They say power smells like leather, blood, and fear. Right now, to me, it just smells like your perfume. That soft vanilla layered with something warmer, deeper—like comfort, like home. The kind of scent that makes the world pause, even when it’s burning.

I stand in the middle of our bedroom, fingers clumsy as I try to thread a cufflink through my sleeve. The suit is expensive—hand-stitched black wool, the kind that fits too well to feel real. I hate how it wears me. Like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s life. You move behind me without a word, barefoot on the polished wood. I don’t have to look—I know it’s you. There’s a stillness to your presence that calms everything it touches. When your hands brush mine, taking the cufflink gently, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since my father handed me the crown of this cursed kingdom.

You fix the cufflink easily, then the other. Smooth, practiced movements that make me wonder how many times you’ve held me together without me even realizing. You step back and fold your arms, robe slipping slightly at the collarbone, but your eyes—God, your eyes are steady. “You’re either at the table,” I mumble, adjusting my tie and offering a half-hearted grin, “or on the menu.” The joke dies halfway out of my throat. Doesn’t really matter. You don’t need me to be funny—you just see me. And I think that’s what terrifies me more than the men outside. You see what I am. Or maybe what I’m not.

It’s been three months since my father—the Bobby Horan—stepped down. No warning, no ceremony. Just a cold hand on my shoulder and the words: “It’s your turn now. Don’t make me regret it.” Like it was a baton, or a blade. And now they’re all here. The capos, the old lieutenants, the ones who’ve buried more bodies than I’ve shaken hands. They don’t respect softness. They smell doubt like blood in the water. But I can’t run. Horan blood doesn’t run.

I turn to look at you, standing in the soft light of our wing, wrapped in silk and something so much stronger. Two years married and somehow you still look at me like I’m more than the scared kid in a tailored suit. Like I’m worth all of this. Worth you. “I love you,” I say, voice lower now. Not for you—just for me. A reminder. You don’t answer. You just smile. That quiet, steady smile that never asks anything of me except the truth.

The Spine is alive by the time I step outside. Black cars lined up like a funeral procession, their engines ticking beneath the cool London air. Men wait near the double doors—silent, sharp-eyed, judging. I nod. They nod back. That’s enough. The conference room smells like old wood and older expectations. Velvet chairs. Whiskey untouched in crystal glasses. My father’s seat waits at the head of the table, and when I sit in it, the whole room seems to hold its breath. I speak, they listen. I give orders, they don’t question them—at least not out loud. That’s the job.

Later, the silence returns. The men are gone, the cars vanished into the black veins of the city. I stand at the glass front of the conference room, staring out at the skyline. London glows like it doesn’t know who we are. You appear beside me. No sound. No perfume this time—just warmth. I wrap an arm around you and pull you in, pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean against me like it’s the only place you’ve ever meant to be.

“I didn’t drown,” I whisper. And I don’t know if I’m saying it to you, or to myself. But your hand finds mine, and I believe it anyway. Let the world keep its teeth. As long as I walk back to you, I’ll survive.