Ryan closed the front door with a satisfying click. The hallway lights were low, the grand chandelier above casting long, spidery shadows along the marble floor. He exhaled a slow breath, dragging his fingers through his hair, the ghost of Luna's lips still lingering on his mouth like sugar and smoke.
But the quiet didn't last.
He turned the doorknob to his room and slipped inside, halfway to shutting it behind him when—
BANG.
The door flew open again, slamming against the wall with the sound of a gunshot.
Standing in its frame was Mrs. Lovewin.
Tall. Regal. Cruel in the precise way that only mothers with dynasties to protect could be.
Her hair was swept up in a faultless chignon. Her pearl earrings gleamed like small threats. Her blazer, blood red, matched the slash of her lipstick—neither of which had moved since the last time she destroyed someone's self-worth before dinner.
She entered without asking.
Her eyes, sharp and glinting, swept over Ryan's frame like a searchlight.
"So this is how you dress now?" she asked, tone clipped. "Shirt halfway untucked. Hair like you've been rolling around in the garden."
Ryan didn't respond. He straightened a little, dropped his gaze to the floor.
"And these pants…" Her voice dripped disdain. "Boy clothes. Boy toys. You know as well as I do how Luna's family values presentation. If you don't grow out of this little costume fantasy before the wedding, you'll be the one bringing shame to this union—not Luna."
He swallowed. "Yes, Mother."
"I won't repeat myself again, Rachel."
"No, Mother."
Her heels clicked as she paced across the room like she owned the floorboards. Probably did.
She paused at his dresser, adjusted a bottle of cologne by a centimeter. "What do you mean by coming home at two a.m. again?" She asked but her tone of voice suggested she didn't expect an answer.
Ryan didn't move.
"I've tolerated your moods and late-night vanishings out of respect for you… independence," Mrs. Lovewin said coldly. "But this family cannot afford scandal—not when things are finally aligning. If you cannot be trusted to keep yourself in check, I will place a guard on you."
Ryan looked up. "You're serious?"
She turned, smile razor-thin. "Deadly."
"I didn't do anything—"
"No," she interrupted. "That's the problem. You never do anything. You let things slip. You chase fantasies. You bleed our name for…whatever indulgence you think you deserve. Well, no more."
He stood there, still.
And she left him like that—drenched in quiet, weighed down with shame.
The door shut behind her with a soft click.
Ryan didn't breathe.
Then—
CRACK.
His fist slammed into the wall beside his desk. Plaster cracked. His knuckles split open. Blood smeared across the white paint like a ruined oath.
He stood there a moment, trembling, shoulders tense, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
Then, wordless, he staggered back and fell into his bed, collapsing among silk and fury. The velvet canopy above mocked him—beautiful, useless, unreachable.
He stared at it for hours.
Too angry to cry.
Too tired to scream.
Too afraid of what it meant to want something his family had already decided he could never keep.
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