Hundreds of Chicago’s wealthiest guests watched in stunned silence as Sloane Harrington grabbed Clara Bennett’s gown and ripped it open from her shoulder to her waist.

“Roman!” Sloane sobbed, the gun jerking between Clara and Roman. “Stay back! Don't come any closer!”

Roman did not stop. He walked forward into the living room, his boots tracking rainwater onto the dark wood.

“Put the gun down, Sloane,” Roman said, his voice deadly quiet.

“She destroyed my family!” Sloane cried, backing toward the open terrace doors. “She took you away from me! If I can't have you, Roman, she won't have you either!”

Sloane raised the revolver, leveling it directly at Clara’s chest.

In that fraction of a second, Clara didn't freeze.

She remembered the Drake Hotel ballroom. She remembered the sound of tearing silk. She remembered the vow she had made to herself in the hospital room beside Toby’s bed: *No one bullies me again.*

As Sloane’s finger tightened on the trigger, Clara lunged forward.

She didn't run away; she closed the distance. Clara grabbed Sloane’s wrist with both hands, twisting it upward toward the ceiling just as the gun detonated.

*BANG.*

The deafening crack of the gunshot shattered the silence, the bullet tearing through the high drywall above them, sending plaster raining down like white dust.

Sloane screamed, fighting like a wildcat, but Clara had spent years lifting heavy crates in back kitchens and helping nurses move hospital patients. She possessed real, grounded strength. She drove Sloane backward, slamming her wrist against the metal frame of the terrace door.

The gun clattered from Sloane’s fingers, sliding across the wet flagstones of the terrace before plunging into the darkness, eighty-four floors down into the Chicago night.

Sloane lost her balance on the wet tile, her heels slipping, and she tumbled backward toward the low glass railing of the terrace.

The wind caught her coat, nearly pulling her over the edge.

“Roman!” Sloane shrieked in mortal terror, staring down into the abyss of the city streets.

A large hand shot forward, gripping the collar of Sloane’s coat with iron force, hauling her violently away from the ledge and slamming her down onto the safe, interior floor of the penthouse.

Roman stood over her, his chest heaving, his face dark with fury.

He didn't spare Sloane a second glance.

He spun around, grabbing Clara by the shoulders, pulling her against his chest, his hands frantically searching her face, her arms, her torso.

“Are you hit? Clara, look at me! Did she hit you?”

“I’m fine,” Clara breathed, her adrenaline crashing, her knees suddenly giving out. “I’m okay. Roman, I’m okay.”

Roman caught her before she could hit the floor. He lifted her easily into his arms, carrying her away from the terrace, kicking the heavy glass doors shut against the howling wind.

He set her down gently on the leather sofa, dropping to his knees before her, burying his face in her lap.

His broad shoulders were shaking.

Clara looked down in stunned wonder. The ruthless titan of Chicago industry, the man who had brought the Harrington empire to its knees without blinking an eye, was trembling against her knees.

“I thought I lost you,” Roman whispered, his voice broken and raw. “I thought I was too late.”

Clara raised her shaking hands and tangled her fingers in his damp, dark hair.

“You’re not late, Roman,” she said softly, tears finally spilling over her lashes. “I’m right here.”

Behind them, the front doors burst open. Vance and six tactical officers flooded the penthouse, weapons drawn. Within thirty seconds, Sloane Harrington was handcuffed, read her rights, and dragged away into the elevator, sobbing hysterically into the empty air.

The penthouse was cleared. The doors were secured.