HE LAUGHED WHEN I ASKED FOR DIVORCE AT MY FATHER’S FUNERAL—UNTIL HE FOUND OUT WHO SIGNED THE DEATH CERTIFICATE ALONE!

Ethan didn't leave Seattle.

Instead, he checked into the penthouse suite of the Four Seasons overlooking Elliott Bay, setting up a temporary command center. Marcus and two personal security details were flown in within twenty-four hours. Yet, unlike his usual business operations, there were no threats of violence, no corporate takeovers, and no intimidating displays of wealth.

He was paralyzed by the realization that the usual levers of his power were completely useless against a woman who wanted nothing he could buy.

"Sir, flowers were delivered to her office building this morning," Marcus reported cautiously, standing beside the panoramic window of the hotel suite. "Two hundred white orchids from the premier florist in downtown."

Ethan looked up from his untouched glass of bourbon. "Did she accept them?"

Marcus hesitated, clearing his throat awkwardly. "No, sir. She instructed the reception desk to distribute them among the cleaning staff and building tenants. She left a note on the main desk stating that any further corporate deliveries under the Blackwood name should be rejected at the freight entrance."

Ethan squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his temples where a relentless migraine had taken root.

In Chicago, whenever he wanted to smooth over a rough patch or apologize for disappearing for four days on syndicate business, a diamond bracelet or an extravagant arrangement of imported roses had always been his weapon of choice. Claire had always accepted them with a polite, sad smile, placing them in water and retreating to her bedroom.

He had thought that was how women worked. He had thought that was how apologies were made.

"What about the car?" Ethan asked, his voice strained. "The Volvo SUV I had delivered to her apartment?"

"Returned to the local dealership within three hours, sir," Marcus answered quietly. "Mrs. Blackwood rode the city bus to work today. She carries an ORCA transit pass."

Ethan let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh that sounded more like a wounded animal than a billionaire tycoon. He stood up, walking over to the window to watch the ferries glide across the gray expanse of Puget Sound.

He remembered a rainy evening eighteen months ago in Chicago. Claire had spent four hours preparing a traditional roast beef dinner because it was his father’s memorial day, and she knew he carried private grief. When he finally arrived home at 11:30 p.m., smelling of smoke and alcohol after an impromptu meeting at one of his casinos, he had looked at the cold food on the dining table and laughed dismissively.

Claire, I don't need home-cooked comfort, he had told her cruelly, loosening his tie. I pay a three-star Michelin chef for that. Go to bed.

He remembered the silent tears spilling down her cheeks as she scraped the dinner into the trash bin. He remembered how small she looked standing under the bright kitchen chandelier, wearing an apron over her cotton dress, holding Dad’s old watch against her chest.

She had never wanted his diamonds. She had never cared about his shipping fleets or his private jets. She had wanted him to come home. She had wanted him to hold her hand when her father was coughing up blood in the oncology ward. She had wanted a husband, and he had given her an arrogant tyrant with an open checkbook.

"Marcus," Ethan said quietly, staring out at the mist.

"Yes, sir?"

"Find out where her father is buried in Chicago."

"St. Michael’s Cemetery, section four, row twelve. I have the records."

Ethan turned around, his eyes burning with a desperate, feverish resolve. "Cancel my meetings for tomorrow. Contact the city parish. I want that cemetery’s neglected perimeter restored. New wrought-iron fencing. Fresh sod. White marble headstones for the veterans’ plot. And... buy a plot beside Mr. Bennett."

Marcus looked up in utter astonishment. "Beside him, sir?"

"When I die, Marcus, that's where I belong," Ethan whispered, his voice cracking with unbearable guilt. "At the feet of the man whose daughter I failed."

He grabbed his coat from the leather chair. "Where is she right now?"