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She took the letter automatically, half distracted by the crowd’s hum. When her eyes fell on the number inside, she nearly lost her balance.

“Christian,” she breathed, “this can’t be right.” The sum not only reflected the doubled-episodes payment, but another one hundred thousand on top of that.

“It’s right,” he assured her, grinning at her reaction. “They wanted to close the file fast and, frankly, make sure you stayed happy. Mason Stark tried to kill you after all.”

Amy looked up from the figures, still dazed. “This is more than I ever imagined.”

Delaney’s wife touched her arm kindly. “We’ve been following everything you’ve done with the house. It’s extraordinary work.”

Delaney nodded. “Truly. Congratulations, Amy—you deserve to celebrate tonight.”

For a moment, she was too stunned to speak. “Thank you,” she managed at last, her voice catching. “For… all of it.”

Delaney offered a modest shrug. “Sometimes it just takes a decent advocate—and a very determined client. Enjoy your gala, Ms. York.”

He tipped his head politely and let his wife steer him toward the dance floor, their laughter fading into the music’s swell.

Amy stood for a beat longer, letter clutched against her ribs, the printed number burning through the paper. After everything, this was real.

For the first time in months, the weight on her shoulders was lifted.

She smiled faintly, blinked away the sting in her eyes, and turned back toward the glow of the ballroom. Tonight, she thought, the house wasn’t the only thing finally at peace.

And then, just as she was catching her breath near the foyer, the crowd shifted. For a long moment, she stood there amid the glow and laughter, the envelope still in her hand, until Kelsey appeared, eyes wide. “Amy, people are raving. The donations are through the roof. Both foundations just crossed their goals.”

Amy laughed, breathlessly dazed. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Mac says ticket sales alone covered the costs. Everything else is profit.”

Amy looked around—the lanterns, the smiling faces, the sound of violins threading through the night—and felt something unfurl deep inside her.

It was working.

It had all worked.

When she turned, Sully was standing there. His fake beard was finally gone, his mask pushed to his forehead, and that crooked grin aimed right at her. “Still standing, Verity?”

“Barely,” she said. “I think I might be in shock.”

“Good shock or bad?”

“The kind you don’t want to wake up from.”

He reached out a hand. “Then dance with me before midnight.”

She let him pull her close, the world narrowing to music and warmth. The gala continued around them—laughter, clinking glasses, waves breaking below the cliffs—but it all blurred away.

For once, Amy didn’t think about debts or bookings or ghosts.

She thought only of Sully’s hand at her waist, the pulse in her ears, and how impossible it was not to smile.

And in that moment, she knew the truth as surely as she knew her own name.

She was home.

And she was in love.

The night had thinned to amber light and low laughter. Most of the guests had drifted toward the veranda for one last drink or goodnight selfie beneath the lanterns. The music had slowed, a waltz fading into something soft enough to dissolve the edges of conversation. Amy’s perfume still hovered near Sully’s collar—warm and dizzying. He could still feel the echo of her hand at his shoulder, the sweep of her skirt brushing his leg, the quick, breathless look they’d shared before he released her back to her hostess duties.