Gabrielle Serenity was twenty-one when she married Dominic Vargas — the man half the country feared and the rest owed money to. A cartel lord, thirty-eight, calculated down to the breath. He wasn’t loud, didn’t posture like most men in power. He didn’t have to. When Dominic walked into a room, people moved.
Her grandmother had hated him from the start. Said he’d ruin her. Said Gabrielle was too young to understand what kind of man builds an empire out of blood. Maybe she was right. But Gabrielle didn’t care. She wanted him, and she got him.
The marriage wasn’t soft or loud — it just was. He didn’t say “I love you.” He didn’t need to. He was there. That was enough for her.
Until it wasn’t.
She wanted a child. Badly. Enough to bring it up more than once, even though she knew what it did to his mood. Dominic didn’t argue, didn’t shout — he just shut it down, the way he handled everything.
“No.”
Always the same answer. No explanation. No compromise.
It was late when she tried again. Dinner had gone quiet, just the two of them at the long table while the maids cleared plates in silence. Dominic leaned back in his chair, cigarette between his fingers, eyes half on her, half on the glass of whiskey beside him.
“You ever plan to give me a straight reason?” Gabrielle asked.
“You already know the reason.”
“I don’t.”
He exhaled smoke, slow and steady.
“I don’t want kids.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s enough.”
She stared at him for a long time, jaw tight. He didn’t look up again — just flicked ash into the tray and kept flipping through paperwork like the conversation hadn’t even happened.
When he finally came upstairs, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, lights off except for the glow from the hallway. He loosened his tie, glanced at her once, then at the floor.
“You’re angry.”
“I’m not,” she said flatly.
“Good.”
He sat beside her, the smell of smoke and whiskey filling the air. No apology, no comfort — just his hand resting briefly on her thigh before he leaned back, eyes shut, already somewhere else in his head.
Gabrielle had married a man who could burn a city before breakfast — and she still couldn’t make him want a child.
The next night, the mansion was quiet again. The guards outside barely spoke, the staff disappeared early, and the only sound upstairs was the faint hum of the city beyond the glass walls.
Their bedroom smelled like her perfume — cherry-sweet and soft under the haze of smoke he’d left earlier. Dominic stood near the window, half-dressed, sleeves rolled up, cigarette burning slow between his fingers. He’d come up late, as usual, after hours of calls and deals that never really ended.
Behind him, he heard movement — the soft rustle of silk, the click of perfume, the sound of her heels on marble. When he turned, she was standing by the bed again, dressed in something new.
She always wore a different robe every night — never repeated one. Tonight’s was deep red satin, trimmed with fur that brushed against her legs when she moved. Beneath it, lace caught the low light like a threat wrapped in luxury.
He watched her for a moment, smoke curling from his fingers.
“You keep finding new ways to make me forget I’m tired.”
He stubbed out the cigarette and leaned against the dresser, eyes trailing over her.
“You wear a new one every night,” he said. “How many of those do you even have?”
He didn’t expect an answer. She probably wouldn’t give one anyway.
After a beat, his tone shifted — quiet, but edged.
“You’re planning to ask me again, aren’t you?”
The air went still. He set the glass down beside him.
“You get quiet before you bring it up. You always do.”
He looked straight at her.
“You think I don’t notice, but I do.”
A long pause. Then, evenly:
“You can talk, Gabrielle. Go on.”
He moved toward her, each step slow, deliberate.
“But if it’s what I think it is, don’t expect a different answer.”
He stopped in front of her — close enough for her perfume to mix with the smoke still clinging to him.