My fiancée leaned over my hospital bed and whispered, “Die before Friday, Dominic. The money moves faster when you stop breathing.” She kissed my forehead, convinced I was trapped inside a coma, but I heard every poisonous word, and minutes later, the maid everyone treated like furniture discovered the truth that could get us both killed.

Two days after the boardroom execution, the dust began to settle across New York.

Anthony Moretti and Dr. Thorne pleaded guilty to federal conspiracy charges in exchange for avoiding the death penalty, receiving forty-year sentences in a maximum-security federal penitentiary. Veronica’s legal team attempted to claim mental instability, but the overwhelming video, audio, and bank records secured by Grace rendered her defense completely useless. She faced a mandatory minimum of thirty years without parole.

Inside my penthouse, the air felt clean for the first time in months. The sickly sweet smell of gardenia perfume was gone, replaced by the crisp scent of rain from the open balcony doors.

I stood by the window, looking out over Central Park, holding a glass of scotch.

A soft knock sounded at the open study door.

Grace stood there, dressed in simple jeans and a sweater, holding a small leather shoulder bag.

"Mr. Moretti," Grace said softly. "I came to turn in my keycard and my uniform. The temp agency said my contract with your estate is completed."

I turned around, setting my glass on the desk. "Come in, Grace. Please."

She stepped into the room, looking slightly hesitant, as if she still felt she was stepping into a world where she didn't belong.

"You don't need a temp agency anymore, Grace," I said, walking over to my desk and picking up a leather-bound folder. "In fact, I've already canceled your contract with them and bought out their entire agency."

Grace blinked in confusion. "You bought the cleaning agency?"

"I bought the entire parent company," I corrected her with a small smile. "And I had my legal team draft a new contract for you."

I handed her the folder.

She opened it slowly. Inside was a legal appointment naming Grace Miller as the Chief Operating Officer of Moretti Security Holdings—a legitimate firm that managed risk assessment, executive protection, and internal intelligence for all my corporate enterprises. Her starting salary was half a million dollars a year, along with a three-percent equity stake.

Grace stared at the paper, her breath catching in her throat. "Dominic... this is... I'm a housekeeper. I don't have a business degree."

"You walked into a penthouse filled with murderers, retrieved an encrypted hard drive under the nose of a killer, and held your composure while a doctor tried to poison me," I said, meeting her eyes with absolute conviction. "Degrees don't teach that kind of courage, Grace. Observation, loyalty, and sharp instincts do."

Tears glistened in her eyes, but she didn't let them fall. "Are you sure about this?"

"I've spent my whole life surrounded by people who spoke loud promises and stabbed me in the back," I told her softly. "You were the only person in New York who saw me lying in that bed and cared whether I lived or died."