Three weeks later.

The morning sun rose high over the sprawling lawns of the Sterling estate on Lake Michigan, painting the calm water in dazzling hues of sapphire, gold, and dusty apricot. The autumn leaves were falling softly across the limestone terraces, and the crisp, clean air smelled of pine needles, damp cedar, and blooming chrysanthemums.

The white double doors of the west solarium were opened wide to the morning breeze.

The spilled water, the shattered silver pitcher, and the gray housekeeping uniform were gone, replaced by a sunlit breakfast room filled with fresh white roses and cut fruit.

Lily was running across the lawn, giggling as she chased a golden retriever puppy Julian had brought home from the maritime rescue league, her small sneakers kicking up the morning dew.

Anna sat at the teak table on the veranda, wearing a soft cashmere sweater, holding a warm cup of herbal tea. Her skin was radiant, her cheeks full of healthy color, the dark hollows that had haunted her eyes completely erased by three weeks of peace, safety, and proper care.

Julian walked out through the French doors carrying a silver tray with warm pastries.

He knelt beside Anna’s chair, setting the tray down, and took her hands into his. He slipped a newly polished band of platinum onto her fourth finger—the original engagement ring his private investigators had recovered from Marcus Cole’s safety deposit box.

“The Delaware Chancery Court finalized the trust restructuring this morning, Anna,” Julian said softly, kissing her knuckles. “The Kensington fleet has been liquidated by the federal receiver. The proceeds—one hundred and forty million dollars—have been placed into an irrevocable trust established solely for Lily.”

“And the domestic placement agency?” Anna asked, smiling through tears of relief.

“Closed permanently,” Julian smiled back. “Every woman who was exploited by their labor contracts has been given full severance and legal assistance through our family foundation. Nobody carries pitchers in this house ever again, Anna. You are the mistress of this estate.”

Anna leaned down, resting her forehead against Julian’s, feeling the steady, unbroken warmth of the man who had torn Chicago apart to bring her home.

“Thank you, Julian,” she whispered. “For running down the hall.”

“I’ll run down that hall for you every single day of my life, Anna,” he said, pulling her into an embrace that held six years of lost time and washed it clean in the morning light.