I was scrubbing the floor of a nearly empty restaurant on Christmas Eve while my six-year-old daughter slept in a booth because I couldn’t afford a babysitter

Three days later, Chloe and I moved into the brownstone on Chestnut Street in Beacon Hill.

The neighborhood was breathtaking—historic brick townhouses, gas-lit street lamps, and cobblestone alleys lined with snow-covered trees.

The apartment occupied the entire second floor of a restored 18th-century building. It featured hardwood floors, high ceilings with crown molding, a master bedroom with an ensuite bathroom, and a bright, sunny bedroom for Chloe overlooking the private rear courtyard garden.

When Chloe walked into her new room for the first time, she froze.

The walls were painted a soft lavender. A white canopy bed sat against the wall, covered in plush pink blankets and a dozen brand-new stuffed animals. A white wooden desk sat by the window, stacked with coloring books, art supplies, and a brand-new iPad.

"Mommy..." Chloe whispered, her eyes wide with wonder as she walked slowly toward the bed. "Is this really mine?"

"It's all yours, baby," I said, leaning against the doorframe with tears pouring down my face.

She threw herself onto the bed, burying her face in the soft pillows, laughing with pure joy.

A soft knock came at the open front door of the apartment.

I wiped my eyes and walked into the living room. James was standing in the entryway, dressed in an charcoal three-piece suit, holding a large bouquet of fresh white lilies and dark red roses.

"Is the apartment to your satisfaction, Miss Bennett?" he asked with a faint, rare smile.

"It's breathtaking, James," I said, walking over to him and taking the flowers. "Thank you. For everything."

He stepped inside, looking around the living area. "Your things from storage were delivered this morning. My men unpacked the boxes and placed them in the closets."

"You really didn't have to do all of this," I said, setting the flowers in a vase on the dining table. "I feel like I'm living in someone else's life."

"It's your life now, Grace," James said firmly, stepping up behind me. He reached out and placed his large, warm hands on my shoulders, turning me around to face him. "You don't ever have to look back at the past again."

I looked up into his face. For the last three days, I had seen James Moretti in many roles: the terrifying boss, the generous protector, the devoted son. But looking at him now, standing inches away in my sunlit living room, I saw something else—a man who looked at me with a deep, consuming desire that made my heart race.

"I start work at the foundation tomorrow," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I know," James murmured, his dark eyes dropping to my mouth. "My mother is excited to have you."

"James?"

"Yes, Grace?"

"Why did you really come here today?" I asked, holding his gaze.

James’s hands slipped from my shoulders down to my waist, pulling me an inch closer to his chest. I could feel the heat radiating through his suit, the steady, heavy thud of his heart.

"I came to see if you were comfortable," James whispered, his voice low and dangerous. "And because I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since Christmas Eve."

My breath hitched. I didn't pull away. Instead, I leaned into his touch, resting my hands against the lapels of his suit jacket.

"I haven't stopped thinking about you either, James," I admitted quietly.

A dark, triumphant spark flared in his eyes. He leaned down, his lips brushing against mine softly, testing my reaction.

The touch sent a jolt of electricity straight through my body. I parted my lips with a soft sigh, and James deepened the kiss, his strong arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me flush against his hard body.

The kiss was slow, deep, and possessively intense—a silent promise of protection, passion, and a future I had never dared to dream of.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was slightly uneven, his dark eyes burning into mine.