Dominic’s former fiancee.

Society beauty.

Daughter of a shipping magnate.

The woman tabloids had once expected him to marry.

She was stunning in the way expensive women often were: polished to the point of strategy.

Pale gold gown.

Perfect posture.

Smile like a knife wrapped in velvet.

“Dominic,” Serena said, bending to kiss the air beside his cheek.

Her eyes flicked to Clare with cool evaluation.

“What a surprise.”

“Serena,” Dominic replied.

Nothing in his tone gave Clare anything.

Not history.

Not emotion.

Not relief.

That made it worse.

Serena’s gaze dropped for a fraction of a second toward the chair before lifting again.

“You look well,” she said.

Clare saw it then.

The practiced sympathy.

The cruelty hidden inside it.

Before she could stop herself, she put one hand against Dominic’s jaw and kissed him in full view of the room.

Gasps were not audible, exactly, but they were felt.

When she drew back, Dominic was looking at her as if she had done something far more dangerous than rescue a moment.

Serena’s smile froze.

Later, in the car home, Dominic’s voice was quiet.

“That was unnecessary.”

“She was enjoying herself.”

“You don’t have to protect me from old ghosts.”

Clare turned toward him.

“Maybe I wasn’t protecting you.”

The air between them changed.

He looked out the window for the rest of the drive.

Three days later, someone leaked internal documents to a finance blog suggesting Dominic had delegated major decision-making after the crash.

The board called an emergency session.

Stock dipped 6 percent before lunch.

Victor took the lead in public.

Calm, paternal, false.

“We only want what’s best for the company,” he told the press.

Clare watched from the family office in Greenwich, fury climbing her throat.

Dominic did not swear.

He did not rant.

He simply asked Marcus for the names of everyone who had accessed the files.

“You’re not surprised,” Clare said after Marcus left.

“No.”

“Because of Victor?”

Dominic did not answer immediately.

“Because men who fail to take your power directly often start by questioning whether you can still hold it.”

That night Clare could not sleep.

At 1:00 a.m., she went downstairs for water and saw light under the study door.

Dominic was inside, jacket off, tie loosened, a half-empty glass of whiskey untouched near his hand.

Financial packets were spread across the desk.

He looked more tired than she had ever seen him.

“You should be asleep,” he said.

“So should you.”

He leaned back in the chair.

“I have a board vote in eleven days that could strip me of operational control if they can make enough people believe I am no longer capable.

Sleep feels theoretical.”

Clare stepped inside and shut the door.

“Then tell me what they’re really doing.”

His eyes lifted to hers.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then he opened a file and turned it toward her.

There were maintenance records.

Insurance reports.

Brake inspection summaries.

Internal emails.

Clare scanned the dates and felt her stomach drop.

The service authorization on the car from the week before the crash had been rerouted through a shell vendor tied to one of Kane Industries’ private infrastructure subsidiaries.

Victor’s division.

She looked up slowly.

“You think your uncle arranged the crash.”

Dominic’s face did not change.