Eight months into my arranged marriage,

The private study on the third floor of the Lake Forest estate was an altar of old-world intimidation.

Paneled in dark Honduran mahogany that smelled of aged leather and gun oil, the room was dominated by an antique partner’s desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A massive limestone fireplace threw flickering shadows across the Persian rugs, illuminating the cold, precise lines of a life built on absolute control.

It was 2:30 AM.

Marco stood by the heavy oak door, his massive frame blocking the threshold like a security bulkhead, his arms crossed over his tactical vest.

Behind the desk sat Dominic Russo.

He was reviewing a stack of shipping manifests and municipal police reports, a glass of un-iced bourbon sitting untouched beside his laptop.

The heavy brass latch of Bildung—wait, the heavy brass latch of the study door clicked.

I stepped into the room.

I had changed out of the red silk dress and into a soft, cream-colored cashmere sweater and dark trousers. My hair was clean, falling softly around my shoulders, and the raw, bruised exhaustion in my eyes had been replaced by a fierce, unyielding light.

"You're still awake," I said, my voice steady and clear as I walked across the Persian rug.

"I'm waiting for you to tell me why you're still here," Dominic replied, not looking up from his papers.

I stopped ten feet from his desk. I didn't sit down.

"You didn't call me up here to talk about my travel plans, Dominic," I said, using his first name with an easy, natural familiarity that would have gotten any other person in Chicago buried in a marsh.

Dominic slowly raised his head. His slate-gray eyes locked onto mine.

"No," he agreed, closing the top dossier with a sharp, clean clack.

He stood up, walked around the mahogany barrier, and stopped three feet away from me. Up close, I could feel the intense, magnetic heat of his presence—the heavy scent of cedarwood, espresso, and absolute, unchecked authority.

"Adrian Cross filed an emergency commercial injunction against our northern shipping lines forty minutes ago," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hairs on my arms stand up.

My breath caught. "What are you going to do to him?"

"He’s playing a game," Dominic replied, his face an unreadable block of granite. "He thinks he can use you to destabilize my logistics network. I had my attorneys file a counter-suit seizing his primary import terminals in Indiana. And by tomorrow morning, he will be standing trial for corporate espionage and commercial sabotage."

He took one slow step closer, closing the distance until I could see the tiny silver flecks in his dark irises.

"You're a terrifying man, Dominic Russo," I whispered, my fingers resting lightly against the sleeve of his white shirt.

A faint, self-deprecating smile touched the corners of his mouth.

"I know," he said.

"And yet..." I continued, taking a breath, "you let a woman walk into your house, wear a red dress, and turn your empire upside down."

"Because the moment you walked into that ballroom," Dominic said, his hand reaching out to gently cup my cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray lock of hair, "my house stopped feeling like a tomb."