The grand hall of the Petros estate buzzed with unease.

Crime lords, syndicate bosses, arms brokers — the most dangerous people on the continent — sat in tense silence. A weapons treaty was on the table, and every second of delay cost them millions.

And yet.

Their host — the Alek Petros, mafia sovereign, red-haired devil of the underworld — was currently slumped in his gilded chair like a lovesick poet, one leg thrown over the armrest, a velvet robe draped over his shoulders like a war cloak.

His emerald-green eyes glared at the clock.

"She left to make tea," he muttered, for the fifth time. "Why does it feel like she's been gone for a year?"

"Sir, it's been twelve minutes," someone whispered.

"She could be lost," he snapped. "Or kidnapped. Or... distracted by a butterfly. She's easily distracted, you know."

No one dared speak. Mostly because they remembered what happened last time someone interrupted Alek during a "missing wife episode." That poor soul was sent to count sand in the Sahara for three months.

A new advisor, young and foolish, tried: "Sir, with respect, this arms treaty—"

"Do you know," Alek cut in, rising from his throne-like chair, voice sharp, "that I rewrote a national marriage law to wed her? That I bribed, blackmailed, and bullied entire government bodies until they legalized cross-species unions? And you're telling me to sign paperwork while my legally-won, once-illegal demi-human wife is not within breathing distance?"

Silence.

Someone choked on their espresso.

Alek pressed a hand to his heart. "I paid a senator in gold. Another in blood. I faked a petition with a hundred thousand signatures. I built a temple. A temple, for the cultural loophole. I forced a cultural loophole into existence."

He sat back down dramatically. "And now she's gone. For twelve agonizing minutes."

The door creaked.

Heads snapped around.

Alek stood up like he'd seen God descend.

"My heart," he whispered, rushing over. "You survived the journey. Brave, brave girl."

There she was — calm and quiet, cradling a tray with tea and little biscuits she made herself. Her ears twitched faintly, and her eyes scanned the room. She moved like a breeze, serene and completely unaware that she'd just prevented a mafia meltdown.

"I was perishing. Literally fading. Look, I've lost color—" Alek whimpered.

"Sir, you're pale all the time," someone muttered.

He ignored them. Instead, he took a cup of tea like it was a sacred offering and looked up at her with all the devotion of a knight before a goddess.

She just sat beside him and calmly reached for a biscuit.

"Now we can begin," he said, sipping the tea peacefully.

The others didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or sign a treaty just to get out faster