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Camilla tilted her head, genuine curiosity animating her question. "Was it worth it, Harlow? Risking everything you've constructed for him?"

The question deserved candor. "Yes. He's worth it."

A knowing smile played across her lips. "Then congratulations are appropriate. Professionally and personally."

As she departed, an unusual sense of resolution settled over me. The division between my professional and personal identities—a boundary I'd guarded relentlessly—had finally dissolved. Strangely, I felt more authentic than I had in years.

My momentary tranquility shattered as Enzo Ricci materialized in the doorway, earlier composure replaced by barely restrained fury.

"Savoring your victory, Investigator? Or should I say, Mrs. Hardwick?"

I straightened, securing the approval documents in my briefcase. "The commission made their determination based on evidence, Mr. Ricci. The system functioned properly."

"Don't be naive." He advanced, voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "This was never about regulatory compliance. Easton Hardwick stole something irreplaceable from me years ago. I'm merely reciprocating."

His personal vendetta explained the ferocity of his pursuit. "What exactly did he take?"

A bitter laugh escaped him. "Ask your husband about Meridian Properties. About the development deal that destroyed my family's legacy and launched his first venture. Ask him what he'll sacrifice to win."

"Whatever transpired between you is history," I replied, moving toward the exit. "Your attempt to sabotage the Jade Petal failed. Perhaps focus on your own operations rather than cultivating vendettas."

His hand captured my arm. "He'll annihilate your career without hesitation when he's finished with you. Just as he did to others who trusted him."

I removed his hand deliberately. "You don't know him as I do. And you certainly don't know me if you believe vague accusations will manipulate me."

As I walked away, his parting words pursued me: "Everyone's manipulable, Investigator. It's merely a question of locating the right pressure point."

The threat lingered but couldn't eclipse the weight of the licensing approval in my briefcase—or the anticipation of sharing our victory. I retrieved my phone, hesitating briefly before dialing.

Easton answered immediately, tension evident. "Harlow? The verdict?"

"We succeeded," I replied, emotion coloring my voice despite my efforts. "License approved. The Jade Petal opens on schedule."

His exhale carried audible relief. "And you? Are you alright?"

The question—prioritizing my wellbeing over business outcomes—kindled something profound within me. "Better than alright. They've asked me to develop a formal collaborative oversight program based on our approach."

"That's extraordinary, Harlow. You've transformed potential catastrophe into innovation."

"We transformed it," I corrected. "Together."

The word suspended between us, laden with implications beyond our professional alliance.

Enzo's accusations echoed distantly, but I dismissed them.

Whatever shadowed Easton's past, I trusted the man I'd come to know—who had weathered his best friend's betrayal with dignity, who regarded me with genuine fascination.

"Come home," he said quietly. "Let's celebrate properly."

Home. Not his penthouse. Not the Jade Petal. Home. As if we shared one.

Perhaps we did.

"Twenty minutes," I promised, already moving toward the exit, toward him, toward whatever future we were constructing on accidental foundations.

***

The Jade Petal cast emerald radiance against the deepening Vegas dusk. Despite my frequent visits, I couldn't help appreciating its architectural restraint that distinguished it from the Strip's garish excess. Like its creator, it exuded sophisticated power rather than ostentatious spectacle.

Easton waited at the private elevator, his expression transforming upon seeing me—relief dissolving into something more vulnerable.

He'd abandoned his usual corporate armor for dark jeans and a slate-gray Henley that accentuated his broad shoulders, appearing more authentic than the casino magnate who had initially been my investigative target.

"You prevailed," he said, reaching for my hand.

I shook my head, stepping into his space unhesitatingly. "We prevailed."

His arms encircled me, solid and warm, and I yielded to him without the resistance that had characterized our earlier encounters. The elevator sealed us into privacy, and I lifted my face to his.

"Say it again," I whispered.

Understanding immediately, he cradled my face, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that accelerated my heartbeat. "I'm falling in love with you, Harlow Clarke."

Rising on my toes, I eliminated the distance between us. "I'm falling in love with you too, Easton Hardwick. I think I have been since you first challenged everything I thought I knew."

