I faked paralysis after my accident to test everyone. My fiancée mocked me publicly—until the maid spoke up.

The first year of marriage was the best year of my life.

We traveled, going to all the places we’d always wanted to see—Paris, Tokyo, the Amalfi Coast, a small cottage in Ireland where Clara’s grandmother had been born. We ate good food, walked on beaches, stayed up late talking, made love in hotel rooms with views of the ocean.

We ran the company together, too. Clara didn’t want to be a CEO, but she was amazing at the charity foundation, turning it into one of the biggest in the country, helping thousands of kids who’d lost their parents, just like she had. She was a natural—kind, smart, tough when she needed to be. People loved her. I loved watching her work, seeing the fire in her eyes when she talked about helping people.

My father came to work with us, too, running the international division. We grew closer than ever, having lunch together every day, talking about business and family and everything in between. He told me stories about my mother, stories I’d never heard before, and I finally felt like I knew her, a little bit.

Uncle Martin ran the local charity programs, and he was happy, too. He’d spent his whole life feeling like he was in my father’s shadow, but now he had his own thing, something he was proud of. He met a nice woman, a teacher who worked with the foundation, and they got married in the spring. We were all there, cheering.

Daniel came back to work for us, running the tech division. He was brilliant at it, and he worked hard to earn back my trust. We became friends again, not the same as before, but better—stronger, more honest. He met a girl who worked in marketing, and they got engaged. Clara was going to be her maid of honor.

Marcus was still my security chief, but he had less to do now. No one was trying to kill me anymore. No one was trying to steal from me. He spent most of his time training new guards and spoiling his new puppy, a big golden retriever named Max who came to work with him every day and slept under my desk.

Rico was in witness protection, living in a small town in Canada, working as a mechanic. He sent us a Christmas card every year, with a photo of him and his new wife and their two kids. We wrote back, sending him gifts for the kids, wishing him well. He’d made a terrible mistake, but he’d paid for it, and he was trying to be a better man. We could respect that.

Vanessa and Liam were still in prison. We got letters sometimes, from Vanessa, full of hate and threats, saying she’d get out, she’d get revenge. We threw them away. She’d never get out. Twenty-five years was a long time. By the time she was eligible for parole, she’d be an old woman, with no money, no power, no one who cared about her. She was already gone from our lives.

Liam never wrote. He’d tried to kill himself in prison six months after he was sentenced, but the guards had found him in time. He was in a psychiatric unit now, getting help. I didn’t feel bad for him. He’d made his choices. He had to live with them.

Life was good.

It was quiet, and happy, and full of love.