Violet sat in her dressing room with Ángel, a picture of icy composure to anyone who didn't know her better. Panic wasn't her style. It was messy, unbecoming—beneath her. But when the love of her life was in the next room sobbing about her hair, and she couldn't storm in to fix it herself? Even Violet could be forgiven for squeezing the life out of someone's hand.

"Just breathe. In and out," Ángel murmured, watching his boss grind her teeth. "She's probably just as nervous as you are. She's okay. You're okay." A faint crack came from Ángel's direction as Violet's grip tightened on his hand, her polished nails biting into his skin.

"Ahy—my hand, breathe, don't crush—"

Violet snapped her hand back like she'd touched fire, dragging a breath through her nose, trying to stay grounded. Her thoughts spun anyway. What if they ruined her hair? What if she was having second thoughts? What if she looked in the mirror and decided Violet wasn't worth the mess? No. She shut that thought down with a violent shake of her head and stood, smoothing her dress with a practiced hand.

It was simple. Elegant. A white off-the-shoulder satin gown with a sweetheart neckline, clinging in all the right places. Not that she cared. Violet would've walked out there in a t-shirt and heels if it meant walking away with a wife.

"You checked the guests?" Her voice was stern again, leaving no room for anything but the truth. "No weapons. No uninvited faces. No surprises." As she slipped a small dagger into the strap at her thigh, Ángel nodded silently. He'd triple-checked everything. She had asked for perfection, and he'd delivered. No one was going to ruin this—not today.

Violet stood at the altar, the soft cadence of the wedding music echoing through the vaulted church halls. Sunlight poured through stained glass windows, casting rainbow patterns across the stone floor. Yet none of it, none of the grandeur, the flowers, the silk—could touch her. Because then... there she was.

Violet's breath caught in her throat. For a split second, the world stilled. Her heart skipped, then raced like a war drum in her chest. There she was—her princess. Dressed like a dream Violet had never dared to believe would come true. Hair perfect. Eyes shining. A vision that made her knees weak.

In a few more steps, she would be her wife. Ángel was the first to tear up, his eyes misting over as he looked between Violet and her. He wasn't alone. Some of Violet's most trusted men, killers, looked away, blinking fast. A few of the scattered members of her family, those she hadn't exiled or buried, held back quiet sobs.

The priest smiled, his voice warm as he turned toward Violet. "Do you, Violet, take this woman to be your lawful spouse, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?"

"Yes," Violet said, steady and certain. No hesitation. No regret. Her hand squeezed her partner's fingers gently.

"Is it too early to object?" The voice cut through the church. Heads turned. A man Violet didn't recognize stood halfway down the aisle. Uninvited. Out of place. Dressed like he'd walked out of a gutter. Violet's eyes narrowed instantly.

"Violet," he sneered. "Been a while. Told you I'd be back."

Ángel spun, eyes scanning—he wasn't on the list. No entry through the doors. No footage. He must've slipped in while Ángel was checking in on Violet. Violet's stomach sank.

"Sir, this is no pla—" the priest began, but the man sighed, lifting his hand. A gun.

Panic erupted. Screams. Movement. But Violet's men were unarmed—per her orders. No violence on this day. No weapons. Now her own rule had her frozen in place, because the gun was aimed squarely at her chest.

"You don't remember me?" the man asked with a smile. "Not surprised. You killed so many people, they all blur together, right? But I remember you. I remember my sister, Maria. She begged you to stop. You made her dig her own grave."

Violet didn't move. Her blood turned to ice. Slowly, her hand inched toward her partner's, trying to shield her. The man's voice didn't waver. He was shaking, not from fear—but rage.

"I brought a little wedding gift for your bride," he said, nodding toward the folder clutched in his left hand. It should've held the wedding license. Instead, it was a trap.

He aimed the gun at her partner now. Violet's body moved instinctively.

"Wait—no!" Her voice cracked. Raw. Desperate. She reached for her partner's hand, but the man cocked the gun.

"Nah-uh. Look inside first," he said calmly. "Go ahead, take a peek, princess. I thought your girl might want to see who she's really marrying."

Ángel, paralyzed at the edge of the aisle, couldn't do a thing. One wrong move and the man would pull the trigger.

Violet's hands trembled as her partner slowly opened the folder. Inside—photos. Dozens of them. A man on his knees, Violet behind him, one hand yanking his hair back, the other driving a knife into his throat. A burned-out warehouse. Bodies lined up like broken dolls, Violet covered in blood, dragging a woman from the back of a van. A child. Small, crying, reaching toward a figure with Violet's face walking away.

Violet's mask shattered. Her knees buckled. She didn't cry—but her breath came in shallow, choking gasps.

"Look at me," she whispered to her partner, voice barely audible over the chaos. Her eyes never left the gun. "It's not like that, he's lying... photo shopped, I'd never-"

The church bells suddenly rang, a sound that would've been beautiful under any other circumstances, now mocking the disaster unfolding in the sanctuary.