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"Yes. Here it is." Abigail gestured toward the bed, where a breathtaking wedding gown shimmered—its fabric embroidered with diamonds and silver.
Elsa's composure crumbled. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she clutched her daughter's hands. "You don't know how happy I am for you, my baby. I wanted this for you—not because of the loan, but because I know this family will give you the life we couldn't. Please, Abi… keep this home, make it yours. That will be enough for me."
"Mother, I—"
"Shhh," Elsa silenced her, stroking her cheek. "No tears. Tomorrow is your day. Be strong, be radiant, be confident."
"But Mom… I'm scared." Abigail's voice cracked. "What if he doesn't fall for me? What if he's impossible to reach? What if he doesn't even look at me?"
"Enough with the what ifs," Elsa said firmly, though her own eyes shone. "Think positively. Tomorrow, you'll do wonderfully. Tomorrow, you'll be Mrs. Sullivan."
The door creaked open, and Aurora slipped in gracefully.
"Did I interrupt?" she asked softly.
"No, no," Elsa assured her.
Aurora smiled, turning to Abigail. "It's time, dear. The pre-wedding photos are ready, and Miss Agnes is here to prepare you for tomorrow."
Abigail's breath caught. "Is… is he here too?"
Aurora blinked, then shook her head gently. "Your husband has projects he must attend to. But he sent his pictures."
Disappointment washed over Abigail, though she quickly hid it.
"Come along, Elsa," Aurora added warmly. "We'll be family after tomorrow."
The three women walked through the corridors, already draped in extravagant decorations. Abigail froze when her eyes fell on a large poster. The man in the photo was breathtaking—sharp features, piercing eyes, beauty so dangerous it stole her breath.
Aurora followed her gaze and smiled proudly. "That's him. My son, Sullivan."
Abigail quickly looked away, but her heart was pounding. If this is how he looks in person, she thought, then I'm the one in trouble… because I might end up falling first.
ELSEWHERE – THE DARK ROOM
In a massive sitting room decorated entirely in black, the atmosphere felt heavy and cold. Black chairs lined the space, their edges trimmed with stark white ties. The silence was suffocating.
By the window, a tall figure stood, dressed in black pants and a fitted black shirt. A glass of red wine swirled lazily in his hand as he stared out into the city beyond, his silhouette sharp against the light.
A voice cut through the heavy silence, almost sing-song, almost mocking.
"You have a message."
The man's deep voice rumbled in reply, commanding and dark. "What is it?"
"Your grandmother… she wants to see you."
The air thickened. He didn't move at first, only let out a slow, deliberate breath. The glass in his hand clinked softly as he set it down on the table, the sound sharp in the stillness.
"Prepare the car," he said, his tone like steel dragged across stone. "We're going to her."
"Yes, sir!" Jasper blurted, almost too quickly, before scrambling out of the room. The door shut behind him with a muted thud, leaving a chill crawling over the walls.
The man finally turned, his piercing eyes glinting beneath the shadows. His presence alone was enough to send chills through anyone brave enough to stand in his way.
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ST. VINCENT HOSPITAL – PRIVATE WARD
The private ward was unnervingly still, the faint scent of antiseptic softened by lavender candles—Aurora's touch, a futile attempt to make the old woman feel less like a prisoner of machines. Monitors beeped in steady rhythm, pale blue curtains swaying to the low hum of the air conditioner.
At the door, three guards straightened instantly, heads bowing as Sullivan strode in. His presence alone was enough to shift the air. Trailing him was a much smaller man—round glasses sliding down his nose, leather satchel bouncing at his side, and two baskets of fruit clutched in his arms. He grinned ear to ear like a child sneaking into a palace.
On the bed lay Grandmother Sullivan. Once formidable, now frail. Silver hair framed her face with stubborn neatness. Though age and illness had carved deep lines into her skin, her eyes burned with that same familiar fire—commanding, unyielding.
Her lids fluttered as the door creaked.
Sullivan entered first—tall, broad, a storm in human form, draped in black.
"Wow…" the smaller man whispered loudly. "This place is fancy! These curtains—you could make a wedding gown out of them. Hey, Sullivan, do you think they'd notice if I—"
"Silence, Jasper." Sullivan's voice was cold steel.
Jasper pouted, though his eyes kept darting around like a restless sparrow. Where Sullivan was silence, Jasper was chatter. Where Sullivan was steel, Jasper was softness. Yet he was the only man alive bold enough to orbit him.
"My boy," Grandmother Sullivan smiled faintly, her voice trembling with joy. "You came."
"Hello, Grandma," Jasper rushed forward before Sullivan could move, seized her hand, and kissed it with dramatic flair. "An honor to meet the grandmother of the great man towering over us."
Sullivan rolled his eyes.
The old woman's laugh crackled through the room. "Ah, so you are his subordinate."
"At your service!" Jasper bowed low. "I'm Jasper—professional chatterbox, occasional peacekeeper, and part-time fashion critic. I keep your grandson from murdering people with his scowl."
A frail cough escaped her, but her eyes sparkled. "Good. He needs someone to remind him he's still human."
Sullivan lowered himself to the bedside, jaw set tight. "You called me here."
"Yes." Her hand trembled as it reached for his. "You grow more handsome each day. Lucky is the woman who marries you."
He scoffed.
She ignored it. Her voice softened, but her words sharpened like knives. "Life isn't as cruel as you make it. I once thought I needed no one. I had money, power—everything. Until I met your grandfather in a club—"
"Grandma," Sullivan cut her off. "I didn't come for stories. Tell me what you want."
Her eyes glistened. "Love, my boy. Love is the only thing that keeps power from rotting into loneliness."
He looked away, unimpressed.
Her tone hardened. "So hear me clearly—I want you to honor your parents' wish. Accept the marriage."
His head snapped back, eyes like knives. "And why should I?"
"Because you need it," she rasped. "You are too cold, too alone. Even storms need a shore."
"I am not lonely."
"You are my only grandchild. I will be gone soon, and your parents are not getting younger." Her voice cracked as tears welled. "If you love me at all… grant me this last wish."
A violent cough shook her body. Instantly, Sullivan was on his feet, snatching the flask from Jasper, pouring water into a glass. The nurse rushed in, but Sullivan waved her off, feeding his grandmother carefully himself.
Jasper froze, wide-eyed. He had never seen Sullivan like this—gentle, protective, human.
"Granny," Sullivan whispered—the first time in years. "Rest. You've spoken too much."
But she clung to his hand with surprising strength. "So… will you do what I asked?"
"That's enough," he said sharply, but his voice cracked with fear.
Her gaze pierced him, ancient and knowing. "The family is preparing for your wedding. Don't fight this."
Sullivan's tone dropped, lethal. "If this is another ploy to chain me down—"
"It isn't a chain," she cut in, firm as steel. "It is a bridge. To save you from walking this world alone."
"Exactly!" Jasper jumped in. "Who wants to brood forever? Even wolves need a pack. And you, my friend—you've been sulking like a vampire. Maybe a wife will stop you from drinking wine like it's blood."
Sullivan's glare burned through him, then swung back to his grandmother.