The estate was a fortress disguised as a mansion. High stone walls, iron gates, and men in tailored suits whose jackets bulged at the ribs.

One year later.

The West Wing study was no longer dark. The velvet curtains had been permanently removed, replaced by grand glass doors that opened onto a sun-drenched marble terrace overlooking the gardens and Lake Michigan.

The air no longer smelled of stale espresso and resentment. It smelled of fresh jasmine, ocean air, and warm vanilla.

Declan Hayes stood near the terrace railing. He was wearing a tailored charcoal suit, his broad shoulders squared against the morning sun. He held a simple silver-trimmed walking stick in his right hand, though he barely leaned on it now.

Below on the lawn, Gabe was laughing, playing fetch with a giant Golden Retriever puppy that Riley had forced the estate security team to adopt six months ago.

A pair of soft hands wrapped around Declan’s waist from behind.

Declan smiled, covering her small hands with his broad, scarred palms, pulling her flush against his back. He turned his head, kissing Riley softy on the temple.

She was wearing a light summer dress, her dark hair pinned back with a pearl clip. There were no navy scrubs, no cheap plastic chip clips, and no dark circles beneath her eyes.

"You're standing too long," she teased softly, resting her chin on his uninjured shoulder. "Your chart says you need to rest your left leg every two hours."

"My chart was written by a bossy nurse who I am currently paying a fortune in diamond rings," Declan replied, turning around in her arms to face her.

He reached out, his thumb gently tracing the glittering platinum engagement ring resting on her finger.

"How are the wedding plans going?" he asked, pulling her closer by the waist.

"Gabe wants to wear a tuxedo with a shoulder holster," Riley giggled. "I told him if he brings a gun to the altar, I'm throwing a lamp at him."

Declan let out a deep, warm laugh—a sound that was now heard daily throughout the mansion, shattering the old ghosts of violence and fear.

"I think he's genuinely terrified of you," Declan said, leaning down to press a soft kiss against her lips. "Everyone in this city is terrified of you."

"Good," she murmured against his mouth, wrapping her arms securely around his neck, stepping onto his toes to pull him closer. "That means they won't mess with my patient."

Declan pulled her flush against his chest, his strong legs holding both of them effortlessly under the brilliant blue sky. The wheelchair was gone, tucked away in an attic, a forgotten relic of a dark past.

He was no longer a prisoner of his own fortress. He was a man reborn, standing tall, holding the fierce, wonderful, messy woman who had barged into his dark room, spilled coffee on his desk, and taught him how to live again.