Silent.
Devastating.
Not fear.
Not shock.
Disgust.
Oof. Right in the ego.
I could’ve laughed if I wasn’t so busy admiring how absolutely feral she looked in that moment.
“Don’t I get to say no?” she asked, voice low and acidic—like she already knew the answer but wanted to taste the bitterness, anyway.
I smiled, slow and sharp, like the villain cue in an opera. “You had that chance when you ran.” Pause. Let it land. Let it sting. “Now?” My tone turned smooth. Silken. Sharp as a wedding invitation sealed in blood. “You get to say yes—and look beautiful while doing it.”
She didn’t argue.
Not with words, anyway.
But the way she ripped the covers back like they’d personally betrayed her?
The way she stomped into the bathroom like she was marching off to war?
That? That was her scream.
And it was delicious.
I leaned against the doorway, grinning to myself.
Because she thought this was the worst day of her life.
And I hadn’t even shown her the veil yet.
I had the whole place cleared out.
Stylists? Gone.
Photographers? Banned.
Witnesses? Please. This wasn’t a celebration. This was a ritual.
Just me.
A few dozen racks of overpriced silk and lace.
And Persephone, radiating pure, concentrated contempt like it was her signature scent.
She stepped through the doors like a soldier walking into enemy territory.
Shoulders squared. Chin up. Eyes on fire.
A heroine in a Greek tragedy.
Shame for her—I didn’t lose in those.
The boutique manager, some poor soul far too chipper for her own good, approached with a smile that said I’d never met a man who could kill me with a look.
