The manager returned—cautious now, like she could feel the fire burning in the room and wasn’t sure who’d started it.
“This one?” she asked, voice light, too careful.
Persephone didn’t answer.
But she didn’t say no either.
And that?
Was everything.
“I’ll take it,” I said, handing over my card without taking my eyes off the girl in white fire.
The manager blinked—just once—but the understanding lit up behind her eyes. She’d seen this kind of thing before, hadn’t she?
Not love. Not joy. Power.
She scurried off. Smart girl.
My gaze returned to Persephone—still standing in front of the mirror like she’d just seen a ghost wearing her face.
Like the reflection had betrayed her.
“You look perfect,” I said, voice low, no amusement now—just truth sharpened to a blade. “Like the moment before a storm hits.”
She hesitated.
Then—finally—she looked at me.
That same fire flared behind her eyes, but it was fighting something now. Doubt. Recognition. A glimpse of what I saw every time I looked at her.
“You look like a wife,” I added.
Soft.
Deadly.
Her jaw tightened. “I’m not your wife.”
I smiled slowly. “Not yet.”
She didn’t like that.
Oh, she hated that.
But not enough to rip the dress off.
Not enough to run.
The air shifted between us—denial clashing with inevitability, smoke circling something that had already started to burn.
“Do you really think this is what I want?” she snapped. “This dress? This life?”
I raised a brow. “It’s what you’ll have.”
I let it land. Let her chew on it.
“You can scream. Break things. Glare at every stitch of lace. But at the end of the day, you’ll walk down that aisle. And I’ll be waiting.”
