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

Slowly, Vincent turned around to face her.

“There was no such clause,” he said, his voice raspy.

“I know,” Claire said, a small, sad smile touching her lips. “I made it up.”

She picked up the leather folder from the table. Without taking her eyes off Vincent, she opened it, pulled out the divorce papers, and tore them cleanly in half.

Then she tore them again, dropping the white scraps of paper onto the floor like confetti.

Vincent stared at the torn papers, his gray eyes widening in utter shock.

“Claire... what are you doing?”

“I didn't stay in this house for three years just because of my father’s investigation, Vincent,” she said, stepping closer to him until her chest pressed against his. “At first, yes. I thought you were just a ruthless man who needed a quiet wife. But then I watched you.”

She reached up, her hand gently touching the side of his neck, feeling his pulse racing beneath her palm.

“I watched you take care of your elderly mother with so much gentleness,” she continued, her voice trembling with emotion. “I watched you protect your men. I watched you leave fresh flowers on my bedside table every time I was sick, thinking I was asleep and didn't notice. You built a wall around yourself so no one could hurt you, Vincent. But I saw who you really were.”

Vincent stood frozen, as if he were afraid that if he moved, she would disappear like a dream.

“I loved you by the second year, Vincent,” she admitted softly, tears shining in her eyes. “And the hardest part of the last three years wasn't hiding my past from you. It was pretending that I didn't care when you looked at me like I was just a contract.”

Vincent let out a long, ragged breath.

He didn't hesitate anymore.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his body, being careful of her wounded shoulder. He buried his face in the soft crook of her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of vanilla and rain that belonged only to her.

“I loved you from the moment you walked into my office three years ago,” Vincent confessed, his voice thick with raw, unfiltered emotion. “You were so quiet, so gentle... I thought if I touched you, I would ruin you. I thought my world would destroy you. I spent three years keeping my distance because I was terrified of making you a target.”

He lifted his head, framing her face with both hands, his thumb gently catching a tear as it spilled down her cheek.

“I don't want a contract, Claire,” Vincent whispered fiercely. “I don't want three years. I want fifty. I want forever.”

Claire smiled through her tears, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck.