She thought she could hide the bruises beneath her uniform, but the mob boss unexpectedly walked into the bathroom and saw the truth she had been terrified to reveal.

Peace, however, in a world like Gabriel Ashford’s, was never a permanent state; it was merely an intermission.

Two weeks had passed since Derek’s disappearance. Life in the Ashford residence had settled into a rhythm that felt dangerously close to domesticity. Harper had officially transitioned from "maid" to the estate's confidential administrator, managing the household logistics while taking night classes online to recertify her nursing license. Noah visited on weekends, playing video games in the massive game room with Marcus, who secretly enjoyed the distraction.

Yet, down at the Seaport docks, ripples were turning into waves.

The sudden removal of Detective Derek Lawson from Precinct 12 had destabilized a larger network of corrupt police officers and syndicate rivals who relied on Derek’s inside badge to move contraband through the Boston harbor.

On a foggy Thursday evening, Gabriel stood on the private stone balcony of his third-floor study, staring out over the dark water of the harbor. A digital tablet glowed in his hand, displaying encrypted intelligence reports from his captains in South Boston.

Someone is moving on the eastern shipping lanes, Marcus’s voice crackled through his encrypted earpiece. Viktor Vance’s men. They think you're vulnerable because you spent the last two weeks cleaning house.

"Viktor thinks a lot of things," Gabriel replied coldly, his eyes narrowing as a black speedboat cut silently across the dark harbor water toward his private pier. "Let him come. We’ve been due for a conversation anyway."

Inside the study, the heavy oak door creaked open.

Harper walked in, carrying a fresh cup of coffee. She had traded her stark maid’s uniform for a soft, oversized gray sweater and dark jeans, her dark hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She looked peaceful. Human.

"You're working late again," she noted gently, setting the mug down on the desk.

Gabriel turned away from the balcony, slipping the tablet into his pocket. He looked at her, his expression instantly smoothing out, though the adrenaline of an impending turf war still lingered in his posture.

"Paperwork never sleeps, Harper," Gabriel said, walking over to her.

Harper tilted her head, her sharp instincts—honed by years of nursing and survival—picking up on the subtle tension in his shoulders. "You're hiding something. What's happening at the docks?"

Gabriel smiled faintly, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Nothing for you to worry about. Just business."

"Your business tends to involve men with guns and broken bones, Gabriel," she reminded him softly, her hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful thrum of his heart. "I’m not a fragile porcelain doll. You don't have to shield me from the reality of your world."

Gabriel looked down into her dark, expressive eyes, realizing with a jolt that she was right. She had faced down a corrupt cop with a gun; she had stitched up his own bleeding knuckles without flinching. She was as strong as forged steel.

Before he could answer, a sharp, piercing sound shattered the quiet of the night.