"I was holding my mistress’s hand over a minor panic attack when my dying wife was wheeled past in a blood-soaked dress—unaware her phone held a secret that changed everything."

I didn't lie. I didn't offer a pathetic, corporate excuse. I looked straight into my wife's hazel eyes, accepting the full, crushing weight of my own dishonor.

"Serena is gone, Clara," I confessed, my baritone thick with raw, unreserved truth. "She was discharged two hours ago. I revoked her security clearances, terminated her allowance, and she will never step foot in our world again."

Clara stared at me for three long seconds. She didn't show anger. She didn't yell. She simply pulled her hand slowly out of my grip, resting her arm flat against the white hospital duvet.

"I didn't go to 4th and Commercial to confront your mistress, Dominic," Clara whispered raspy, looking up at the ceiling tiles. "I received a message saying Charles Vance was attempting to execute a hostile takeover of your shipping accounts in Zurich. I was carrying the primary encryption keys in my purse to secure the secondary vault at the South Side terminal."

A sharp, painful lump formed in my throat.

While I was holding Serena’s hand over a minor panic attack, my wife was driving through a freezing rainstorm with thirty percent of my empire's keys in her handbag, trying to shield me from a corporate execution.

"I know, Clara," I murmured softly, my hand coming up to gently touch her pale cheek. "Mateo found the message on your phone. Charles Vance set an ambush using Vance Global enforcers."

Clara turned her head slowly, looking into my slate-gray eyes. "And what are you going to do about Charles Vance, Dominic?"

A slow, dark, and breathtaking smile touched the corners of my lips—a smile carved from absolute, murderous resolve.

"I'm going to destroy his empire, Clara," I promised softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss against her forehead. "And then... I am going to spend the rest of my life earning back the right to hold your hand."

Before Clara could answer, Mateo knocked softly on the ICU suite door, stepping into the room with a dark, urgent expression on his face.

"Boss," Mateo reported, holding up an encrypted satellite tablet. "Charles Vance’s private jet just landed at O'Hare International Airport. He’s convened an emergency meeting with the four neutral Chicago board members at the Drake Hotel downtown."

I stood up slowly from my armchair, smoothing down the lapels of my dark suit, my eyes turning to stone.

"Mateo," I commanded cleanly.