I dumped four gallons of soapy water over the most feared dog in Chicago, and everyone on Matteo Moretti’s estate expected me to leave in an ambulance. Instead, Bruno—the 150-pound Cane Corso who had put a professional groomer in the hospital—followed me home. That accident pulled me into the orbit of a man people were afraid to name out loud. Matteo gave orders. I gave his dog choices. Then his jealous socialite friend, my controlling ex-husband, hidden camera footage, threatening photographs, and one terrible decision by Matteo forced me to prove something none of them understood: loving me did not mean owning me.

Spring arrived in Lake Geneva two months later.

The snow melted away, revealing rich green grass, blooming wildflowers, and clear blue waters along the lake shore.

The eastern ridge was now a hive of gentle construction. Local contractors were finishing the framework for the Bennett Canine Rehabilitation Sanctuary—a state-of-the-art facility designed to rescue, rehabilitate, and rehome traumatized dogs from across the Midwest.

I stood on the porch of my renovated cottage, holding a clipboard, reviewing equipment orders for the new clinic.

Bruno walked beside me—completely cured of his limp, his coat shining in the spring sun, his bad hip fully restored through daily physical therapy and proper care.

A dark sedan pulled up the gravel drive, and Matteo stepped out.

He wore a simple white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark trousers, and a relaxed smile that had become his standard look whenever he was at the estate.

“How are the construction plans coming, Director Bennett?” Matteo teased, walking up the porch steps and pulling me into his arms for a warm, deep kiss.

“We’re two weeks ahead of schedule,” I smiled, resting my hands against his chest. “The aquatic therapy pool is being installed tomorrow.”

“Good,” Matteo said, dipping his head to kiss my neck. “Because I have a surprise for you.”

He led me down the porch steps toward the newly built training yard near the barn.

Standing in the center of the grassy ring was Leo, holding three leather leashes.

At the end of those leashes were three giant, nervous Cane Corso mix puppies—rescued from a neglected breeding facility in Southern Illinois that federal agents had shut down the night before.

“They were labeled untrainable,” Matteo said softly, standing behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder. “The city shelter was going to put them down this morning. I figured your sanctuary needed its first official patients.”

My heart swelled until I thought it would burst.

I walked into the ring slowly. I didn't rush them. I didn't make loud noises.

I sat flat on my butt in the green grass.

Bruno walked in beside me, laying his massive body down next to mine, giving a low, reassuring huff to the frightened puppies.

One by one, the three little black puppies crept across the grass, sniffing my boots, my hands, and Bruno’s ears, until all three were piled into my lap, licking my chin.

I looked up at Matteo, who was standing near the wooden fence, watching us with a look of pure, unadulterated happiness in his dark eyes.