The slap was loud enough to stop a ballroom orchestra on the other side of the wall.

By ten o'clock the following morning, the news of the scandal at the Bellweather Hotel had spread through Rhode Island’s high society like wildfire.

Norah sat at the wide wooden dining table overlooking the gray ocean, wearing one of Roman's oversized cashmere sweaters over her leggings. A cup of chamomile tea sat untouched before her.

Across the table lay three local morning newspapers.

The headlines were relentless: MARCH RESORT HOLDINGS FROZEN AMID ASSAULT INVESTIGATION MYSTERY MARRIAGE: ROMAN CALDER WED EX-WIFE OF JULIAN VALE BELLWEATHER HOTEL SOLD IN OVERNIGHT ACQUISITION

The phone on the kitchen counter had been ringing intermittently for two hours, but Mrs. Gable had placed it on silent.

Roman entered the room wearing a dark gray suit and crisp white shirt, pulling on his wrist watch. He looked like he was preparing for war, his jaw clean-shaven, his hair damp from the shower.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, walking behind her chair and placing a firm, warm hand on her shoulder.

"Overwhelmed," Norah admitted, gesturing to the newspapers. "Everyone knows, Roman. My name is everywhere."

"Your name is protected," Roman corrected smoothly. "Gavin spent the night issuing injunctions against tabloids attempting to publish photos of your old apartment or your mother's estate records. The press knows you are my wife. That is all they are allowed to know."

Before Norah could respond, the front doorbell chimed through the quiet house.

Mrs. Gable walked quickly to the intercom near the door, listened for a moment, and then looked back at Roman with a tight, concerned expression.

"It's Mr. Vale, sir," Mrs. Gable said. "He’s at the gate. He says he won't leave until he speaks with Mrs. Calder."

Norah's fingers tightened around her tea cup. "Julian?"

Roman’s face turned to stone. "Tell him to leave before I have security remove him."

"No," Norah said suddenly, standing up from the table.

Roman turned his eyes to her, surprised. "Norah, you don't need to see him."

"I do," Norah said, her voice steadying. "Julian thinks I am still the quiet woman who wept in his office while his lawyer handed me divorce papers. He thinks I am a victim who stumbled into your arms because I had nowhere else to go. I need to tell him to his face that he is wrong."

Roman searched her face for a long second, evaluating her strength, her posture, her pulse. Finally, he gave a single, slow nod.

"I will be right here," Roman said quietly.

Two minutes later, Julian Vale was shown into the living room.

He looked terrible. His suit was wrinkled, his dark hair was disheveled, and his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. The polished, effortless charm he wore like armor was entirely gone.

He stopped ten feet away from Norah, staring at her in Roman's oversized sweater, taking in her bruised cheek, her calm expression, and the massive expanse of the ocean behind her.

"Norah," Julian began, his voice raspy. "My God, Norah... look at this place."

"What are you doing here, Julian?" Norah asked flatly.

"I came to apologize," Julian said, stepping forward, though his eyes darted nervously toward Roman, who stood near the stone fireplace, silent and watching like a wolf in the shadows. "Selene was out of line. Her father is ruined, Norah. Her family lost control of the hotel last night. She’s hysterical."

"She hit me," Norah reminded him coldly. "And she tried to crush my mother's thimble under her shoe. You stood there and asked why I was working in a laundry instead of stopping her."

Julian winced, running a hand through his hair. "I didn't know you were pregnant! Norah, why didn't you come to me? Why didn't you tell me you were in trouble?"

Norah actually laughed—a soft, dry sound that carried no warmth. "Come to you? Julian, you took everything I had. You left me with twelve hundred dollars in a checking account and told me I should be grateful you didn't ask for my mother's ring back."

"I was stressed! The foundation was failing, Selene's father was threatening to pull his funding—"

"You made your choices," Norah interrupted, stepping closer to him, her posture straight, her chin lifted high. "You chose money. You chose prestige. You chose Selene March. And I chose to survive."

Julian looked at her, truly looked at her, as if noticing for the first time that the fragile, quiet girl he had divorced six months ago had vanished. In her place stood a woman who looked him in the eye without a single trace of fear.

"And him?" Julian asked, gesturing toward Roman. "You married Roman Calder? Do you even know who he is, Norah? Do you know what he does to people who cross him? He’s ruthless! He doesn't love you—he’s using you to humiliate my family and the Marches!"

Roman didn't move from the fireplace. He didn't speak. He simply waited.

Norah turned her head, looking at Roman—at his still frame, his quiet eyes, the unwavering strength he had offered her from the moment he had picked her thimble off the dusty floor.

Then she looked back at Julian.

"Roman gave me his name when I had nothing," Norah said softly. "He gave me a home when I was sleeping on a worn mattress on Third Street. And when your fiancée hit me, he didn't ask if I deserved it. He stood between me and the world."