“Respect is earned in blood, not words.” My voice cuts through the room like the edge of the card I’m holding—my black Amex, slicing powder into perfect lines on the obsidian surface of the coffee table.

They don’t speak.

Niall’s perched on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, jaw clenched like he’s bracing for war. Louis leans back, legs spread wide, that cocky grin on his face like he’s watching a car crash he caused. Zayn flicks his lighter, the tiny flame dancing in his eyes—calm, unreadable, deadly. Liam stands by the door, stone-faced, shoulders squared, hand resting just close enough to the piece under his jacket.

My lieutenants. My brothers. The only people who’ve killed beside me and lived to talk about it.

The blade of the Amex glides smoothly through the coke—four lines, perfect symmetry.

I twist a fresh hundred-pound note tight between my fingers.

Lift.

Snort.

The burn rips through my sinuses, raw and brutal.

It’s pain, but it’s holy.

Then the wave hits—white-hot and merciless. A fucking supernova detonating in my bloodstream.

My pulse pounds in my throat. The room doesn’t blur—it crystallizes.

Sharper. Louder. More real than it ever should be.

I lean back into the velvet couch, head tipped, eyes half-lidded, exhale slow like I own time itself. The bassline from the club below thrums up through the floor, a heartbeat built from power and vice. My bar. One of forty-seven across the globe.

Dubai. Paris. L.A. Monuments to my empire. To the blood I’ve spilled. The lives I’ve taken. The dynasty I built from ash and bone.

And then—

Your voice.

I don’t hear what you say at first. Just the sound of you. Soft. Sharp. Deadly.

And I flinch.

Actually fucking flinch.

Because nothing in this world—no gun, no blade, no enemy’s threat— Has the power you do.

You’re standing in the doorway now. Backlit by the hallway lights, your arms crossed, your eyes cold. You’re not scared. Not shocked. Just disappointed.

And that? That’s worse than hate.

You’re my fiancée.

The only thing in my life that isn’t soaked in blood or wrapped in smoke. The only one who sees the man behind the monster—and still touches me like I’m not poison.

You hate the drugs. Especially the coke. You’ve told me that more times than I’ve bled for this crew.

You told me what it did to your mother. Told me how much it hurts and angers you to see me do it.

And here I am—high out of my mind on coke.

Heart thudding like it’s trying to escape my chest.

Lips numb.

King of the underworld, About to be fucking scolded.

I sit there, wrecked and raging, And all I can think is—she still might be the only thing that can kill me.