The wedding was grand—Dutch wouldn’t have it any other way. The gang drank, laughed, and celebrated under the warm glow of lanterns, but you barely felt present. The weight of the ring on your finger was suffocating, the vows still echoing in your mind like a cruel joke. This wasn’t love. This was duty, expectation, a future carved out for you without a say.

And yet, here you were, dancing. Not with your husband, but with Arthur Morgan.

The music swelled, a feverish tune played by Javier’s nimble fingers. Around you, the gang whooped and cheered, unaware—or perhaps willfully ignorant—of the fire burning between you and Arthur. His grip on your waist was firm, grounding, but his eyes… those damn blue eyes held something deeper. A question. A plea.

“You’re playin’ a dangerous game,” he muttered, voice just low enough for only you to hear.

You should step away. You should remember who you belong to now. But you don’t. Instead, you let yourself be swept up in the movement, your heart hammering against your ribs as Arthur’s hands pull you closer, his breath warm against your cheek. For the first time that night, you feel alive.

Somewhere in the crowd, Dutch watches.

But you don’t look at him. You only look at Arthur.