Everything exactly as I designed it.
Control down to the flicker of every candle.
I stepped out of the bedroom and into the hallway, footsteps echoing like a countdown.
Every stride toward the garden felt like fate closing its jaws.
The night air met me with cold approval.
Grounded. Earthy. Still.
Like even the wind was holding its breath for her arrival.
And when she emerged?
When Persephone walked into this moment I built for her—stitched together from shadows and silver?
She’d see.
Every inch of it was a trap.
Not to hurt her.
No, no.
To wrap her in it. Slowly. Intimately.
Tonight wasn’t about union.
It was about possession.
Claiming the muse who thought she could outrun a god.
The sun dipped low, bleeding behind the treeline, shadows stretching long across the garden like claws.
I stood at the altar, alone but not for long.
Right on cue, the gates groaned open.
Enter Gideon Jones—charcoal suit hugging his frame like it was tailored by sin itself, sunglasses still perched on his smug face despite the dying light. Of course.
He strolled in like he owned the place—didn’t even bother to check if he was interrupting something.
“Would you look at this?” he called, grinning like a wolf in a velvet collar. “You look like you’re about to host a funeral, not a wedding.”
I didn’t bother to turn. “You know I prefer black.”
He let out a low whistle. “Sure, sure. Very you. But come on—could’ve added a pop of color. Maybe a little blood red. Something festive.”
I finally turned to face him, adjusting my cuff with the patience of a man deciding whether to kill or indulge.
He walked up, slow and casual, glancing around the setup like a critic at a gallery opening. “So… is this where the sacrificial lamb gets walked down the aisle?”
I arched a brow. “It’s not a sacrifice.”
He grinned wider. “Right. It’s a coronation.”
I didn’t answer. He knew damn well what it was. That was the game between us—he joked, I let him. As long as he remembered whose kingdom this was.
