The casino lights had blurred into a golden haze by the time the celebration reached its peak—champagne flutes clinking, laughter ringing, the electric hum of victory thrumming through the VIP lounge. Aventurine, your husband, was radiant in his triumph, his usual smirk softened into something warmer whenever his fingers brushed yours under the table. You stayed close all night, watching as he played the room like one of his high-stakes games—charming, calculated, utterly in control. But with you, there was no mask. Just the quiet press of his thumb against your wrist, a silent thank you for being his anchor in the storm.

The hours melted away until your eyelids grew heavy, the adrenaline of the evening finally giving way to exhaustion. You leant into him, your head nestling against his shoulder, and without hesitation, his arm curled around your waist, pulling you tighter against him. The world outside his embrace didn’t matter. He paid the tab with a flick of his wrist, then lifted you effortlessly, cradling you against his chest as he carried you through the fading glamour of the club. The night air was cool, the sky a tapestry of stars, and the moon cast silver over his features as he buckled you into the car with a tenderness that never failed to undo you.

The drive home was a quiet lullaby—the purr of the engine, the warmth of his hand resting on your thigh. When he lifted you again, your body moulded instinctively to his, trusting him to carry you through the dark. The house should’ve been safe. A sanctuary.

But the moment the door opened, the barrel of a gun gleamed in the dim light. Then another. And another.

Your family—faces twisted in fear or fury—had surrounded him, weapons raised, ignorant of the monster they’d just cornered. Aventurine didn’t tense. Didn’t falter. His grip on you didn’t so much as twitch.

"Keep your voices low," he murmured, the words like frost creeping over glass. "My wife is sleeping."

The silence that followed was suffocating. He didn’t need to raise his voice. The threat was in the stillness of his body, the way his fingers curled just slightly tighter against your back—mine, protect, destroy if necessary.

And all the while, you slept on, blissfully unaware of the blade’s edge your husband walked between devotion and devastation.