Everyone laughed when the obese janitor fell to her knees until Chicago’s most feared man kissed her hand

The master guest suite was larger than Beatrice’s entire apartment in Cicero.

In the center of the marble bathroom stood a deep, clawfoot soaking tub filled with steaming water that smelled of lavender and almond oil.

Beatrice peeled off the wet, dirty navy uniform, letting it fall into a heap on the floor. She stepped toward the full-length mirror mounted on the wall, her breath catching in her throat.

She hadn't looked at her whole body in a mirror for over two years.

She saw the deep purple dark circles under her eyes, the soft, pale folds of flesh around her waist, the heavy slope of her shoulders, and the faint silver stretch marks that crisscrossed her skin. She looked like a shadow of the vibrant, strong woman who used to run ten miles every weekend along the lakefront.

"Look at you," she whispered to her reflection, tears dripping onto her collarbone. "What happened to you?"

She stepped into the hot water, sinking down until the steam touched her chin. The heat seeped into her aching muscles, relaxing the tight spasms in her lower back. For an hour, she sat in the stillness, scrubbing away three years of bleach, grease, and shame.

When she stepped out, she found a plush white bathrobe hanging on the door. On the bed in the adjoining bedroom lay a folded outfit—a simple, elegant olive-green silk dress with an asymmetrical neckline, tailored specifically to drape softly over a fuller figure. Beside it sat a pair of comfortable, low-heeled leather shoes.

Beatrice touched the fabric. It was soft, light, and felt impossibly expensive against her calloused fingers.

She dressed slowly. The dress fit perfectly, hugging her bust and flowing smoothly over her hips without clinging. When she caught her reflection in the bedroom mirror, she didn't see the "obese janitor" Bradley Pierce had mocked. She saw a tall, imposing woman with soft curves, striking hazel eyes, and a quiet, commanding presence that had been buried under layers of fear.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

"Come in," Beatrice said.

Dante stepped into the room. He had changed into a dark navy sweater and black trousers. When his eyes landed on her, he paused for a fraction of a second, his storm-gray eyes sweeping over her frame with quiet admiration.

"The color suits you," he said softly.

"It... it fits," Beatrice murmured, adjusting the sleeve. "How did you know my size?"

"Martha is very good at her job," Dante replied smoothly.

He walked over to a small mahogany desk in the corner of the room, picking up a leather-bound folder.

"While you were resting, my team went to work," Dante said, opening the file. "Harrison Weber is currently the Chief of Surgery at Lakeview Memorial. He is scheduled to receive the Physician of the Year award at the hospital's annual charity gala this Saturday night at the Drake Hotel."

Beatrice felt a cold shiver run down her spine at the sound of Weber’s name. "He stole my life, Dante. He forged my signature on the chart."

"I know," Dante said, handing her a printed document from the file. "And this is the original lab result from that night."

Beatrice gasped, snatching the paper from his hand. Her eyes flew over the numbers—the exact heparin levels she had tried to tell Weber about three years ago, stamped with a timestamp twenty minutes before the patient died.

"Where... where did you get this?" she stammered. "The hospital claimed this record was corrupted during a server migration!"

"Servers don't corrupt data," Dante said, a dark smile playing on his lips. "People pay technicians fifty thousand dollars to delete it. Unfortunately for Dr. Weber, the technician he hired had gambling debts with one of my associates in South Chicago. He kept a backup copy as insurance."

Beatrice stared at the paper, her thumb tracing the crisp black ink. The proof was right here. The evidence that could clear her name, restore her license, and destroy the man who had ruined her.

"What are we going to do with it?" she asked, looking up at Dante.