The first thing Daniel Whitfield noticed was the blood on his maid’s hand.

Two weeks passed.

The Chicago papers ran front-page headlines that shook the nation: *COLE CRIME SYNDICATE DISMANTLED IN MASSIVE FEDERAL SWEEP. BILLIONS IN SEIZED ASSETS TRANSFERRED TO LEGITIMATE WHITFIELD TRUST HEIRS.*

Vanessa Cole was sentenced to twenty years in federal prison for conspiracy and attempted murder. Victor Cole, broken in spirit and health, awaited trial in a maximum-security ward.

In the sunlit penthouse of Whitfield Tower, life had transformed.

The marble floors were no longer sterile and cold. Brightly colored children's toys were scattered across the Persian rugs. The sound of Sophie’s laughter echoed through the high-ceilinged rooms as she chased Daniel’s newly adopted golden retriever puppy across the terrace.

Naomi stood by the window, wearing a soft cream cashmere sweater and jeans, looking out over the glittering city skyline.

Daniel walked up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. He rested his chin on her shoulder, inhaling the sweet, comforting scent of vanilla and lavender that was uniquely hers.

“You’ve been staring at the city for an hour,” he murmured.

“I’m still waiting to wake up,” Naomi confessed, leaning her head back against his chest. “Two weeks ago, I was counting pennies to buy Sophie new shoes for winter. Yesterday, your lawyers told me I have forty million dollars in a private trust fund and ownership of three commercial ports.”

Daniel kissed the sensitive spot beneath her ear, making her smile. “You earned every cent of it, Naomi. It was yours before you were even born.”

“I don’t care about the ports, Daniel,” she turned in his arms, her hands coming up to rest on his broad shoulders. “I only care about this. About us.”