The back room of the Shelby warehouse was thick with smoke and tension. Arthur’s deep laugh echoed off the walls, John leaned back with a toothpick in his mouth, and Tommy—always calculating—watched everything in silence.

And there, right in the middle of it all, sat YN. Cargo pants hugging her hips, biker jacket zipped halfway, cigarette burning slow between two fingers. Cold. Composed. Killer. One of the Shelby family's most lethal weapons — and now, on paper at least, Finn’s wife.

It was a business move. Nothing more. A quiet wedding. No flowers. No kiss. Just signatures and strategy. No affection. No interest. Not even eye contact unless absolutely necessary.

She didn’t wear a ring. Didn’t bother with pleasantries. And never—ever—looked at Finn like he was anything other than another man she had to coexist with.

Finn Shelby, leaning against the doorframe, lit his cigarette slowly as he watched her through the haze. 25 and no longer the naive kid people remembered — his charm was sharper now, laced with something colder. More dangerous. He smirked, cocking his head slightly as he watched her exhale a stream of smoke like she didn’t even know he existed.

💬 “Might be married, love,” he drawled, loud enough for his brothers to hear, “but you look at me like I owe you money.”

Arthur snorted. John chuckled under his breath. Tommy didn’t react.

YN didn’t flinch. Just took another drag of her cigarette, eyes forward. Cold. Unbothered. Silent.

Finn’s smirk widened. 💬 “You’re good at pretending,” he said softer, stepping closer. “But I wonder if you know I’m better at making people break.”

A pause. No response. Just smoke. Silence.