Six months later.

The opening of the Hayes-Hale Rehabilitation Center on Pier 14 was the largest civic event in South Boston that year.

Three hundred former dockworkers, city officials, and local families gathered in the restored brick atrium, where glass walls looked out over the blue waters of the harbor.

Nora stood near the podium, dressed in a tailored navy suit that fit her broad, magnificent frame like armor. She held a pair of ribbon-cutting shears in her hand, her hair styled in a thick, glossy braid that rested over her shoulder.

Beside her stood Vincent.

He held a single black cane in his right hand. He didn't lean on it heavily; it was an accessory, a point of stability rather than a crutch. He moved with a slow, confident stride that showed no trace of the broken man who had sat in the dark library six months ago.

Dominic stood near the entrance, holding a clipboard, a quiet, genuine smile on his face as he watched the crowd.

Vincent stepped up to the microphone. He didn't look at his prepared notes. He looked at the men in the front row—men with rough hands, weathered faces, and scars from twenty years of hard labor on the water.

“Six months ago,” Vincent said, his voice echoing clearly through the high brick space, “I thought my life was over because I couldn't stand up.”

The room went completely silent.

“I had money,” Vincent continued. “I had power. I had a house full of people who apologized every time I dropped a cup. But I didn't have anyone who cared enough to tell me the truth.”

He turned his head, his dark gray eyes finding Nora standing beside the red ribbon.

“A wise woman told me that the world isn't built for people who fall down,” Vincent said softly, his voice rich with an emotion that touched every person in the room. “It’s built for people who learn how to carry their own weight. And sometimes... if you’re very lucky... you find someone who’s strong enough to help you carry it until you can stand on your own.”

He held out his hand.

Nora stepped forward, setting the shears down on the table, and placed her broad, strong hand into his. Their fingers intertwined—his cool, firm grip matching her warm, unyielding strength.

Together, they faced the crowd as the applause rose from the floor, filling the old brick warehouse with a sound like thunder over the harbor.

That evening, the estate on the cliff was quiet.

The grand dining room table—the mahogany table built for twenty—was set for two.

Nora sat at the head, a plate of fresh seafood risotto in front of her, her glass of white wine sparkling in the light of the chandelier.

Vincent walked into the room from the library. He didn't have his cane. He walked slowly, his hands in his pockets, his posture straight and tall as he came around the edge of the table.

He stopped beside her chair, reached down, and picked up a piece of warm bread from the basket.

“You forgot the butter,” he said, looking down at her with a raised eyebrow.

Nora looked at the small silver dish two inches from his left elbow.

She raised her glass, took a slow sip, and smiled up into his stormy gray eyes.

“Get your own butter, Mr. Hale,” she said softly.

Vincent let out a rich, deep laugh that echoed through the high ceilings of the mansion, reached down, grabbed the dish, and sat down beside her at the head of the table.