Six months later.

The Vane empire had been liquidated. The "Black Fund" was gone, redistributed to the victims of the Vane and Vanderbilt families. Julian had served a short sentence in a minimum-security facility for the house-arrest violation, his record otherwise cleared by Elara’s overwhelming evidence of self-defense and corporate whistleblowing.

Elara stood on the balcony of a small, modest apartment in the city. There was no glass fortress, no fleet of Rolls-Royces. There was just the sound of the city and the smell of rain.

A pair of arms wrapped around her waist from behind. Julian tucked his chin into her shoulder, his breath warm against her neck.

"It’s too quiet," he murmured. "I’m not used to a life where I don't have to check the perimeter every hour."

"It’s called peace, Julian," she smiled, leaning back into him.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, simple box. It wasn't the "Glass Contract" gold, and it wasn't a diamond meant for a gala. It was a ring fashioned from a silver cello string, twisted into a delicate knot.

"No contracts this time," Julian said, his voice thick with emotion. "No protection clauses. No forfeiting lives. Just me. A man with nothing but a name and a future he wants to spend with you. Elara Vance, will you marry me for real?"

"Only if you promise one thing," she whispered, her eyes shining.

"Anything."

"Never let me play in a theater alone again."