At 3:12 a.m., I decided I was going to murder my upstairs neighbor.

Six months later, the third-floor landing of Hallowmere Manor was quiet, orderly, and peaceful.

The heavy iron gates of the estate were no longer a prison wall, but a boundary protecting a life that had finally found its balance. In my new private studio overlooking the Atlantic, the golden light of late afternoon poured across a restored seventeenth-century canvas, the vibrant blue sky shining without a single crack or blemish.

Downstairs in the massive kitchen, Rosa was humming softly while chopping vegetables, her famous roasted garlic scent drifting up the grand staircase.

And in the library, Kalin sat behind the mahogany desk, reviewing financial ledgers and shipping manifests with the cool, calculated authority of a man who ruled an empire.

When the heavy double doors opened, he didn't even need to look up to know who had entered.

I walked across the Persian rug, carrying a tray with two cups of hot espresso, and set them down on the edge of his desk.

"You're working late again, Mr. Kovatch-Moretti," I teased, leaning against the edge of the wood.

Kalin looked up, a slow, warm smile breaking across his stern face. He reached out, pulling me down onto his lap with effortless strength, wrapping his arms around my waist.

"I'm not working," he murmured, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his lips brushing against my skin. "I'm balancing the books."

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, breathing in the scent of cedarwood, rain, and home.

"And how does the ledger look?" I whispered against his hair.