You’ll only embarrass me wearing that dress.

Two weeks later, the spring sun shone down over Manhattan with crystalline clarity.

At the top of Harrell Tower, the grand reopening gala of the newly consolidated Harrell-Sterling Global Enterprise was in full swing. The glass-walled sky lounge offered a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the gleaming New York skyline, bathed in the gold and violet hues of a spectacular sunset.

The room was filled with the elite of global finance, politics, and royalty. But tonight, there were no whispers of scandal. No shadows of doubt. Harrell Global had not only survived the assault, it had swallowed Montgomery’s empire whole, emerging as the undisputed financial titan of the Western hemisphere.

Phoebe Harrell stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, radiant beyond words.

She wore a breathtaking, custom-made midnight-blue silk gown adorned with thousands of micro-sapphires that shimmered like a star-filled sky with every step she took. Her dark hair was swept into an intricate updo, showing off the regal line of her neck and the brilliant diamond necklace that had once belonged to her grandmother.

She looked entirely whole, commanding, and untouchable.

Thomas Sterling stepped up beside her, holding two glasses of champagne. He looked striking in a bespoke black tuxedo, his eyes warm with profound admiration and something far deeper, far more dangerous.

"A penny for your thoughts, Madame CEO?" Thomas asked softly, handing her a glass.

Phoebe turned to him, clinking her glass against his with a musical ring. "I was thinking about the dress I wore to the Apex gala all those months ago. The simple gray gown Julian told me was embarrassing."

Thomas chuckled, shaking his head. "Julian was a blind fool who couldn't recognize a goddess if she stood right in front of him."

"It wasn't about the dress, Thomas," Phoebe said, looking out at the city lights beginning to sparkle below them. "It was about permission. For years, I waited for him to give me permission to be brilliant. To be powerful. To take up space."

"And now?" Thomas asked, stepping closer until only inches separated them, his voice dropping to a low, intimate timbre that sent a thrilling shiver down Phoebe’s spine.

"Now, I don't ask for permission," Phoebe smiled, looking up into his piercing dark eyes. "I take the room. And everything in it."

Thomas stared down at her, his heart in his eyes. He set his champagne glass down on a nearby marble pedestal, reaching out to take both of her hands into his.

The crowded ballroom seemed to fade into absolute silence around them. Across the room, Raymond Harrell paused mid-conversation, watching them with a wide, knowing smile.

"Phoebe," Thomas began, his voice thick with uncharacteristic nervousness. "For months, I’ve stood beside you as your partner, your ally, your protector. But every day that passes, I realize that protecting your empire isn't enough. I want to build a life with you. I want to stand beside the woman who survived the fire and became the storm."

He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a small, black velvet box.

Phoebe’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart thundered against her ribs with a joy so sharp it almost brought tears to her eyes.

Thomas clicked the box open, revealing a breathtaking ten-carat flawless emerald-cut diamond ring, set in platinum and surrounded by pavé diamonds.

"Phoebe Harrell," Thomas whispered, his eyes shining with absolute devotion. "Will you do me the greatest honor of my life, and marry me?"

The entire ballroom held its breath. Guests turned toward them, gasping in delight. Raymond raised his glass, tears of happiness pricking his silver eyes.

Phoebe looked down at the ring, then up into the eyes of the man who had risked his life to save hers. A brilliant, radiant smile broke across her face.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice ringing clear and true. "Yes, Thomas. A thousand times yes."

Thomas let out a breathless laugh, pulling the ring from the velvet and sliding it onto her finger before pulling her into his arms. The ballroom erupted into deafening, thunderous applause, cheers echoing off the fifty-foot glass ceilings.

Thomas leaned down, his lips brushing against hers in a passionate, breathless kiss that sealed their future under the New York stars.

Phoebe pulled back slightly, laughing against his chest, her hand resting over his heart.

At that exact moment, the massive sixty-foot presentation display at the center of the ballroom—intended to broadcast the live stock ticker and the new Harrell-Sterling corporate logo—flickered violently.

A loud, piercing squeal of electronic feedback tore through the sound system, cutting off the orchestra instantly.

The music died. The applause ceased.

The central screen turned blood-red.

In the center of the massive display, a live video feed abruptly materialized.

The camera was grainy, shaky, broadcasting from a sterile, white, windowless room with heavy steel doors and barred ventilation.

In the center of the frame, seated in a wheelchair, was a woman dressed in an orange Department of Corrections jumpsuit. Her once-glamorous blonde hair was chopped short, her face gaunt and pale, her eyes hollow, dark, and filled with a terrifying, unhinged mania.

It was Paisley Daley.

Beside her, leaning casually against the concrete wall with a cigar between his fingers, was a man whose face had not been seen in New York for twenty-five years. A man everyone believed had died in a private plane crash in the Swiss Alps.

Raymond Harrell took one look at the screen and dropped his glass of scotch to the floor. The crystal shattered into a hundred pieces.

"No..." Raymond gasped, his face turning the color of chalk, his hand flying to his chest. "It's not possible... Victor?"

On the screen, Victor Daley—Paisley’s presumed-dead billionaire father, the true founder of Apex Strategy—smiled directly into the camera, blowing a thick cloud of smoke.

*"Good evening, Raymond. Hello, little Phoebe,"* Victor Daley’s voice boomed through the ballroom speakers, cold as a tombstone. *"Did you really think Montgomery Sterling was the one who set the fire? Did you really think my daughter went to prison alone?"*

Victor leaned closer to the lens, his dead eyes narrowing into slits.

*"Look under the foundations of Harrell Tower, Raymond. You have exactly thirty minutes before my legacy brings yours crumbling down into the street. Happy engagement, Phoebe."*