The slap was loud enough to stop three hundred conversations.

The victory in the boardroom was absolute, but the danger was far from over.

At two o’clock that afternoon, Grace returned to the Miller family’s original estate in Long Island—a modest, shuttered colonial home that had stood abandoned since her father’s death. Under the terms of the federal warrant, the original physical banking ledgers Julian Miller had kept in his private home safe had to be retrieved to formally dissolve the Ashford maritime trust.

Ethan had refused to let her go alone. He accompanied her, with Marcus and four tactical security operators securing the surrounding perimeter.

The air inside the old house was cool and smelled of dry paper, aged cedar, and memories. Dust motes danced in the shafts of autumn sunlight streaming through the drawn blinds.

Grace knelt before the cast-iron safe built into the floorboards of her father’s study. Her hands were steady as she turned the combination dial. *Left to 24. Right to 11. Left to 38.*

A sharp metallic *click* signaled the release of the heavy bolt. Grace pulled the door open, her heart constricting as she saw three leather-bound notebooks resting inside—her father’s handwriting preserved across their spines.

“He kept them,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Every transaction. Every receipt. He knew one day the truth would need to be proven.”

Ethan stood behind her, watching the doorway with vigilant eyes. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “He did it for you, Grace. He knew his daughter would finish what he started.”

Suddenly, the glass in the front parlor shattered with a deafening crash.

A heavy flashbang grenade detonated in the foyer, filling the house with blinding white light and a concussive boom that rattled the floorboards.

“Contact!” Marcus’s voice shouted through the comms before being cut off by a burst of automatic gunfire from outside.

“Down!” Ethan roared, grabbing Grace and hauling her behind the heavy mahogany study desk just as a spray of 9mm rounds shredded the wooden door frame.

Two men in black tactical gear and ballistic masks moved into the hallway, moving with military precision. They weren't police; they were high-end cartel enforcers hired by Richard Ashford’s offshore associates—men sent to burn the house and destroy the final ledgers at all costs.

Grace clutched the ledgers against her chest. “Ethan, they have the exits covered!”

“Stay behind me,” Ethan commanded. He reached beneath his jacket and drew a sleek, matte-black Glock 19. His expression was transformed—no longer the polished corporate titan, but a man fighting for the survival of the woman he loved.

One of the gunmen rounded the corner of the study, weapon raised. Ethan fired two controlled, precise shots into the intruder’s center mass. The man collapsed with a heavy thud.

The second gunman fired blindly through the drywall. A round tore through the desk corner, grazing Ethan’s upper left shoulder.

Ethan grunted, the impact staggering him backward against the bookshelf. Crimson blood bloomed instantly across his white dress shirt.

“Ethan!” Grace cried out, lunging toward him.

“I’m fine! Stay down!” he hissed, his teeth grit against the pain.

The second shooter stepped into the doorway, raising a submachine gun directly toward Ethan’s chest.

There was no time to think. Grace’s instincts took over. She grabbed a heavy brass desk lamp from the floor and hurled it with all her strength directly at the gunman’s face. The lamp struck the man’s tactical goggles, shattering the lens and throwing his aim off.

The burst of gunfire tore harmlessly into the ceiling plaster.

In that split second of distraction, Ethan raised his weapon and fired. The second attacker fell backward into the hallway, neutralized.

Silence descended upon the house, broken only by the sound of sirens wailing in the distance and Ethan’s ragged, labored breathing.

Grace dropped to her knees beside him, her hands trembling as she tore open his shirt to examine the wound. The bullet had grazed his shoulder, leaving a deep, bleeding furrow through the muscle, but it had missed the bone and the major artery.

“You’re hit,” she breathed, tears of terror and relief spilling down her cheeks. She pressed her silk scarf against the wound to staunch the bleeding. “You idiot, you took a bullet for me!”

Ethan looked at her through the haze of pain, a faint, breathless smile touching his lips. He raised his uninjured hand, his bloody fingers gently cupping her chin, tilting her face up toward his.

“I told you… nobody touches you,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “I’d take a thousand bullets before I let anyone hurt you, Grace.”

Grace leaned forward and kissed him with a desperate, fierce intensity that tasted of copper, dust, and raw survival. “Don't you dare die on me, Ethan Caldwell. We have an empire to run.”

Ethan chuckled, wincing as the pain flared, but he held her against his chest, refusing to let go.