Chapter 7 - A New EmpireSix months later, the Westchester estate looked very different.
The heavy, suffocating aura of isolation that had once defined the property was gone, replaced by a quiet, steady warmth. Arthur Pendelton was currently standing trial for federal fraud and campaign corruption, his political career reduced to a cautionary tale. Vincent Rossi was running a legitimate logistics warehouse in Buenos Aires, far away from New York temptation.
And as for me? I was no longer just Dominic’s executive assistant.
The sun was streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the grand parlor as I stood near the marble statue of Epictetus, holding a small Bluetooth speaker in one hand and a feather duster in the other.
The estate was quiet. Dominic wasn’t supposed to be home until evening.
Smiling wickedly, I cranked up the volume on an ’80s pop classic, grabbed the feather duster like a microphone, and spun around to belt out the chorus at the top of my lungs.
“Just a small-town girl, livin' in a lonely world! She took the midnight train goin' anywhere!”
I hit the high note with unnecessary, operatic passion, pointing the duster straight at the philosopher’s marble face.
Behind me, the double doors of the parlor clicked open.
Heavy, unhurried footsteps crossed the polished hardwood floor. Strong arms wrapped around my waist from behind, pulling me backward against a solid, familiar chest. A warm, rough chin rested softly on my shoulder.
“You know,” Dominic murmured into my ear, his deep voice rich with amusement, “Epictetus looks significantly less impressed than I am.”
I didn’t drop the duster. Instead, I leaned back against him, turning my head to meet his dark, smoldering eyes with a cheeky grin.
“That’s because Epictetus has no rhythm, Dominic,” I retorted. “Unlike my husband.”
Dominic’s smile widened, that rare, breathtaking expression that belonged to me and me alone. He leaned down, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to my lips before taking the feather duster out of my hand and tossing it onto the nearest sofa.
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“Come here, Mrs. Vale,” he whispered, his hands sliding securely around my waist as the music continued to play. “Show me your choreography.”
And as we danced together in the middle of the grand parlor, surrounded by the shadows of an empire that had finally found its peace, I knew I had found the only place in the world I ever wanted to be.
