The piece of cardstock Cassandra pulled from her worn leather tote was thick, yellowed at the edges, and stamped with a priority mail seal dated three years ago. My name was handwritten on the front in her jagged, nervous script: Damon Prescott.

My head snapped toward the door. In the king bed across the room, Luke stirred restlessly, letting out a small whimper, while Violet burrowed deeper into her blanket.

"Were we expecting room service?" I asked, frowning.

Cassandra pulled her hand from mine, her face draining of color. "No. We didn't order anything."

The heavy pounding came again, louder this time, accompanied by the muffled, aggressive shouting of a man’s voice through the heavy oak door.

"Damon! Open up! I know you're in there!"

It was Marcus Vance.

I let out a low curse, pushed back my chair, and strode across the carpet, pulling the door open just wide enough to block the threshold.

Marcus stood in the brightly lit hallway, looking disheveled, his expensive Italian overcoat dusted with snow, his tie loosened around his collar. Behind him stood two burly corporate security guards in black suits.

"Are you out of your mind, locking your hotel room door and ignoring my calls?" Marcus hissed, trying to shove his foot in the crack of the door. "The board held an emergency conference call twenty minutes ago. Calder just withdrew their offer, and Merritt Systems is threatening legal action for breach of verbal exclusivity. If you don't sign the proxy agreement right now, Prescott Technologies is facing a hostile takeover and a multi-million dollar shareholder lawsuit!"

"Let them sue," I said coldly, keeping my voice down so I wouldn't wake the kids. "I told you at baggage claim, Marcus. I am done."

"You can't be done!" Marcus shouted, losing his temper, his voice echoing down the Marriott corridor. "You built this company! It's your entire life!"

"Keep your voice down," I warned, stepping out into the hallway and pulling the door shut behind me with a soft click, cutting off the view of the room. "And listen to me very carefully, Marcus. You and the board can take Prescott Technologies, you can split up the equity, and you can burn the neonatal patents to the ground for all I care. I am never coming back. If you ever show up at my hotel room again, I will personally throw you down these stairs."

Marcus stared at me in absolute horror, as if I had suddenly grown a second head. For ten years, he had known me as a ruthless, profit-obsessed corporate machine that breathed balance sheets and slept three hours a night. He couldn't fathom that a human being could walk away from a billion-dollar empire for something as invisible as a family.

"You're throwing it all away for a community college art teacher and a pair of toddlers?" he sneered, venom dripping from his words. "You're committing financial suicide, Damon. You'll be broke in six months."

"Maybe so," I replied, a cold, calm smile spreading across my face. "At least I'll sleep at night."

Before Marcus could sputter another retort, I stepped back inside Room 412 and slammed the door firmly in his face, engaging the deadbolt with a satisfying, metallic click.

When I turned around, Cassandra was standing a few feet away, her arms crossed over her chest, watching me with an expression I had never seen on her face before—a mixture of profound shock, respect, and deep, healing warmth.