The sound of Sienna’s voice shattering through the phone speaker was like glass hitting a marble floor.

Twenty minutes later, the private elevator of the penthouse suite dinged softly.

The doors slid open, and Dominic Moretti stepped out. He looked exhausted, his tie loosened, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder, but the moment his dark eyes locked onto me standing by the kitchen island holding a cup of espresso, his expression softened completely.

He dropped his jacket onto the floor, crossed the room in three long strides, and wrapped his arms tightly around me, burying his face in my neck.

“Marcus briefed me on the way from the tarmac,” Dominic murmured, his voice thick with a mixture of fierce pride and underlying panic. “Are you okay? Did he touch you?”

“I’m fine,” I whispered, resting my hands against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful thrum of his heartbeat. “Grant is in federal custody. The Cayman accounts are seized. It’s finally, truly over.”

Dominic pulled back just enough to look down at me, his hands framing my face, his thumbs gently tracing my cheekbones. There was no cold tycoon left—only the man who loved me unconditionally.

“You walked into that boardroom alone,” Dominic said, shaking his head in disbelief, a breathless laugh escaping his lips. “You took down a multi-million-dollar federal conspiracy while I was still in the air.”

“I learned from the best,” I smiled, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss against his lips.

Dominic groaned softly, deepening the kiss, pulling me flush against him as if he wanted to melt us into a single entity. When we finally broke apart, both of us smiling, Dominic reached into his jacket pocket—the one he had dropped on the floor—and pulled out a small, heavy velvet pouch.

“What’s this?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Phase four,” Dominic replied simply, untying the string.

He poured the contents onto the marble countertop. It wasn't jewelry. It was a set of vintage, brass-plated architectural blueprints.

I leaned in, squinting at the faded lettering. The Moretti-Kingsley Children’s Hospital & Research Center, Manhattan.

“I bought the historic brownstone block adjacent to Central Park West last week,” Dominic said quietly, watching my reaction carefully. “I want to build a world-class maternal health center. A place where women aren't lied to, where their fears are validated, and where no husband can ever tell them they’re broken.”

Tears welled in my eyes, spilling over onto my cheeks. But they weren't tears of pain or fear. They were tears of profound, overwhelming redemption.