Chapter 175
Dominic POV
I have negotiated trade agreements with rival packs.
I have broken up fights between grown men twice my size.
I have handled my father’s temper, my mother’s impossible expectations, and an entire council of elders who believe a slightly wrong tone of voice is enough evidence of weakness.
None of that prepared me for standing outside a bridal dressing room.
The boutique smells like expensive perfume and freshly steamed fabric.
It is overwhelming.
Strong enough that I briefly consider whether covering my nose with a cloth would be considered acceptable behavior.
Apparently, this is an Alpha problem now.
One of the workers is visibly panicking over it.
There are too many mirrors.
Too much white.
Too many women speaking in quiet voices like this is some sacred ceremony instead of a room where people argue about lace and measurements.
Ellie chose her mother’s dress.
And, for reasons I refuse to examine too closely, that choice made this feel less like a business arrangement and more like an actual wedding.
Of course, she immediately tried to dismiss it.
Said it was practical.
Said it was cheaper.
Said it was less dramatic.
Like she hadn’t stood there for an entire minute, completely silent, holding the fabric between her fingers.
Like she hadn’t traced the lace with her thumb as if she recognized every detail.
She held it carefully.
Not because it was fragile.
Because it mattered.
She didn’t smile.
Not really.
But something in her expression softened.
Her shoulders relaxed.
For a brief second, she looked less like someone enduring an obligation and more like someone choosing something.
It was the closest thing to excitement I had seen from her since this started.
I considered that progress.
Technically, I wasn’t supposed to be here.
Normally, Bernard would have handled transporting her.
But Bernard came down with the flu, and apparently my entire staff decided that allowing their future Luna to drive herself across town unsupervised was a greater crime than interrupting my schedule.
Which was fine.
Driving her myself meant she couldn’t disappear halfway through and claim she accidentally ended up somewhere else.
Considering her history of wandering into emotional disasters, questionable food choices, and random encounters with Lucas, I considered supervision a reasonable leadership decision.
Not that I minded being there.
Vivian stands nearby with a clipboard in hand, already taking control of the entire room.
She speaks with the boutique owner in the smooth, efficient voice she has perfected over the years.
The kind of voice that makes people agree before they realize they have agreed.
Hem length.
Seam adjustments.
Delivery schedules.
Everything.
She doesn’t hesitate.
She simply steps into every space Ellie leaves empty and fills it.
If a worker asks Ellie a question and she is distracted by healer duties or pretending she didn’t hear, Vivian is immediately there with an answer.
Guest lists.
Appointments.
Details.
Problems solved before they reach me.
It should make things easier.
And it does.
That’s the problem.
Because every time Vivian says “we,” I notice the person who should actually be standing beside me.
Ellie.
I still don’t understand why that bothers me.
"She’ll need the final fitting two days before," Vivian says, writing something down neatly. "We don’t want any last-minute stress."
We.
I nod once.
Because that is the expected response.
Because she’s right.
Because this wedding is being watched.
Judged.
Remembered.
My family cannot afford mistakes.
Still…
It isn’t Vivian’s opinion I care about.
It’s Ellie’s.
I release a slow breath.
Slower than I intended.
Vivian notices immediately.
Of course she does.
She tilts her head slightly.
"Are you alright?"
"I’m fine."
The answer is true.
And not true.
Her hand settles lightly against my shoulder.
A comforting gesture.
Familiar.
Except I find myself shifting away.
Barely.
Only half an inch.
Enough that no one else would notice.
But I do.
I don’t need reassurance.
I don’t need someone to manage this for me.
I need my fiancée.
The woman behind that door.
"She’s nervous," Vivian says softly, glancing toward the dressing room.
"It’s a lot for her."
"I know."
But the truth is…
I don’t.
Not completely.
Because Ellie has mastered the art of hiding things from me.
She hides pain behind sarcasm.
Fear behind anger.
Vulnerability behind jokes.
And somehow, the more time I spend with her, the more I realize I don’t want her to hide from me.
I want her to let me in.
Even if she fights me the entire way.