Three weeks passed inside the heavily fortified walls of the Rossy estate.

Norah’s daily routine became a strange, terrifyingly peaceful rhythm of survival and culinary experimentation.

She cooked three simple, unassuming meals a day, carefully balancing nutrition with absolute gentleness for Vincent's ruined stomach.

She made clear chicken broths, fluffy scrambled eggs, baked white fish with lemon, and soft, buttery mashed potatoes.

Marcel and the other gourmet chefs were eventually fired, their expensive ingredients replaced by simple, honest produce.

Vincent’s recovery was slow, but it was undeniable and entirely visible to everyone in the massive house.

The hollow, deathly shadows beneath his cheekbones began to fill out, and the gray tint vanished from his skin.

His designer suits no longer hung from his frame like hand-me-downs, but began to fit the broad, powerful shoulders they were tailored for.

One rainy Tuesday afternoon, Norah was in the kitchen peeling a massive pile of fresh carrots for a stew.

The heavy kitchen doors swung open, and for the first time since she arrived, it was not Enzo who walked through them.

Vincent Rossy stood in the doorway, wearing dark trousers and a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

He looked completely different from the dying ghost she had met in the dark study three weeks ago.

He radiated a quiet, terrifying power, the kind of absolute authority that made the air in the room feel instantly heavier.

Norah dropped her vegetable peeler, her hands instinctively flying to wipe her apron as she stood up straight.

"Mr. Rossy," she breathed nervously, stepping back from the cutting board in a sign of deep respect.

Vincent walked slowly across the white tile floor, his dark eyes scanning the warm, bustling kitchen with a look of mild curiosity.

"I told you to call me Vincent," he corrected her, his voice still deep but no longer raspy with pain.

He stopped right next to her preparation table, picking up a piece of peeled carrot and inspecting it closely.

"You have kept me alive for three weeks with potatoes and chicken broth, Norah," Vincent said, looking directly into her eyes.

"The doctor told me this morning that my stomach lining has almost completely repaired itself."

Norah felt a massive, overwhelming wave of relief wash over her entire body at his words.

"I am very glad to hear that, sir... I mean, Vincent," she stammered, feeling her cheeks flush with sudden heat.

Vincent leaned his hip against the stainless steel counter, crossing his powerful arms over his broad chest.

"You saved my life, and you haven't asked for a single thing in return other than the debt I already paid," he noted quietly.

"Most people in my world would try to leverage this kind of favor for money, power, or influence."

Norah shook her head quickly, looking down at the pile of bright orange carrot shavings on the cutting board.

"I don't want power, Vincent, I just wanted to be safe from the people who were hunting me," she confessed honestly.

Vincent reached out, his warm, calloused fingers gently lifting her chin so she was forced to look at him.

His touch sent a completely unexpected, electric shock straight down her spine and into her toes.

"You are safe here, Norah, safer than anyone else in this entire city," Vincent promised her, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper.

"No one will ever touch you again as long as I am breathing."

He held her gaze for a long, heavy moment, the strict boundary between employer and employee blurring into something deeply dangerous.

He finally let his hand drop, stepping away from the counter and walking back toward the swinging doors.

"Make the stew for dinner," Vincent commanded, the authoritative mafia boss instantly returning to the surface.

"I will eat it in the dining room tonight, not at my desk."

Norah watched him walk away, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs for an entirely different reason than fear.