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Such normal things in such an abnormal moment.

The front door opens hard enough to bang against the wall. We all jump. Male voices, urgent and low.

I recognize my father's rumble.

Dad appears in the kitchen doorway, face grim. "It's done."

"Njal?" The name sticks in my throat.

"Alive. In custody. He went after Bembe's lieutenant at the warehouse. Walked right in during a meeting, guns blazing." Dad runs a hand through his hair. "Three of Bembe's men are dead. Bembe himself took a bullet to the shoulder."

"Jesus," Dalla breathes.

"Njal?" I ask again.

"Beaten pretty badly, but breathing. Cops have him now. He'll be processed, but given his mental state, probably psychiatric hold first." Dad's expression softens slightly. "He'll get help now, Rev. Real help."

I should feel relief.

Instead, I feel hollow.

Someone I cared about was used as a weapon, his illness turned into a tool.

Three people are dead.

Bembe's wounded.

And tomorrow I'm supposed to put on a white dress and pretend this is a fairy tale.

"The threat?" Mom asks, wringing her hands.

"Neutralized. Bembe's in the hospital under guard. His crew is scattered, dealing with the aftermath." Dad looks at me. "The wedding can proceed safely."

"Safely," I repeat. "Because we used a sick man as a guided missile."

"Because we protected our family," Dad corrects. "I don't like it either, baby girl. But between Njal in a psychiatric ward and you dead, I choose this every time."

My phone buzzes and I see it’s a text from Doran:

You're safe. That's all that matters tonight.

I stare at the words.

He knows what happened, probably knew it was happening as it occurred.

This is the world I'm marrying into—where people are chess pieces and violence is currency.

Another text:

I know you're awake. I know you're struggling with this. Tomorrow, after everything, we’ll talk. About all of it.

"I need air," I announce, standing abruptly.

"Rev—" Dalla starts.

"Just for a minute. I'm not running." I look at Dad. "Though that would solve everyone's problems, wouldn't it?"

"That's not?—"

I'm already moving, heading for the back door.

The night air hits like a slap, thick with humidity and the promise of rain.

The parking lot is mostly empty, just a few bikes and cars belonging to some of the club members..

I sink onto the picnic table where members sometimes eat lunch, pulling my knees to my chest.

The stars are invisible, hidden by light pollution and clouds.

Somewhere in this city, Njal is probably sedated, possibly restrained.

Somewhere else, Bembe bleeds from a bullet wound delivered by proxy.

All for me. All because of me.

The door opens behind me.

I expect Dalla, but it's Mom who sits beside me on the picnic table.

"I failed you," she says right off the bat.

"Mom—"

"No, let me say this." She stares out at the parking lot. "When I found out about the arrangement, I should have taken you both and run. Run for the hills. Run to give you both some sense of a normal life."

"He would have found us."

"Maybe. Or maybe we could have had a different life. A normal life." She laughs bitterly. "I used to dream about it. A little house somewhere quiet. You and Dalla going to regular schools, having regular friends. No threats, no violence, no arranged marriages."

"But you stayed."

"I stayed because I loved him. Love him still, even though his actions make it hard to." She turns to look at me. "And now you're facing the same choice. Stay for love, even when the life that comes with it is impossible."

"Did you ever regret it?"

"Every time someone died. Every time you girls were in danger. Every time I had to pretend the blood on your father's clothes was from working on bikes." She takes my hand. "But also never. Because staying gave me you and Dalla. Gave me a family I'd die for."

"That's not really an answer."

"It's the only answer there is in this life. You take the bad with the good and hope the good outweighs it."

We sit in silence, mother and daughter, both trapped by love for dangerous men.

My phone rings.

It’s Doran.

I almost don't answer, but something makes me swipe accept.

"You're outside," he says before I can get out a word. "That's not safe."

"How did you—" I stop. "Right. Always watching."

"There are two guards in visual range. You're protected." He pauses. "Are you okay?"

"Three people are dead."

"Three people who threatened your family."

"Killed by someone who's sick. Someone we manipulated." I close my eyes. "How do you live with this? The moral flexibility?"

