At 9:57 on a Friday night, I was kneeling on the marble floor of Chicago’s most exclusive restaurant, gathering fistfuls of my own hair while six wealthy men laughed above me. One of them still held the electric clippers, another filmed my humiliation on his phone, and none of them knew that in three minutes my shift would end—and my husband would walk through those doors.

The sedan pulled up to our Gold Coast brownstone at 11:15 PM.

The street was dark, quiet, lined with ancient oak trees bowing beneath the weight of the freezing rain. Vance opened the car door, holding an umbrella above us as Dominic scooped me out of the leather seat into his arms, carrying me up the wide stone steps like he used to when we were newlyweds.

He didn't set me down until we were inside the heated grand foyer, the heavy mahogany door locking securely behind us.

The house was quiet. A soft fire crackled in the marble fireplace in the living room, casting long, golden shadows across the hardwood floors.

Dominic helped me out of his heavy overcoat. He hung it on the brass stand, then gently unbuttoned the top two buttons of my torn uniform collar, pulling the silver chain out so the diamond ring rested against my collarbone where it belonged.

“Come upstairs,” he said softly.

He led me into our master bathroom—a vast room covered in white Italian marble, with a clawfoot soaking tub and a full-length gilded mirror resting against the far wall.

I stopped two feet from the mirror.

I hadn't looked at myself since the incident.

When I finally raised my eyes, my breath caught in my throat.

The left side of my head was ruined. My long, thick dark hair—hair I had grown out for six years—was chopped down to uneven, jagged pink patches near the ear and temple. Scratches ran along my jawline. My eyes were red-rimmed, bruised by exhaustion and the humiliation that had finally caught up to my pride.

I looked like a victim.

A quiet, choked gasp escaped my lips, and I pressed both hands over my mouth, my shoulders beginning to shake uncontrollably.

Dominic stepped behind me in the mirror.

He didn't look away from my reflection. He didn't offer empty pity. He simply stood there, broad, towering, an absolute wall of strength at my back, placing his large hands on my shoulders.

“Look at me, Elena,” he commanded softly in the mirror.

I forced my eyes up to meet his in the glass.

“You are still the most beautiful woman in this city,” Dominic said, his deep voice unwavering, absolute, like a holy decree. “Hair grows back, El. But those six men... they will spend the next ten years trying to rebuild lives that no longer exist.”

He reached over to the marble counter, picked up a pair of professional hair shears that our personal stylist used when visiting the house, and held them out to me.

I stared at the scissors. “Dom... what are you doing?”

“You don't let Preston Hale dictate how you look, Elena,” Dominic said, his eyes burning into mine through the glass. “If we cut it, we cut it on your terms. Right here. Together.”

My fingers trembled as I took the cold steel handle from his hand.

I looked at my reflection again. The left side was chopped. The right side was still long, trailing down past my collarbone.

I raised the shears, brought them to the right side of my head near the ear, and closed my eyes.

Snip.

A long, dark lock of hair fell to the marble floor.

Dominic didn't say a word. He reached over, took the shears from my hand, and gently turned me around so I was facing him.

He guided me to a plush leather chair in the center of the bathroom, knelt down on the cold marble tiles in his dark trousers, and began to cut.

He worked with meticulous, breathtaking care. His thick, calloused hands moved with delicate precision, trimming the long side down, evening out the jagged patches Preston had made, blending the edges until my hair was transformed into a striking, bold pixie cut that framed my high cheekbones and gray eyes with sharp, fierce elegance.

For forty minutes, the only sound in the bathroom was the steady, rhythmic click-click-click of the shears and the soft falling of dark hair onto the white floor.

When he finally set the scissors down, he picked up a warm, damp towel and gently wiped the tiny hairs from my neck and shoulders.

“Look now, El,” he whispered.

I stood up slowly and turned to the mirror.

The broken waitress from Table Four was gone.

Standing in the glass was a woman with a sharp, royal silhouette—bold, breathtaking, terrifyingly stunning. The short haircut didn't make me look weak; it emphasized the fierce, unyielding jawline I had inherited from my grandmother, the diamond glittering against my collarbone like a badge of honor.

I turned around and looked down at Dominic, who was still kneeling on the floor, looking up at me with an expression of pure, reverence-filled devotion.

I reached out, running my hand through his dark hair, pulling his head against my stomach.

“Thank you, Dom,” I whispered.