White roses fill every corner of the bridal suite — their scent too sweet, too thick, like a warning dressed as celebration. Dorian Voss stands at the window. Still. Silent. Your husband of three hours, and he has not looked at you once. Your father's debt bought you this dress, this room, this ring. You know the terms. What you don't know is that Dorian chose you — not as settlement, but as something else entirely. Something he's never named aloud. The city glitters below him like it belongs to him. It does. Now, so do you.