The gunshot came less than three seconds after Vincent Rourke told his wife not to stand so close to him.

The purge of the Vane Syndicate took less than forty-eight hours.

By the time the news of Dominic Vane’s "sudden disappearance" hit the local papers, Vincent’s men had dismantled Vane’s entire operation, seizing his ports, his shipping contracts, and his assets. The remaining members of the Syndicate Council formally pledged their absolute loyalty to Vincent, making him the undisputed ruler of the city’s underground.

On the third evening, Vincent returned to his estate.

The house was quiet. The heavy security detail remained outside, but inside, the warm lights were glowing.

Vincent walked up the grand staircase to the master bedroom. He opened the door quietly, expecting to find Claire asleep.

Instead, she was standing by the window, wearing a soft cream cashmere sweater over her leggings, her right arm cradled in a sling. She was looking out at the gardens, watching the rain fall against the glass.

Vincent paused in the doorway, taking off his suit jacket and laying it across a chair.

“You shouldn't be standing,” he said gently.

Claire turned around. Her face was still slightly pale, but her eyes were bright, clear, and focused.

“I was waiting for you,” she said softly.

Vincent walked over to her, stopping just inches away. He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the line of her jawline. “It’s done, Claire. Vane is gone. His lieutenants have been removed. Your father’s name has been cleared, and the evidence has been delivered anonymously to the Justice Department. Nobody will ever hurt you again.”

Claire looked up into his eyes. She saw the exhaustion there, but beneath it, a deep, unwavering tenderness that made her breath catch.

“Thank you, Vincent,” she whispered.

He pulled a thick leather folder from his pocket and laid it on the small table beside her.

Claire looked at the folder. She recognized it instantly.

It was the marriage contract.

Today was day 1,095.

Three years. Seventeen days had passed since the gala. The contract had officially reached its expiration date.

Inside the folder lay the deed to the quiet townhouse in Charleston, a cashier’s check for five million dollars, and the signed divorce papers awaiting her signature.

Claire felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach.

She looked from the folder up to Vincent’s face. His expression was completely unreadable—the mask of the cold crime boss returned.

“Everything we agreed to three years ago is in there,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a quiet, restrained tone. “The house in Charleston is ready. The money has cleared. You are a free woman, Claire. You don't have to pretend anymore. You don't have to hide in my shadow.”

Claire stared at him. “You’re giving me the divorce papers?”

“That was the deal,” Vincent replied, though a tight muscle clenched along his jawline. “You gave me three years. You saved my mother’s life. You saved mine. I won't keep you prisoner in a world full of blood and monsters.”

He turned to walk toward the door.

“Vincent,” she called out.

He stopped, his back to her.

Claire took two steps toward him, ignoring the dull ache in her shoulder. She reached out with her left hand, grabbing his wrist, her fingers warm against his pulse.

“Did you ever read the clause on page twelve?” she asked softly.

Vincent turned his head slightly. “Which clause?”