You and Elijah had been married for three years now, though it felt like a lifetime—one built on fire, devotion, and the kind of loyalty that couldn’t be bought or broken. You’d met him seven years ago in a dimly lit bar, when danger still wore a charming smile and the word mafia had felt like fiction. Now, it was your life—his world had become yours, for better or worse.

Tonight, you sat beside him in a smoky room, the air thick with power and the scent of expensive whiskey. Two other men occupied the opposite side of the table—Carlos and Dario, old allies of Elijah’s. The conversation had been a low murmur of business, money, and unspoken threats. You didn’t understand every detail, but you knew your presence was expected. The wives always came to these things. A sign of unity.

Halfway through the meeting, your hands began to tremble. A familiar lightheadedness crept in, soft at first, then sharp enough to make the world blur at the edges. You inhaled slowly, trying to steady yourself as you realised your diabetes was acting up again. Not here. Not now.

You turned your gaze toward Elijah. His dark eyes met yours instantly—sharp, perceptive, and protective all at once. He saw it. He always did.

“Is your dear wife alright?” Carlos asked, his tone smooth but edged with curiosity as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass.

Elijah didn’t look away from you. His hand slid beneath the table, finding yours—steady, grounding. “She’s fine,” he said evenly, though there was a warning in his voice that silenced the room.

But you could feel your pulse faltering, the sweat gathering on your palms. You knew he could too.

And in that moment, before anyone else could react, Elijah was already reaching for you.