It was supposed to be the happiest day of her life.
But Elena Carter had stopped believing in "supposed to" a long time ago.
The morning of the wedding began not with laughter or flowers—but with the cold click of a pistol being loaded somewhere down the hall.
Lucian hadn't slept. Not a second. He stood in the corner of the suite like a war general waiting for a signal, every muscle on edge.
Outside, the estate had become a fortress. Every entrance sealed. Every guest vetted twice. Snipers positioned across the property. And still—it didn't feel like enough.
Because today, it wouldn't be steel or fire that cracked the day open.
It would be blood.
--
Elena stood before the mirror in her gown.
Not white.
She had refused that.
The dress was silver—sleek, unapologetic, armor stitched in silk. It shimmered like a blade under light.
At her wrist, the steel bracelet Rosa had given her clinked softly as she adjusted her hair.
No veil.
No flowers.
Just steel spine and storm-colored eyes.
Rosa hovered in the doorway, silent until Elena turned.
"Do you remember," Rosa said quietly, "when you asked me if you looked like a bride?"
Elena smiled faintly. "And you said no."
"Today, you don't look like a bride either," Rosa said, stepping forward. "You look like a legacy no one saw coming."
--
The ceremony began at noon.
Fifty guests filled the garden under a sky sharp with light.
Lucian stood at the altar in a dark suit, jaw tight, hand flexing every few seconds.
He had only one expression today: kill if necessary.
Elena walked the aisle alone.
No father to give her away.
Only ghosts.
Each step echoed.
The wind stilled.
And somewhere near the third row, someone shifted slightly—too fluid, too still.
Sara Mikhailova.
But Elena didn't look at her.
Not yet.
--
The vows were short.
Efficient.
No promises of forever.
Just truth.
Elena took his hand.
Lucian's fingers were warm, strong, trembling just slightly.
"I vow," he said, "to protect you in every way I fail to deserve you."
A pause.
Then, her turn.
"I vow not to run. Not from this. Not from you. Even when I should."
The officiant's voice rang out.
"Do you take this man—"
A silence.
Then:
"I do."
"Do you take this woman—"
"I already have," Lucian said, low and dangerous.
Laughter rippled.
But Elena felt the moment shift.
Like something just snapped into place.
--
The kiss was brief.
Too brief.
But it sealed something deeper than possession.
Something quiet. Something ancient.
When they turned to face the crowd—
Lucian's hand gripped hers like a lifeline.
Elena didn't smile.
But her chin lifted.
Daring anyone to try her.
--
The reception began in the east wing ballroom.
Music. Champagne. Controlled smiles.
And still—Sara Mikhailova hovered near the corner table. Not speaking. Not moving.
Velasquez watched her from across the room.
Rosa moved through the crowd like smoke.
Matteo, arm still bandaged, stood guard at the rear door.
And Lucian?
He danced with her.
Only once.
In the center of the floor, hand at her waist, mouth at her ear.
"She's going to try something," he said.
"I know."
"She brought no weapon."
"She doesn't need one," Elena murmured. "I'm the target. You're the message."
Lucian's jaw clenched. "She doesn't get to rewrite us."
Elena pulled back. "Then let's write our ending first."
--
It happened twenty-three minutes later.
One glass too many.
One guest—an ally of Massimo's—slumped in his chair, face pale.
Then another.
Poison.
Lucian's hand shot to Elena's waist, pulling her behind him.
"Get her out."
The room erupted.
But Elena didn't run.
She stepped forward.
Toward Sara.
Who now stood still as a statue, holding a wine glass that hadn't been touched.
Elena stared at her.
"You think this is how you win?" she said coldly.
Sara blinked. "I haven't even started."
Then she smiled—and bit into something.
A capsule.
Cyanide.
But Elena moved fast.
Too fast.
She lunged forward and slapped the pill from her mouth, knocking the woman to the floor as guards rushed in.
Lucian caught her by the waist.
"You don't get to disappear," Elena hissed.
Sara writhed—but didn't fight.
Until Lucian barked, "Bag her. Strip her clean. And find the next rat."
--
Sara broke thirty minutes later.
Velasquez did the questioning.
It was Nadya.
Of course it was.
But this wasn't her move.
It was a test.
A distraction.
The real plan?
"She's not here," Sara said, gasping. "She's waiting for Elena to come to her. She wants to crown her. Or crush her. But not in public. Not surrounded."
Lucian paced.
"Where?"
Sara smiled, blood on her teeth. "You already know."
--
Elena stood in the war room that night.
No gown. No makeup.
Just black jeans and a gun on her hip.
Lucian stood across from her, maps spread, guards on alert.
"You're not going," he said.
"I am."
"It's a trap."
"So was the wedding," Elena said. "I survived it."
He walked toward her.
Stopped just shy of touching.
"You walk into this, and you might not walk back out."
She held his gaze. "Then don't let me walk alone."