Across the city, the heavy double doors of my private library swung open without a single creak.

Dominic stepped into the room.

He didn’t bring wailing sirens or flashing red and blue lights. He brought a terrifying, disciplined silence that sucked the air out of the room.

He was flanked by four people in impeccably tailored dark suits who moved with synchronized, lethal fluidity, their eyes scanning the perimeter, cataloging sightlines and exits with cold, mechanical precision.

Dominic hadn’t aged a day since our divorce; the years had merely calcified him. He was a monument of scar tissue, tailored wool, and dormant wrath.

His dark eyes, usually unreadable, were currently burning with a quiet intensity that could melt steel. He crossed the Persian rug and knelt before the leather sofa where Lily was now lying.

The private trauma medic I kept on staff—a discreet man who asked no questions and was paid exorbitantly for it—was in the middle of suturing her split lip and, crucially, photographing every wound for the record.