Twenty-two powerful guests watched me slap the most feared man in Chicago after he grabbed my wrist and ordered me to sit beside him. Everyone thought I had just humiliated Damian Romano in his own mansion, but two seconds later, a bullet ripped through the chair meant for me, and I realized his terrifying behavior was the only reason I was still breathing.

The rain had stopped by the time the private helicopter touched down on the Romano estate’s private pad just past noon. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the study, watching the rotors slow to a heavy, rhythmic thud.

Gabriel walked into the room, his expression grim, carrying a secure dossier. He placed it squarely on Damian’s desk.

“It’s done,” Gabriel said quietly. “Tyler Bennett is no longer a threat. His assets have been seized, his operations dismantled, and he has been permanently relocated to a federal black site where he will never, ever see the light of day again—let alone trace your name, Harper.”

A massive wave of physical relief broke over me, so powerful my knees buckled. I caught myself against the edge of the desk, tears streaming freely down my cheeks. Six years of looking over my shoulder, six years of suffocating fear and hiding in the dark—gone. Just like that.

Damian crossed the room instantly, wrapping his strong arms around me and pulling me against his broad chest. He buried his face in my hair, holding me so tightly I could feel the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat against mine.

“It’s over, Harper,” he murmured against my ear. “You’re free.”

“Thank you,” I sobbed softly into his shirt. “You gave me back my life.”

“I gave you what was always yours,” Damian replied, pulling back just enough to look deep into my eyes. His dark gaze burned with an intensity that took my breath away. “Now... there’s only one thing left to settle.”

Before I could ask what he meant, Damian dropped to one knee right there on the Persian rug of his study.

My breath caught in my throat. The room seemed to tilt on its axis.

Damian Romano—the most feared, untouchable man in Chicago, a king of the underworld who commanded armies and terrified syndicates—was kneeling before me.

He reached into his tactical vest and pulled out a small, velvet box. He popped it open, revealing a breathtaking diamond ring that caught the midday light like a fallen star.

“I didn't bring you into my world to be a maid, Harper,” Damian said, his deep voice steady, resonant, and entirely stripped of armor. “I brought you here because from the second you walked through these doors, you became the only thing that mattered to me. Stay with me. Not as an employee. Not as a guest. As my wife. As my equal.”