"By focusing on what matters. You're safe. Your family's safe. The wedding can happen without bloodshed."

"Except for the bloodshed that already happened."

"Yes," he agrees simply. "Except for that."

We sit in silence, connected by phones and separated by everything else.

"I'll be there tomorrow," I say finally.

He can't hide the relief in his voice. "You will?"

"We have things to discuss. Decisions to make. About how this marriage actually works."

"Whatever you need."

"I need a partner, Doran. A real partner. Someone who makes decisions with me, not for me."

"I know. I'm trying to learn that."

"Try harder."

"I will," he promises. "Revna, I?—"

"Tomorrow," I interrupt. "Whatever you're going to say, save it for tomorrow."

"Okay. Tomorrow."

I hang up.

Mom's still beside me, quiet support in the darkness. "You're really going through with it," she says.

"Yeah. I think I am."

"Then let's go inside. You need sleep, and I need to frost those cinnamon rolls." She stands, offers me her hand. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

Back inside, the kitchen is warm and smells like cinnamon and sugar.

Dalla's eating directly from Mom's latest batch of cookies.

Dad and his men have disappeared to wherever they go to debrief after violence.

"These are excellent," she tells Mom. "You could sell them at the spa, or offer them with certain packages."

"Just stress baking," Mom mumbles, but she looks pleased.

"The wedding shoes." Dalla points to the box on the table. "Dad brought them in. Said Greer had them delivered earlier, didn't want them to get lost in tomorrow's chaos."

I open the box.

The shoes are perfect—elegant heels that match the dress, not too high, with delicate straps that will look beautiful but won't kill my feet.

A small card is tucked inside:

For my daughter-in-law. Walk tall tomorrow.

- Greer

"She thinks of everything," Mom murmurs, admiring them.

"Yeah." I touch the delicate straps. "She does."

"Try them on," Dalla suggests. "If we're doing this, might as well make sure they fit."

I slip them on.

They fit perfectly, because of course they do.

I stand, testing the height.

They make me taller but not unsteady.

I could run in these if I had to.

The thought shouldn't be comforting, but it is.

"You look..." Dalla trails off.

"Like a bride?" I finish bitterly.

"Like yourself," she corrects. "Just in fancier shoes."

Mom insists on taking a photo with her phone. "For later," she says vaguely. "When you want to remember."

"Remember what?"

"The night before everything changed." She puts her phone away. "Now bed. Both of you. If we're doing this, we're doing it right. That means sleep, breakfast, and pretending tomorrow is a normal wedding."

"Normal," I repeat.

"As normal as we can make it."

We all head back to our rooms.

Dalla hugs me extra long in the hallway. "Still sure?" she asks.

"No. But I'm doing it anyway."

"Then I'll be right there with you. Maid of honor and all."

Back in the spare room, I carefully hang the shoes in the closet next to the dress.

My phone buzzes one more time.

A text from Ingrid:

He's okay. Getting help. It's over.

Relief and guilt war in my chest.

I text back, even though I was already told a little bit:

Thank you for letting me know.

Her response comes quickly:

Thank you for not stopping me. I know it couldn't have been easy.

I reply:

None of this is easy.

Ingrid replies back within a few moments:

No. But tomorrow you get married and maybe find some happiness in all this mess. That's something.

I sigh, typing back:

Is it?

Ingrid really isn't a bitch, she’s just misunderstood:

It has to be. Otherwise what's the point?

I don't have an answer for that.

I lie back on the lumpy mattress, staring at the exposed beams above.

In a few hours, the sun will rise.

People will arrive to do my hair and makeup.

I'll put on that dress and those shoes.

I'll become Revna Volkolv.

But tonight, I'm just a woman who couldn't save someone she used to love from his own mind.

A woman who's choosing to marry into violence because the alternative is worse.

A woman who's hoping that somewhere in all this darkness, there's a chance for something real.

My eyes close eventually, exhaustion winning over my anxiety.

Tomorrow, everything changes.

Tonight, I just need to survive until morning.

The last thing I think before sleep takes me is that Doran will be waiting at the altar.

Whatever else he is—controlling, obsessive, dangerous—he'll be there.