The bathwater was hot enough to scald human flesh, and Maxwell Rourke did not react.

Six months later.

The grand terrace of Rourke House was filled with the music of a string quartet and the warm laughter of hundreds of guests. Longshoremen in crisp Sunday suits clinked champagne glasses with state senators and marine engineers, celebrating the grand opening of the new port terminals and the wedding of Maxwell Rourke.

Below the terrace, the harbor was alive with ships bearing the Rourke crest, their horns sounding in celebratory unison across the bay.

Martha stood near the stone balustrade, breathtaking in a sleek, ivory silk gown that hugged her curves and flowed down to the polished flagstones. The emerald ring caught the afternoon sun, sparkling with brilliant green fire.

Maxwell walked out from the reception hall, holding two glasses of sparkling cider. He handed one to her, his fingers brushing hers with a familiar, intoxicating spark.

“Are you hiding from your guests, Mrs. Rourke?” he teased gently, standing beside her, their shoulders touching.

“Just catching my breath,” Martha smiled, leaning her head against his bicep. “Your union foremen are currently trying to teach the mayor how to drink dock whiskey. I give him twenty minutes before he passes out in the rose bushes.”

Maxwell chuckled, taking a sip from his glass. “Let him. He owes Local 402 three years of back-pay permits anyway.”

They looked out over the sparkling water together. Pier 9 was fully operational, clean, modern, and completely purged of contraband. Across the channel, the steel framework of the Kovak Rehabilitation Center was already rising toward the sky, a beacon of hope for the entire coast.

Maxwell set his glass down on the stone ledge, turned to Martha, and took both of her hands in his.

“Do you remember the first thing you told me in that bathroom?” he asked softly.

Martha smiled, a mischievous glint in her hazel eyes. “I told you that your bathwater was too hot.”

“And you told me to stop improvising,” Maxwell added, his eyes softening with endless devotion. “I’m glad you didn't listen to me.”

“I never listen to arrogant men in bathtubs,” she laughed softly.

Maxwell drew her close, wrapping his arms around her waist, lifting her slightly off her feet as he spun her beneath the clear blue Rhode Island sky. When he set her down, his hands stayed planted firmly on her hips, his forehead resting gently against hers.

“No more poison,” he murmured against her lips. “No more shadows.”