"No one touched him for four years—until a barefoot girl begged, 'Just hug me for one second,' and triggered a dark Chicago underworld war."

“Who,” Victoria said, her voice dripping with frost, “is this?”

“Her name is Iris,” Ronan answered evenly, not moving an inch from where he stood beside the kitchen island.

Victoria let out a short, biting laugh, tossing her leather handbag onto the couch near where Kian was still quietly reassembling his firearm. Kian didn't even look up, accustomed to high-stakes domestic chaos.

“Iris,” Victoria repeated, tasting the name like poison. “Wonderful. Another stray. Ronan, we have a shareholder meeting with the municipal transport board in twenty minutes, half of downtown is whispering about some lunatic screaming outside your building this morning, and you’re playing savior to a girl who looks like she just crawled out of a dumpster?”

I flushed hot, a bitter spike of humiliation rising in my chest. I pushed my stool back, standing up with as much dignity as I could muster in leggings and someone else’s cashmere sweater.

“I didn't ask to be brought here,” I said, my voice shaking slightly. “And I can leave right now if my presence offends your delicate corporate sensibilities.”

Victoria’s sharp blue eyes snapped back to me. “Oh, sit down, sweetheart. You wouldn't last ten minutes on the street outside this building on your own. I’m just trying to figure out why my business partner—who hasn't let anyone set foot in this penthouse in four years—suddenly has a homeless girl sleeping in his guest room.”

“Victoria,” Ronan warned, his voice dropping into a low, menacing growl. “Watch your tone.”

“Don't growl at me, Ronan,” she snapped back, though she stepped slightly away from him, clearly knowing the boundary line she was approaching. She crossed her arms, fixing me with an analytical stare. “Listen to me, Iris. Whatever sob story you told him to get him to open his wallet, it stops here. Ronan has enough enemies trying to tear his empire down without him adopting personal charity cases with police records.”

“I don't have a police record,” I shot back, my temper finally overriding my fear. “And I didn't ask him for a single cent. So you can take your designer suit and your corporate attitude and shove them right back down the elevator shaft.”

A heavy, stunned silence filled the kitchen.

Kian paused, his gloved hand hovering over the Glock slide, a slow, appreciative grin spreading across his face.

Ronan stared at me, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in the faintest, almost imperceptible ghost of a smile.

Victoria’s jaw dropped. She looked at me as if I had just slapped her across the face with a wet fish. No one spoke to Victoria Vance like that—not junior executives, not rival developers, and certainly not stray girls in oversized sweaters.

“Well,” Victoria breathed, recovering her composure with glacial precision. She turned her icy gaze to Ronan. “She’s got teeth. I’ll give her that. But if the press finds out you’ve got a battered runaway hiding in your penthouse while your zoning application is pending for the North Side development, the board will have a field day.”

“Let them,” Ronan said coldly. “The North Side project can burn for all I care.”

Victoria sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose as if dealing with an unruly child. “You’re impossible. Both of you.” She grabbed her handbag, turning toward the door. “I’ll stall the board for twenty minutes. But if you aren't at the tower by two o'clock, Ronan, I’m telling the investors you’ve finally lost your mind.”

With a sharp click of her heels, she stormed out, the heavy front door slamming shut behind her.

The apartment descended back into silence.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, sinking back down onto the stool. “I’m sorry. I shouldn't have popped off like that. I’m just... tired of people looking at me like I’m a liability.”

Ronan stepped closer, his expression softening just enough to make my chest ache.

“You weren't a liability,” he said quietly. “You were the most honest person in this room.”

Before I could process the weight of his words, Kian stood up from the couch, sliding the reassembled Glock into his shoulder holster with a soft click.

“Well,” Kian said, checking his watch. “Boss, if you don't get down to the tower, Victoria really is going to feed us both to the board. And I don't look good in orange.”

Ronan looked at Kian, then back down at me. The pine-green eyes were heavy, conflicted, as if leaving me alone in the penthouse was the hardest thing he had ever agreed to do.

“Stay inside,” Ronan instructed, his voice firm. “The door is locked. Kian’s men are stationed in the lobby and the service stairwell. If anyone tries to get in—”