights, thinking.

The strategic value of Reyes attending versus the cost of losing Revna's trust.

It's not even a question, really.

I text Mikhail:

Draft a message to Reyes. The invitation to my wedding is rescinded.

Mikhail responds:

Sir?

I know he has to be lost too, already knowing Reyes was supposed to come:

You heard me. Cite security concerns. Make it clear this isn't weakness but protecting what's mine.

Mikhail responds back a few minutes later:

Understood.

Then I text Revna again:

I'm calling off the Reyes invitation. You were right. We should decide together. Always.

Minutes pass. Then, finally, three dots appear. She's typing:

Too little too late.

My heart sinks. But at least she's responding.

Me:

Then tell me what would be enough. Tell me how to fix this.

Revna responds back:

I don't know if you can.

Fuck!

Let me try. Please.

Nothing for several minutes, but then a message comes through:

I need time. Real time. No surveillance. No gifts. No visits. Just... time.

We don’t have many days left before the wedding, so hopefully she isn’t asking for much.

How much time?

I wait ten minutes before she responds:

I'll let you know.

I point out the obvious:

The wedding will be here before we know it.

An hour later, she responds:

I'm aware.

And then nothing.

I stare at my phone, willing her to say more.

To give me something to work with.

But she's done talking.

I've never felt so powerless.

In my world, I control everything. But I can't control her, and trying to is what got me here.

Maybe that's the lesson I need to learn.

Maybe loving someone means giving up control, not tightening it.

There are only a few days until our wedding.

A few days to prove I can be the partner she deserves, not just the possessive bastard she fears.

A few days to learn how to apologize—really apologize—for the first time in my life.

I pour myself that whiskey after all and stare out at the city lights, wondering if she's looking at the same view from her apartment.

Wondering if she's still crying.

Wondering if I've already lost her before we truly began.

Tomorrow, I'll respect her space even though it kills me.

Tonight, I'll plan how to prove I can change.