The good news, Claire, is that you won’t have to worry about a difficult wedding night.”

The ballroom erupted into chaos.

Victoria was hyperventilating into a linen napkin, while my father collapsed into an empty banquet chair, his hands clutching the legal documents like a death sentence. Madeline, completely stripped of her social armor, burst into humiliated sobs as security officers escorted her out toward the valet circle where her car was already being strapped to the back of a flatbed tow truck.

The Lake Briar elite—ever fickle, ever predatory—instantly turned their backs on the fallen Rowans, crowding around Adrian and me with obsequious congratulations and offers of new contracts.

I handled them with the smooth, ruthless efficiency I had honed over a decade in the business. I accepted their pleasantries, smiled coldly, and secured five massive enterprise contracts before the champagne had even warmed.

Adrian stood half a step behind me the entire time, his presence a dark, protective shield, watching me handle the room with quiet pride.

Around nine thirty, as the orchestra attempted to restore a semblance of normalcy, Adrian leaned down to my ear.

“I need to step onto the private terrace for ten minutes,” he murmured, his breath warm against my neck. “Marcus and two guards will remain five feet behind you at all times. Do not leave the main floor.”

I noticed the sudden tension in his jaw, the subtle shift in the stance of his security detail near the terrace doors.

“Is everything alright?” I asked quietly.

“A business matter that requires a brief, definitive conclusion,” he said smoothly. He squeezed my hand gently. “I won't be long.”

He slipped through the glass French doors into the misty mountain night.

I picked up a glass of sparkling water, watching his tall, commanding silhouette vanish into the shadows of the terrace colonnade. I was about to turn back toward the dining hall when a voice spoke from my left.

“He really did dress you up like a prize pony, didn't he?”

I turned slowly.

Standing near the marble bar was Julian Cross.

Julian was thirty-five, sharp-featured, dressed in an immaculate white dinner jacket, with eyes the color of stagnant pond water. The Cross family owned the private shipping terminals on the southern side of Lake Briar—and had been the Vale syndicate's fiercest, bloodiest rivals for thirty years.

Marcus, Adrian’s security lead, immediately stepped forward, placing himself between me and Cross, his hand hovering near his jacket lapel.

Cross smirked, raising both hands lazily. “Easy, Marcus. Just paying my respects to the new Mrs. Vale.”

“Back away, Cross,” Marcus growled.

“It’s alright, Marcus,” I said calmly, stepping forward so that I met Julian’s gaze directly. “Mr. Cross was just admiring my dress. Though I imagine he’s more concerned with how the Vale family’s newly expanded logistical footprint will impact his marina leases.”

Julian’s smirk tightened into a thin, ugly line. “You have a sharp tongue for an event planner, Claire. But you should be careful whose bed you’re sleeping in. Adrian Vale is a dead man walking. He took two of my distribution routes last month, thinking he could swallow the whole lake.”

He stepped half an inch closer, lowering his voice into a vicious rasp. “Do you really think a monster like Adrian cares about you? You’re a shield, darling. A respectable front to hide his blood-soaked money. The moment this little war gets hot, he’ll leave you out in the open to take the hit.”

I didn't blink. I didn't step back.

“Mr. Cross,” I said, my voice steady, ice-cold, and entirely unbothered. “My husband didn't hide me in his house tonight. He stood beside me while I took back what was mine. But judging by the way your hands are shaking around that champagne flute, you’re terrified because you know that Adrian doesn't make empty threats—and unlike my father, he doesn't sell out the people he protects.”

Julian’s eyes flashed with fury. “You arrogant little—”

A hand like a steel vise clamped onto Julian’s shoulder from behind.

Julian’s words died in his throat. His entire body went rigid.

Adrian stood behind him, towering over the younger man, radiating a chilling, murderous stillness. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't draw a weapon. He simply squeezed Julian’s shoulder, the sickening crunch of bone and tendon barely muffled by the expensive fabric of Cross’s white jacket.

Julian’s knees buckled slightly, a gasp of agony tearing from his lips.

“You’re speaking to my wife, Julian,” Adrian whispered into his ear. The sound was soft, intimate, and profoundly terrifying. “If your breath even disturbs the air near her again, I will have your boats burned to the waterline with your crew locked inside the hulls. Am I clear?”

Julian nodded frantically, sweating through his collar. “Yes... yes, Adrian. Clear.”

Adrian released him with a small shove. Julian stumbled backward, clutching his bruised shoulder, and vanished through the side exit like a whipped dog.

Adrian turned to me, the lethal darkness in his eyes melting instantly into sharp concern. He reached out, his thumb lightly brushing the diamond collar at my throat.

“Did he touch you?”

“No,” I said softly, looking up into his fierce, protective face. “And I wasn't afraid. Not for a second.”

Adrian’s chest rose and fell on a heavy breath. His gaze swept over my face, resting on my parted lips with an intensity that made the surrounding gala vanish into thin air.

“Let’s go home, Claire,” he whispered.