We will discuss his actual compensation for saving a duke’s life later this evening. Thomas shook his head frantically. “No, no, Captain. I don’t want your money. I did what I had to do. I didn’t do it for a payout.” “I know you didn’t, Tommy,” the Duke said softly, his harsh facade melting away as he looked at his old friend.

“That is precisely why you deserve it. You won’t deny me the privilege of taking care of my brother, will you?” Thomas looked at the Duke, then at Martha, who was weeping with overwhelming relief, and finally at Khloe, who was walking toward them, free of the Kensington shadows. Thomas nodded slowly, swiping a rough hand across his wet eyes.

“Now,” the Duke said, turning his back entirely on the Kensingtons and their ruined spectacle. He offered his arm to Martha. “Mrs. Harper, I believe this estate has suddenly become rather polluted. My yacht, the Valyriius, is docked at the Newport Marina. I have my personal chef aboard and several bottles of wine that are far superior to the swill these frauds were about to serve.

Would you do me the honor of joining me for a proper celebration? Martha, a woman who had spent 30 years baking bread at 4 a.m. looked at the billionaire Duke. She smiled, a radiant, beautiful smile, and looped her arm through his. I would love that, Edward, but only if you promise to let me bake you a proper pie someday.

The Duke laughed a booming genuine sound that echoed across the lawn. It’s a deal. Chloe walked up to her father. Thomas held out his hand and she took it, gripping it tightly. He didn’t look like a tired poor mechanic anymore as he stood tall, flanked by the Duke’s security team. He looked like a king. “Let’s go home, Dad,” Khloe whispered.

Let’s go, Thomas agreed. The Harpers and the Duke walked together toward the waiting motorcade. The Duke’s driver held open the doors to the lead Rolls-Royce Phantom. Martha climbed in first, followed by Thomas. The Duke turned to Khloe, offering a respectful bow of his head before gesturing for her to enter.

As Khloe gathered her dress to climb into the immaculate leather interior of the luxury car, she paused and looked back one last time. Rosecliffe mansion was in chaos. Guests were fleeing, desperate to distance themselves from the radioactive fallout of Richard Kensington’s exposed bankruptcy. Eleanor was screaming at the wedding planner about cancellation fees, while Preston stood alone on the grass, staring blankly at the ice bucket, where his future and his pride had been unceremoniously dumped.

They looked small, for all their grand estates, their tailored clothes, and their cruel arrogance, they were the poorest people Khloe had ever met. The heavy door of the Rolls-Royce closed with a solid, satisfying thud. The engine purred to life and the motorcade turned smoothly around the grand circular driveway. Inside the quiet, climate controlled cabin.

The Duke popped the cork on a bottle of incredibly rare champagne. He poured a glass for Thomas, one for Martha, and handed the crystal flute to Khloe. To narrow escapes, the Duke toasted, raising his glass, and to the unbreakable bond of good people. Thomas clinkedked his glass against the Dukes. Two good people. As the fleet of Rolls-Royces glided out of the iron gates of Rosecliffe, leaving the Kensingtons to their self-inflicted ruin.

What? Chloe took a sip of the champagne. It was cold, crisp, and tasted exactly like freedom. She looked at her parents, their faces glowing with a peace they hadn’t known in months. And she knew she had never been richer. The Rolls-Royce motorcade wo through the historic sundrrenched streets of Newport, Rhode Island, leaving the sprawling nightmare of Rosecliffe Mansion far behind.

Inside the lead phantom, the silence was no longer heavy with anxiety, but floating on the effervescent high of profound relief. Khloe leaned her head against the cool leather of the window, watching the Atlantic coastline blur past. The $40,000 silk wedding gown, which had felt like a suffocating shroud just an hour ago now, felt like nothing more than a ridiculous Halloween costume.

She was about to take off. When the motorcade arrived at the private docks of the Newport Marina, the true scale of the Duke of Harrington’s resources became undeniably clear. Docked at the end of the longest pier was the Valyrias, an 85 meter super yacht that looked less like a boat and more like a floating modernist palace of tinted glass and pristine white steel.

The Duke’s staff, dressed in immaculate white uniforms, lined the boarding ramp. They did not look at Thomas’s worn suit or wore Martha’s discount department store dress with the disdain the Kensingtons had. They bowed their heads with genuine trained respect as the Duke escorted his guests aboard. “Welcome to my humble dinghy, Thomas,” Edward Montigu said, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a warmth that was entirely absent when he had addressed Richard Kensington.

Thomas let out a low whistle, his mechanic’s eyes immediately scanning the incredible engineering of the vessel. “Humble,” he says. Captain, this thing has more horsepower in its auxiliary generators than my entire garage combined. And she’s entirely at your disposal, the Duke replied, clapping a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. But first, I believe Mrs.

Harper was promised a proper meal. The afternoon bled into evening on the aft deck of the Valarius. Khloe changed out of her heavy wedding dress into a simple elegant linen sundress borrowed from the yacht’s guest wardrobe. For the first time in 18 months, she felt like she could actually breathe.

Dinner was prepared by Arturo, the Duke’s personal Michelin starred chef, but it was served entirely without the stiff, suffocating pretention of the Beacon Hill Club. They ate family style off exquisite leoge porcelain platters of perfectly seared sea scallops, wild mushroom rsado shaved with white truffles and a rustic heirloom tomato salad that Arturo insisted he had flown in from his brother’s farm in Tuscanyany just that morning.

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