The private airstrip was windswept and grey, a stark contrast to the glittering ballroom where the war had ended the night before. Victoria stood on the tarmac, watching Dominic Valerius load a single leather bag into a chartered jet.
He turned, seeing her approach. He didn’t look like the billionaire playboy who had once tried to steal her away; he looked like a man who had burned his kingdom to the ground to save the queen.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” Dominic said, his hands in his pockets.
“You gave me the ledger,” Victoria said, stopping a few feet away. “You destroyed your own legacy to save mine. I wanted to say thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” Dominic smirked, though it lacked his usual malice. “I didn’t do it for William. I did it because my father needed to learn that people aren’t chess pieces.”
He looked past her, toward the city skyline where the news of Arthur Sterling’s sudden “retirement” was broadcasting on every screen. Dominic had made himself a pariah to destroy a tyrant.
“Where will you go?” Victoria asked.
“Europe. Asia. Somewhere the name Valerius doesn’t mean ‘traitor’ or ‘target,’” Dominic shrugged. He looked at her one last time, his gaze softening. The obsession that had driven him was gone, replaced by a weary respect. “Take care of the heir, Victoria. And tell William… tell him he got lucky.”
“Goodbye, Dominic,” she whispered.
He nodded, boarded the plane, and didn’t look back. As the jet climbed into the clouds, Victoria felt the final thread of the past snap. The past was closed.