The first time Blair Carrington struck me with the riding crop, two hundred wealthy people watched.

Within forty-eight hours, the servants’ quarters on the basement level were behind me. I was moved to a guest suite on the second floor, complete with a private balcony, a clawfoot bathtub, and a wardrobe filled with tailored slacks, silk blouses, and wool blazers that actually fit my frame instead of pinching it.

Dominic had not hired an ordinary tailor. The seamstress who arrived had taken my measurements without the customary side-eye or pitying sighs I’d endured in high-end boutiques my entire adult life. She cut jackets that complemented my broad shoulders and made me look formidable rather than apologetic.

By day four, I had cracked the first layer of the Carrington accounts.

“Look here,” I said, tapping the screen as Dominic walked into my newly outfitted office adjacent to his study. It was late, past midnight, and the house was dead silent.

Dominic stood behind my chair, resting one hand on the edge of the mahogany desk. His proximity was distracting—a subtle heat radiating through his crisp linen shirt.

“Explain it to me,” he said, his voice low near my ear.

“Pierce wasn't just skimming from your shipping docks,” I said, pointing to a cascade of wire transfers. “He was moving dirty capital from an offshore syndicate called Apex Maritime. Apex is a front for Julian Vance.”

Dominic’s jaw set. “Your ex.”

“Yes. Pierce and Julian went to Dartmouth together. Pierce provided the physical logistics through your ports, and Julian handled the digital laundering. They wanted you out of the way because you refused to allow illicit narcotics through the Newark terminals. If you died, Blair inherited the executive proxy, Pierce ran the docks, and Julian expanded his money-laundering network across the entire eastern seaboard.”

Dominic looked from the screen down to my face. “They didn't just try to kill me. They tried to build an empire on the ashes of your life.”

“It appears so,” I said, feeling a familiar, cold fury settle behind my ribs.

Before Dominic could reply, his phone buzzed on the blotter. He picked it up, listened for five seconds, and frowned.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Blair,” Dominic said, his eyes darkening. “She just held an impromptu press conference outside the Plaza Hotel. She’s claiming that an unstable domestic servant assaulted her at our engagement party and coerced me under duress. She’s also leaked your old SEC indictment to the society blogs.”

I leaned back, my hands curling into fists. “She wants to destroy my credibility before any of the financial evidence can surface.”

“She’s attempting to,” Dominic corrected, pocketing the phone. “Tomorrow night is the Metropolitan Heritage Gala. Every major investor in New York will be in that room. The Carringtons think they can use public pressure to force me into an out-of-court settlement and sweep Pierce’s 'disappearance' under the rug.”

“Are you going?”

Dominic looked at me, a calculated fire burning in his gray eyes. “We are going. Together.”

“Mr. Vale, I don't belong at a society gala. Look at me. They will tear me to pieces.”

Dominic reached down, his fingers lightly brushing the edge of my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. His touch was electric, completely devoid of the cruelty I had spent years expecting from powerful men.