Chapter 3

Five years is an eternity for someone waiting for a miracle, but it’s nothing more than a heartbeat for a woman busy building an empire on the scorched remains of her own heart.

“Mrs. Moreau, Dominic Rossi is waiting for you in the boardroom,” my assistant's voice crackled over the intercom.

“Tell him to wait two minutes, Carolina. I’m finishing a call with our London auditors.”

I didn’t wait for her reply. Before, I wouldn't have had an assistant. Before, I was the one holding my breath behind closed doors so others could decide my fate. Now, I held the air in the room.

I hung up and stood, smoothing the navy blue wool of my dress—impeccably tailored and bought with a card that didn't have Sebastien’s name on it. My heels clicked against the marble of the executive floor like rhythmic gunshots. I no longer wore stained suede or gas-station cotton. I no longer wore anything I hadn't chosen with clinical precision.

I caught my reflection in the glass foyer and didn't flinch. My hair was pulled into a low, lethal bun. Around my neck sat the pearl necklace I’d bought the day I signed the final acquisition of Steel & Diamond. The shadows under my eyes hadn't vanished; they had simply been weaponized.

“Good morning, Mrs. Moreau,” Ramón, the security lead, greeted me with a crisp nod.

“Morning, Ramón. Is your son’s fever down?”

“Much better, ma'am. Thank you for the extra leave.”

“Family is the only thing worth protecting, Ramón. Don't mention it.”

I pushed open the double doors of the boardroom. Dominic Rossi was silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the city as if he already owned it. His suit cost more than the first car I’d bought after leaving the motel, and he wore it with the practiced arrogance of a man who had never known hunger. He turned, flashing that predatory, crooked smile he reserved for moments of impending ruin.

“You’re late,” he noted, checking a platinum watch.

“I arrive exactly when the value of the room peaks, Dominic.”

“Five years has certainly given you a tongue of fire, Grace.”

He didn't offer a chair; he knew better. We stood like two predators marking territory. Dominic was tall, his dark hair slicked back to reveal eyes the color of strong espresso—eyes that were always doing the math.

“Sebastien Montgomery is drowning,” he said, skipping the pleasantries. “He’s past the point of treading water.”

“I’m aware.”

“His import firm owes three million to suppliers and another two to the banks. He’s been stupid enough to put the family estate up as collateral.”

“I’m aware of that, too. I’ve read his personal tax returns twice.”

Dominic raised a dark eyebrow and finally slumped into a leather chair, resting his Italian leather loafers on the edge of my twelve-thousand-dollar mahogany table. I looked at his feet with cold disapproval.

“Off.”

“It’s a sturdy table, Grace.”

“It’s my table. Down.”

He chuckled, dropping his feet but keeping his gaze locked on mine. Carolina entered, placing a black coffee in front of him and a steaming ginger tea in front of me. Dominic watched the tea with a curious tilt of his head.

“Ginger?” he asked. “Ulcers? Or just a bitter soul?”

“A habit from a time when I had nothing else to warm me.”

“Your ex-husband prefers twenty-year-old scotch. They say he’s drinking it like water lately. The man is a ghost of himself.”

“Sebastien was always a ghost,” I replied, the ginger burning my throat in a familiar, grounding way. “People just mistook the expensive suit for a heartbeat.”

Dominic stopped smiling. The air in the room shifted from banter to blood. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

“The bank is foreclosing next month,” I said firmly. “Sebastien is frantically hunting for 'angel' investors. He thinks he’s looking for a savior.”

“And you want to play the angel?”

“No. I want to buy his debt from the bank. Every cent of it. I want to be his only creditor, and then I want to call in the markers myself.”

Dominic’s espresso eyes narrowed. It wasn't shock I saw there—it was recognition. “That’s cold-blooded, Grace.”

“It’s math, Dominic. He taught me that everything has a price. He just didn't realize I was the one keeping the ledger.”

“It’s revenge.”

“Call it an audit of the soul. Are you in or out?”

Dominic took a slow sip of his coffee. “Why me? You have the capital.”

“Because you’re the only shark in this city who hates him enough to enjoy the kill, but professional enough not to get blood on your hands. I need the logistics handled through your firm. If I show up in person tomorrow, he’ll think I’m still a woman scorned. I want him to think he’s dealing with a business rival—right up until the moment you tell him who holds the leash.”

Dominic let out a low, dark laugh. “I don't hate the man. He’s just a mediocre legacy act who ran his father’s reputation into the dirt. He has no talent, Grace. He never did.”

“I know.”

“Yet you married him.”

“I was young and starving for a kind word. Now, I’m neither.”

Dominic leaned in closer, the scent of expensive sandalwood and rain enveloping me. “You’ve changed, Grace. You’ve taken off the gag and replaced it with a blade.”

“What exactly are you offering?” I countered, unblinking.

“I want fifty percent of the restructured assets. You provide the capital; I handle the hostile takeover logistics.”

“Forty percent,” I corrected. “And you handle the press. I want my name kept out of the papers until the seizure is finalized.”

“Forty-five, and I’ll personally deliver the eviction notice to the mansion.”

I held his gaze for a long beat. “Deal.”

Dominic didn't look away. “Do you trust me, Grace?”

“Not for a second.”

“Good. I don't trust you either. It makes for a clean partnership.”

He stood up, towering over me, but for the first time in my life, I didn't feel small. I felt like the mountain he was trying to climb.

“I have a meeting with Montgomery tomorrow morning,” Dominic said. “He thinks I’m bringing a soft loan to save his neck. The poor deluded fool.”

“When you tell him,” I whispered, my fingers brushing the pearls at my throat, “tell him it was Grace Elizabeth Moreau. Tell him the dust he trampled on found its wings—and they’re made of steel.”

Dominic nodded slowly, as if signing a contract with his soul. “You’re dangerous.”

“I’m competent, Dominic. Men just call it dangerous when they realize they can’t control the outcome.”

“Touché.” He picked up his briefcase, pausing at the door. “One last thing. After you’ve stripped him of the company, the house, the silverware… what then?”

“Then? Then I live.”

“And nothing else? No victory lap? No second chances?”

I set my teacup down with a quiet, final *clink*. “I already have everything I need, Dominic. Everything else is just noise.”

“Tomorrow at ten,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “The hunter hunted in his own den. Are you ready, Grace?”

He didn't mean ready for the paperwork. He meant ready for the blood. I smiled—a small, cold thing that didn't reach my eyes.

“I’ve been ready for five years, Dominic. Let the execution begin.”

He disappeared through the double doors, leaving me alone with the skyline. Somewhere down there, Sebastien was checking his watch, waiting for the man he thought would save him.

He didn't realize that salvation had died five years ago in a twenty-dollar motel room, and in its place, a queen had been born from the ashes. I touched the necklace and whispered to the cold glass, “This is for you, Harold. And for me. Mostly for me.”