The morning after the gala, the estate was silent.

The rain had cleared, leaving the sky over the Atlantic a bright, crisp blue that filled the library with pale autumn light.

Nora stood in the kitchen at eight o'clock, dressed in a soft cream-colored sweater and black trousers—her uniform had been packed into a box and set by the back door three hours ago.

She carried a tray up the stairs. On it was a fresh pot of coffee, two cups, and a plate of warm blueberry scones she had baked herself.

When she entered the library, Vincent was sitting at his desk.

He wasn't in the wheelchair.

He sat in the high-backed leather executive chair, dressed in a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. On the floor beside his desk lay a pair of sleek, lightweight carbon-fiber walking canes—not the heavy braces from the night before, but simple, elegant supports for a man who was learning to walk on his own terms.

He looked up as she entered. His eyes swept over her informal clothes, a small, approving nod touching his chin.

“You’re late,” he said.

“It’s eight-fifteen,” she replied, setting the tray down in the center of his desk. “And I don't work for you anymore.”

Vincent looked at the two cups on the tray. He picked up the silver coffee pot, poured a cup, and pushed it across the polished wood toward the leather chair opposite his own.

“Sit down, Nora,” he said.

Nora looked at the chair, then at him. She sat down, crossing her thick legs, taking the cup into her hands.

“Dominic brought the new paperwork from the city this morning,” Vincent said, reaching into his drawer and pulling out a blue leather folder. He slid it across the desk.

Nora didn't open it. “What is it?”

“A deed,” Vincent said simply. “For the property at Pier 14. The old brick warehouse on the west side of the dock.”

Nora frowned. “I don't need a warehouse, Vincent.”

“It’s not a warehouse,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his hands folding over his chest. “It’s three hundred thousand square feet of prime harbor real estate. I’m converting it into a regional physical rehabilitation center for injured dockworkers and navy personnel. People who can't afford thirty-thousand-dollar wheelchairs and private Swiss doctors.”

Nora froze, her cup stopping halfway to her mouth. She stared at him, her hazel eyes wide with shock. “Vincent...”

“My father worked those docks too, Nora,” he said softly, his gray eyes locking onto hers. “I forgot that for twenty years while I was busy buying up the city. You reminded me.”

He pointed at the folder.

“I need a Director of Operations,” Vincent added. “Someone who knows what it means to carry heavy things. Someone who won't let the patients feel sorry for themselves when the work gets hard.”

Nora looked down at the blue folder. Her fingers touched the smooth leather, feeling the heavy gold embossing of the Hale Foundation seal on the cover.

“The salary is ridiculous,” Vincent remarked casually. “And the employment contract has a specific clause regarding breakfast.”

Nora looked up, a faint smile touching her lips. “What clause?”

“The Director is required to eat her eggs at the same table as the Chairman,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into that low, warm register that made her heart skip a beat. “Every single morning.”