My father shoved me into my sister's wedding fountain while the guests clapped and laughed because I arrived alone. Twenty minutes later, the billionaire they all desperately wanted to impress walked straight past every VIP, wrapped me in his coat, and revealed that the woman they had just humiliated was his wife.

The drive across the causeway to Blake’s private estate on Star Island was conducted in peaceful, uninterrupted silence. The armored glass of the Maybach blocked out every sound of the city, leaving only the soft hum of the climate control blowing warm air across my bare, chilled feet.

Blake did not let go of my hand once during the twenty-minute drive. His thumb stroked the back of my knuckles, tracing the platinum band of our wedding ring.

When we arrived at the estate—a modernist masterpiece of limestone, glass, and dark wood surrounded by twenty-foot security gates and private dockage—he didn’t let me walk. As Marcus opened the car door, Blake simply scooped me up into his arms, carrying me through the grand foyer, past the silent staff who bowed respectfully, and straight up the floating staircase to our master suite.

He carried me directly into the vast marble bathroom, where steam was already rising from an oversized sunken tub filled with fragrant oils and warm water.

He set me down gently on a velvet bench, knelt before me, and carefully helped me peel off the ruined emerald dress. His fingers were infinitely gentle, touching the red, angry bruises already forming on my collarbone where Richard’s hands had struck me.

Blake’s breath hitched in his throat as he saw the marks.

“He will pay for every millimeter of this,” he whispered, his voice shaking with a dangerous, quiet rage.

“Blake,” I said, lifting his chin so his eyes met mine. “Look at me.”

He looked up, his silver eyes dark with guilt and pain.

“You saved me,” I told him softly. “You arrived exactly when you needed to. You stripped away twenty-six years of lies in twenty minutes. Don’t be angry right now. Just hold me.”

Blake’s armor cracked. He leaned forward, burying his face against my neck, breathing in the scent of my skin beneath the chlorine. “I wanted to kill him, Clara. When I walked through those gates and saw you in that water, I wanted to burn everything he owned to the ground.”

“You did burn it,” I said with a faint, tired smile. “And now it’s over.”

He helped me into the steaming water, remaining beside the tub the entire time, using a sponge to gently wash the remnants of the fountain pool from my hair and skin. He dried me with thick, heated towels, dressed me in one of his soft cashmere sweaters, and tucked me into the massive king-sized bed overlooking the lights of the bay.