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

Thirty minutes later, Naomi stepped out of the private dressing room.

Daniel, who was loading a spare magazine into his pocket, stopped dead in his tracks.

The emerald gown hugged her slender curves with breathtaking grace, flowing down to the floor in shimmering folds. The diamond choker caught the chandelier light, framing her delicate collarbones. Her blonde-brown hair was pinned up in an elegant chignon, exposing the proud line of her neck.

She was no longer the quiet maid who cleaned his dining table. She looked like royalty.

Daniel stepped toward her, his gaze intense, drinking in every detail. “You are the most stunning woman I have ever seen.”

Naomi felt a blush warm her cheeks, but she met his gaze with newfound confidence. “I used to be terrified of you, you know. When I first interviewed for the job.”

Daniel gave a faint, crooked smile. “Sophie wasn't terrified. She asked me if I was a king.”

“She still thinks you are,” Naomi murmured, stepping closer until she could smell his cologne. “Are you?”

Daniel reached out, his hand gently resting against the curve of her waist. “If I am, it’s only so I can build a fortress around you and your daughter that no one can ever tear down.”

Naomi leaned in, resting her cheek against his broad chest. “Daniel... win tonight. Come back to us.”

“I will always come back to you,” he promised, kissing her hair.

Behind them, Marco cleared his throat politely from the doorway. “Boss. The motorcade is ready. Sophie is settled in the private penthouse safe-suite with four female operatives. It’s time.”

Daniel nodded. He offered his arm to Naomi.

She took it, her fingers curling firmly around his muscular forearm.