One year later.

The private terrace atop the Monroe-Vale Center was quiet, high above the glowing lights of Manhattan and the quiet, dark flow of the Hudson River.

A gentle June breeze swept over the rooftop garden, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine, lavender, and rain.

I stood near the glass railing, holding a glass of sparkling water, looking out at the city skyline.

Behind me, the teak glass doors slid open with a soft, whisper-quiet hiss.

Adrian stepped out onto the terrace. He had removed his jacket and tie, rolling his sleeves up to his forearms, exposing the dark geometric dragon tattoos that I had come to love so deeply.

He walked over behind me, wrapping his broad, warm arms around my waist, pulling my back firmly against his chest. I leaned back into him, resting my head against his shoulder.

“The board approved the London expansion project this afternoon,” Adrian murmured into my hair, his hands resting gently over my stomach. “Monroe Spatial will be designing the entire South Bank cultural pavilion.”

“I know,” I smiled, covering his hands with mine. “Nina sent me the contract twenty minutes ago.”

“You work too much, Mrs. Vale,” Adrian chided softly, kissing the warm skin of my neck.

I turned around in his arms, wrapping my hands around his neck, looking into the dark, fierce gray eyes that had become my home.

On my left ring finger, a breathtaking five-carat emerald-cut diamond set in brushed platinum caught the moonlight, flashing brilliant white and blue light across the dark terrace.

We had been married three months ago in a private ceremony on Shelter Island, surrounded only by my family, my crew, and our closest friends. No press. No corporate politics. Just a simple, perfect room built for love.

“I don't work too much,” I whispered, stepping closer until our hips touched. “I just like building things that last.”

Adrian reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, heavy brass key, resting it in the palm of my hand.

I looked down at it. “What’s this?”

“The key to the converted warehouse on 14th Street,” Adrian said, a soft, rare smile warming his features. “I bought it yesterday. It’s six thousand square feet of raw concrete, forty-foot ceilings, and historic brick.”

I blinked, looking up at him in surprise. “Why?”

“Because,” Adrian murmured, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us at all, “my wife needs a new studio. One with custom light rigs, private draft rooms, and an espresso machine that never grinds.”

I looked at the key, then up at my husband—the man who had given me his heart, his empire, and his unyielding respect.

“You really know how to take care of an architect, Mr. Vale,” I whispered, my voice trembling with happy emotion.

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“I don't take care of an architect, Claire,” Adrian breathed, leaning down until his lips were a fraction of an inch from mine. “I take care of the woman who built my entire world.”

He kissed me then—a deep, passionate, timeless kiss under the stars of Manhattan, surrounded by the beauty we had built together, in a space that would belong to us forever