The kiss that followed differed fundamentally from our previous encounters—no alcohol-induced recklessness, no desperate need born from professional friction or forced proximity.

This was deliberate, chosen, acknowledging something that had simmered beneath the surface since our first confrontation.

By the time we reached the penthouse, we were breathless, my blazer half-unbuttoned, his hair disheveled from my exploring fingers. We stumbled into the living room, reluctant to separate even as he guided me toward the dining area, where champagne awaited in an ice bucket beside crystal flutes.

"You anticipated success," I noted, eyeing the elaborate dinner setting.

His smile carried a hint of characteristic confidence, tempered with genuine emotion. "In you? Absolutely. Even when you were shutting down my first operation, I respected your conviction."

He poured champagne, offering me a flute, bubbles capturing the subdued lighting like suspended gold. "To new beginnings," he proposed, gaze unwavering. "Professional and personal."

Crystal clinked musically as our glasses met. "What began as my life's greatest mistake might be its greatest blessing," I admitted, surprising myself with such honesty.

Easton set down his glass, taking mine and placing it beside his before drawing me closer. "I've been contemplating our marriage."

Nervousness fluttered beneath my ribs. "What about it?"

"It was supposedly temporary. A drunken mistake we'd correct when convenient." His fingers traced my jawline. "But what if it wasn't a mistake? What if Vegas recognized what we couldn't yet acknowledge?"

The vulnerability in his question dismantled my final defense against fully embracing what had developed between us since that first night.

"Are you suggesting we remain married?" My voice barely exceeded a whisper.

"I'm saying I want you as my wife. Genuinely, this time.

Not from inebriation or impulse or neon lights, but because I've never encountered anyone who challenges me, comprehends me, sees through my defenses as you do.

" His grip tightened slightly at my waist. "I want a partner, Harlow.

Someone who confronts my arrogance but stands beside me regardless. I believe that's you."

The directness of his declaration—so characteristically Easton in its confident delivery yet uncommonly vulnerable in its content—momentarily robbed me of speech. This was the man Enzo had warned about? The ruthless operator who destroyed those who trusted him?

No. This was the man who had exposed his flaws alongside his strengths, who acknowledged when I was right even at personal cost, who regarded me now as if I held answers to questions he'd spent a lifetime asking.

"I want to be your wife," I replied finally, the declaration feeling inexplicably right. "Genuinely, this time."

His smile transformed his features—unrestrained joy that seemed almost boyish on a face normally composed for business negotiations. Then his mouth reclaimed mine, and boyishness evaporated entirely.

The kiss deepened instantly, his hands slipping beneath my blouse as I worked the buttons of his Henley. We moved in perfect synchronization despite our urgency—a dance we'd been rehearsing since that first night in his office, each movement more assured than the last.

"Dinner will grow cold," he murmured against my throat as he guided me toward the bedroom.

"Food isn't what I'm hungry for," I replied, pulling his shirt over his head.

His laugh vibrated against my skin. "The meticulous investigator making suggestive comments? How have I corrupted you, Harlow Clarke?"

"By helping me discover what I truly desire," I answered truthfully, unfastening my blouse under his heated scrutiny. "And currently, I desire you."

We barely reached the bedroom, discarding clothing as we progressed. Unlike our first night together, when passion had emerged from months of tension suddenly unleashed, this was simultaneously more urgent and more deliberate—each touch an affirmation, each kiss a covenant.

When the cool sheets met my back, Easton followed me down, his body covering mine with exquisite weight.

His hands and mouth seemed everywhere at once—discovering the sensitive hollow of my throat, the curve of my breast, the dip of my waist. I arched beneath him, my own explorations equally thorough as I traced the muscular contours of his shoulders and back.

"You're exquisite," he whispered, reverence suffusing his voice as he beheld me. "Especially without your professional armor."

I pulled him down for another kiss, craving connection. "No more armor. Not with you."

Something transformed in his expression—desire deepening into something more profound. When he entered me, our physical union merely echoed what had already transpired emotionally. We established perfect rhythm, each thrust drawing us closer to completion and to each other.