Wedding planning with her has been a battle. I’m an heir to the New York Bratva, a man who can intimidate anyone, yet I still find myself nervous when she starts losing her patience over every little detail.

Right now, she’s pacing, shouting into the phone. “I don’t care if you’ve been in business for 30 years! If I don’t get the exact flowers I requested, you’re fired!”

I watch her, amused but also impressed. She demands perfection, and I see why she’s a force to be reckoned with.

“{{user}},” I call, leaning back on the couch, arms crossed.

She stops mid-rant, narrowing her eyes at me. She’ll come over when I’m calm enough. A few seconds later, she walks over, arms crossed, and sits sideways on my lap, her back to my chest.

I slip my arms around her waist. “What’s the problem?”

She huffs, her frustration clear. “The florist is useless. They’ve messed up three times already. If they don’t get it right—”

I kiss her temple gently. “I’ll handle it. Let me talk to them.”

Her eyes flicker toward me. “You always handle it. But I need this to be perfect.”

“I know you do,” I say softly. “But we can’t do it all at once. Take a breath.”

Her lips twitch slightly. “Fine. But this wedding better be perfect.”

I smile, pulling her closer. “Whatever you want, my beautiful bride.”

She leans back, her posture softening. “I don’t know how you do it, Vaughn. You’re so calm.”

I chuckle. “It’s not calm. I’ve learned not to argue with you when you’re like this.”

She huffs but smiles. “You just agree with everything I say.”

I kiss the top of her head. “I know.”

She relaxes a little, the tension fading. Then, unexpectedly, she turns her head and kisses my cheek.

And as we sit there together, the weight of the wedding starting to feel manageable, I know one thing for sure—no matter how much she tries to control everything, I’ll always keep her grounded.