My husband told me to “stop being dramatic” while I was walking out of the hospital carrying our three-year-old daughter’s ashes.

The following afternoon, the black armored SUV pulled up to the private terminal at O'Hare International Airport in Chicago.

The rain from two days ago had cleared, leaving a bright, crisp autumn afternoon with clear blue skies over the city skyline.

Dominic stood near the stairs of his sleek Gulfstream jet, his coat buttoned against the cold wind, his hands in his pockets. His security team stood fifty yards back, giving them privacy.

Maeve stepped out of the vehicle, wearing a comfortable beige trench coat over a dark sweater and trousers. She carried a single leather weekend bag—a gift from the estate staff—containing her new clothes and her modest personal belongings.

She walked across the tarmac, her heels clicking softly against the concrete, stopping three feet from Dominic.

"Your knee looks better today," Dominic noted, looking down at her leg.

"The doctor you brought in was very good," Maeve said with a small smile. "He said two weeks of rest and I won't even limp anymore."

"Good," Dominic said, nodding slowly. "That's good."

They stood in silence for a long moment, the roar of jet engines in the distance filling the air between them.

"So," Dominic said, breaking the silence. "Where are you going first, Maeve?"

Maeve reached into her trench coat pocket and pulled out the white envelope containing the one hundred and fifty thousand dollar check.

She held it out to him.

Dominic’s brow furrowed. "What are you doing? That's yours."

"I know," Maeve said calmly. "And I'd like to use it as a down payment."

Dominic stared at her in confusion. "A down payment on what?"

"On a contract," Maeve said, stepping one inch closer to him, her gray eyes clear, steady, and unyielding. "I want to found an independent intelligence and linguistic security firm in Chicago. Nolan Consultations."

Dominic’s jaw slackened slightly. "Maeve..."

"I've spent thirty-one years cleaning up other people's garbage, Dominic," Maeve said, her voice full of a quiet, towering authority. "I am done scrubbing floors. But I am also done letting powerful men who don't know how to listen run this city into the ground."

She pointed a finger at his chest. "I am offering you a permanent retainer. You pay my firm five hundred thousand dollars a year. In exchange, I sit in every high-level negotiation, every international deal, and every council meeting your family conducts for the next five years. No traitors. No lies. No surprise fuel trucks in Newark."

Dominic stared at her, a look of sheer, breathtaking wonder spreading across his face.

"You want to stay in this world?" he asked softly. "It's dangerous, Maeve. You saw what happened yesterday."

"Danger is just a language people speak when they think nobody is paying attention," Maeve replied coolly. "I'm not afraid of your world, Dominic Rossi. I'm the only person in it who actually understands what everyone is saying."

Dominic let out a rich, deep laugh that echoed across the windy tarmac—a sound so full of genuine joy that his security guards fifty yards away looked over in utter amazement.

He reached out, took the white envelope from her fingers, and shoved it back into his inner suit coat pocket.

"Five hundred thousand is too low," Dominic said, his eyes burning with intense heat as he reached out and took her hand in his. "Seven hundred and fifty thousand. Plus a top-floor office suite in St. Catherine’s Plaza—the building where you used to clean the forty-second floor."

Maeve’s heart skipped a beat. "The forty-second floor?"

"I bought the building this morning," Dominic whispered, leaning down so his face was inches from hers. "The former owners were incompetent anyway. The entire forty-second floor is yours now, Miss Nolan. From the boardroom down to the executive corner offices."

Maeve looked into his dark eyes, feeling the warm, strong press of his hand against hers.