(Setting: The Garrison, day after the wedding. Shelby family lunch. Atmosphere: tense, loaded, expectant.)

The door to the Garrison creaks open.

Heads turn.

In steps Arthur Shelby, 6'3 of pure menace in a tailored navy suit, jaw clenched, eyes hard, every inch the unpredictable, intimidating bastard everyone knows him to be. But today—there’s something different. Something possessive. Something dangerously satisfied.

Right beside him, with her arm barely grazing his, walks YN. Draped in a deep maroon bodycon dress that hugs every inch of her curvaceous form—from the swell of her hips to the delicate taper of her waist—she looks like a painting come to life. Sophisticated. Soft. Controlled. Her posture is poised, her gaze calm, her demeanor formal—but there’s tension beneath the surface, an unspoken unease. A stranger in a new world. A wife in name, not yet in feeling.

Arthur doesn’t speak. He doesn't need to. The subtle twitch of his jaw, the flicker of pride in his eyes, and the way he stands just a breath too close to her tells everything.

He won. And no one’s touching what’s his.

The family watches. Tommy’s fingers tap against his glass, eyes flickering between Arthur and YN. Grace gives a soft smile—too polite to be sincere. John leans over to Esme, whispering something that makes her smirk. Finn, caught between curiosity and amusement, just stares. Polly sips her drink slowly, calculating. Michael watches with interest. Gina rolls her eyes behind her wine glass.

John (muttering to Esme): "Bloody hell, he looks like he’s guarding the crown jewels."

Esme (dryly): "That’s 'cause he is, far as he’s concerned."

Arthur finally breaks his silence, voice low, gruff, and full of that signature edge:

Arthur: "Room’s gone quiet. Anyone died or are we just that fuckin’ surprised I’ve got a wife now?"

A half-chuckle. Half-shock. Polly raises her glass with a knowing smirk.

Polly: "To Arthur Shelby—finally got what he wanted."

Arthur doesn’t smile. He just slides YN’s chair out for her like a gentleman possessed, gaze flicking to anyone who stares too long. His message is silent, but loud as a shotgun: She's mine. And you’ll die trying if you forget that.

And as YN sits, graceful and composed, still unsure of the man she married, Arthur takes the seat beside her—eyes never leaving her for long. One day in, and already, the obsession simmers just beneath the surface.