The glass paperweight had missed Luke’s head by an inch, shattering against the mahogany bookshelf and raining razor-sharp crystal shards across the Persian rug. I sat in my custom, leather-upholstered titanium wheelchair, chest heaving, the phantom pain in my shins flaring like a blowtorch.

The raid on Rostov’s plant was clean, swift, and entirely legal. By sunrise, the deeds to Emma’s family properties were transferred directly into a protected blind trust bearing her name, completely out of reach of any syndicate or creditor.

Back in the quiet sanctuary of the estate, the tension had shifted. The threats were gone. The enemies were caged. Only the twelve-month legal deadline remained hanging in the air like an unexploded shell.

Emma sat across from my desk, going over the updated operational budgets with absolute calm, though her fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against her coffee cup.

"The properties are secure," she said without looking up. "My mother doesn't even have to know about the transition. Thank you, Daniel."

"You earned every square foot of it," I said, my eyes tracing the sharp line of her profile.

She finally looked up, her amber eyes locking onto mine with a steady, searching intensity. "Harrington called my office this morning."

My pulse ticked upward. "Did he?"

"He mentioned the three-year marriage clause," she said, her voice completely even, though a faint pink dusted her cheeks. "He said you were looking for a compliant socialite to sign a five-year contract."

"Harrington talks too much," I muttered, gripping the edge of the desk.

"He does," Emma agreed, standing up slowly. She walked around the desk, stopping just inches from my chair. She didn't wait for me to look down; she reached out, took my face in both her hands, and tilted my chin up. "If you're going to commit corporate fraud against your own family trust just to keep your empire, Mr. Vance... you might want to pick a partner who actually knows how to keep your books."