“Any Last Wish Before You Leave?” the Billionaire’s Fiancée Whispered as She Tightened the Rope Around His Missing Maid—Seconds Later, He Kicked Open the Farmhouse Door...

One year later.

Autumn had returned to Hawthorne Ridge, covering the twelve acres in brilliant red and gold leaves once again. But the cold, tragic memories of two years ago had been completely erased, replaced by an abundance of warmth, life, and laughter.

In the newly renovated East Wing of the estate—which had been converted into a state-of-the-art administrative hub for the Mercer-Bennett Foundation—Leah sat at her large executive desk.

She wore a chic dark green wool dress, her hair swept up in an elegant clip. On her desk stood framed photos of the foundation’s latest achievements: a new community shelter in Stamford, a scholarship fund for working-class women, and photos from their quiet honeymoon in Italy.

The door opened, and Grant stepped inside, carrying two mugs of hot chocolate topped with marshmallows.

"Break time, Director Bennett-Mercer," Grant smiled, setting one mug down in front of her.

"Thank you, Mr. Mercer," Leah smiled, leaning back in her chair and taking a warm sip. "Did you finish the board review?"

"I did," Grant said, leaning against the edge of her desk, looking down at her with infinite affection. "The board unanimously approved our five-million-dollar grant for the women's shelter project. They didn't even argue."

"They wouldn't dare argue with you," Leah teased, reaching out and playfully picking a piece of lint off his cashmere sweater.

"Oh, they don't fear me anymore, Leah," Grant chuckled, taking her hand in his. "They fear you. The state newspaper ran a feature yesterday calling you the most effective foundation director on the East Coast."

"I had ten years of training managing a very difficult billionaire," Leah countered with a wink. "That prepares a woman for anything."

Grant laughed, a rich, happy sound that filled the sunlit room. He pulled her up from her chair, drawing her against his chest as they walked over to the large bay window overlooking the valley.

In the distance, down by the rose garden, Mrs. Bennett was sitting on a bench, reading a book while the estate groundskeeper tended to the autumn blooms. Everything was peaceful, serene, and deeply secure.

"I received a letter from the District Attorney's office this morning," Grant said softly, resting his hand gently on her waist.

Leah looked up at him. "About Sloane?"

Grant nodded. "Her final appeal was rejected by the state supreme court. She will serve the full twelve years of her remaining sentence without parole."

Leah was silent for a moment, looking out at the golden leaves blowing across the lawn. Two years ago, the thought of Sloane Whitmore brought terror and suffocation. Today, it felt like a distant, faded memory from a different life.

"I don't hate her anymore, Grant," Leah said quietly. "I just feel sorry for her. She had everything in the world, but she was so consumed by greed and status that she destroyed her own life."