Chapter 2

The AC in the luxury bridal boutique was blasting, and goosebumps broke out across my bare back.

The zipper of the wedding dress was stuck right at my waist. I reached behind, straining my arms, but I couldn't pull it up no matter how hard I tried.

"Carter, can you help me?" I called out through the curtain of the fitting room.

No response.

I pushed the curtain open just a crack. Carter was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, on the phone. He was wearing a perfectly tailored black tuxedo—the groom's suit we had just picked out yesterday.

Right now, his brows were tightly knit, his voice filled with a rare, anxious tenderness. "Melody, don't cry. What’s wrong with Cotton? Is he refusing to eat again?"

Hearing the names "Melody" and "Cotton," my fingers on the curtain froze. My fingertips turned a ghostly, bloodless white.

Melody. His ex-girlfriend.

Cotton. The Samoyed they adopted together.

"Okay, don't be scared. I'm on my way." Carter hung up, and as he turned around, his eyes met mine.

He paused for a second. A flicker of annoyance flashed in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a calm, matter-of-fact look.

"Chloe, I have to go," he said, walking over. He didn't even glance at the million-dollar gown I was wearing. "Melody said Cotton has been on a hunger strike since last night.

He’s shivering under the couch. You know Article 28 of "The 36 Rules of Cotton’s Co-parenting" states that if the dog shows severe depressive symptoms, both owners must comfort him together."

That damn co-parenting agreement again.

This was the seventh time this month.

On the day we set our wedding date, he rushed off to sign a dental surgery consent form for Cotton. "Rule 5: Any medical intervention requires joint signatures."

On the day we did our wedding menu tasting, he left halfway through to buy a specific brand of goat milk powder. "Rule 15: Any dietary changes must be inspected by both parties in person."

On the day we mailed our wedding invitations, he spent the entire afternoon at Melody’s apartment watching the rain with Cotton. "Rule 19: Thunderstorms require double companionship."

Every single time, he used that professional, business-like tone to tell me, "Chloe, I promised Melody when we broke up. Cotton is a living soul. I can’t just abandon him. This is just a responsibility. Don't overthink it."

I stared at him, my throat feeling like it was stuffed with wet cardboard.

"Carter, today is our last dress fitting. The designer flew in all the way from Paris, and she’s only staying for two hours." My voice was quiet, trembling with a pathetic weakness that made even me despise myself.

He reached out, habitually trying to ruffle my hair, but I jerked my head away.

His hand froze in mid-air. His brows furrowed deeper, his tone dripping with the impatience of a man used to getting his way.

"Chloe, you used to be so reasonable. We can reschedule the fitting. I can pay double to fly the designer back here. But Cotton is in critical condition right now. He’s not just a dog—he is Melody's emotional support animal."

"And what about me?" I looked him dead in the eye. "Does that mean your fiancée will always have to take a backseat to a dog and its owner?"

Carter’s face darkened. He hated it when I questioned him like this.

"I told you, it’s a responsibility. The agreement is in black and white. I can't break my word." He glanced at his Rolex, clearly losing his patience.

"Try the dress on by yourself first. Tell the designer if you want any changes. I'll pick you up later."

With that, he turned on his heel and walked out, pushing open the heavy glass doors of the boutique.

A wave of summer heat rushed in, only to be instantly swallowed by the cold AC.

I stood frozen, staring at the mirror. I looked like a complete joke—wearing a gorgeous, expensive wedding dress with a zipper stuck halfway down my back.

The assistant walked over cautiously. "Miss Smith... do you want to keep trying?"

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I opened them, the last trace of moisture in my eyes had evaporated.

"No."

I reached behind and yanked the heavy gown down. The rough lace scratched my back, leaving angry red marks, but I didn't feel a thing.

"Miss Smith, about the remaining balance on this dress..."

"Cancel the order. Keep the deposit." I changed back into my own clothes, grabbed my purse, and spoke as calmly as if I were talking about the weather.

When I stepped out of the boutique, the harsh sunlight stung my eyes.

I pulled out my phone. I didn't text Carter to scream at him. I didn't post any depressing rants on Instagram.

I simply scrolled to the very bottom of my contact list, staring at the number I had blocked, unblocked in the dead of night, but never actually dialed.

Damian Vance.

The most untouchable man in the city. Ruthless, cold-blooded, and terrifying. He was also the man who, on a rainy night three years ago, had pinned me against an alley wall with bloodshot eyes, asking me in a broken voice, "Why can't you choose me?"

I pressed the call button.

It rang only once before he picked up.

No "hello," no casual greeting. Just heavy, ragged breathing, so intense I could almost feel the heat of a volcano ready to erupt through the screen.

"Damian," I said, my voice incredibly calm. "Does what you said three years ago still stand?"

Silence stretched for two seconds.

Then, the sharp "click" of a metal lighter echoed. The man’s voice was incredibly raspy, dripping with a dark, obsessive passion.

"Chloe, do you have any idea what you're doing right now?"

"I do," I said, watching the traffic rush by. "I don't want to wait anymore. If you can..."

"Stay right there. Don't move," he cut me off brutally. I heard the loud crash of a chair flipping over and people gasping in the background.

"Ten minutes. Chloe, you walked into my life on your own this time. For the rest of your life, even if you die, you’ll die with my last name on your death certificate."