I froze when the new maid apologized for breaking my mother’s glass—because I’d know that voice anywhere.

A year later, everything was better than I’d ever dared to dream.

Evelyn and I were settled into the farmhouse, our days slow and full of small, perfect moments.

She’d started a small garden in the backyard, growing tomatoes and sunflowers and all the herbs she loved to cook with.

She’d gone back to school too, getting her degree in social work, so she could help other kids and moms who’d been in the same situation she’d been in—scared, alone, with nowhere to turn.

She was good at it.

Better than good.

The kids at the center where she worked adored her, called her “Miss Evie,” and ran to hug her the second she walked through the door.

Liam was thriving at UW.

He’d made the dean’s list his first two semesters, his engineering professors already talking about him being one of the best students they’d ever had.

He’d met a girl, a sweet, smart engineering major named Mia, who loved working on bikes as much as he did.

They’d spent the whole summer rebuilding the old F-150 together, adding new parts, painting it a deep, glossy blue, just like it had been when I was 17.

They’d driven it down to Oregon for the weekend a few weeks earlier, parked it under the old oak tree, and sent us a photo, both of them grinning, covered in grease.

I’d framed it and put it on the mantel above the fireplace.

Victoria had taken the plea deal.

She was serving two years in a minimum-security prison outside Portland.

We’d gotten one letter from her, six months earlier, postmarked from the prison.

She’d written that she was sorry, that she was using her time in prison to get her GED, to work with at-risk kids, to try to make up for all the harm she’d caused.

We hadn’t written back.

We didn’t need to.

Her apology was for her, not for us.

We’d already closed that chapter of our lives.

The company was doing better than ever.

I’d stepped back as CEO, promoting my long-time COO to run day-to-day operations, so I could spend more time with my family.

I still went into the office a few days a week, still closed the big deals, but I was home for dinner every night.

No more 100-hour weeks.

No more missing the important stuff.

One warm Saturday night in June, exactly two years to the day after Liam had walked through my elevator doors, the three of us—plus Mia, who was now basically part of the family—sat on the long front porch of the farmhouse, eating the peach pie Evelyn had baked that afternoon.

The sun was setting over the sound, painting the sky pink and orange and purple.

Liam and Mia were laughing about something that had happened in their lab that week, their shoulders pressed together, his hand resting on her knee.

Evelyn was leaning against my side, her head on my shoulder, her hand in mine, the wedding band and the locket both glinting in the golden light.

I looked at them, at the people I loved more than anything in the world, and I thought about all the years I’d spent angry, all the years I’d thought my life was empty, all the years I’d tried to fill the hole in my chest with money and work and deals that meant nothing.

I thought about the day Evelyn had dropped that glass in my penthouse, the day my whole world had turned upside down, the day I’d gotten back everything I’d ever lost, plus more than I’d ever dared to hope for.

Evelyn looked up at me, sensing my thoughts, and smiled, soft.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, quiet.

I kissed the top of her head, squeezing her hand tight.

“Just thinking about how lucky I am,” I said. “How we all are.”

She nodded, leaning into me harder.

“We are,” she said. “So, so lucky.”

Liam looked over at us, grinning, holding up his glass of iced tea in a toast.

“To us,” he said, his voice loud and proud and happy. “To the Hale family. To second chances. To forever.”

We all clinked our glasses together, the sound ringing out soft and clear in the warm evening air.

Mia leaned her head on Liam’s shoulder.

Evelyn laced her fingers through mine, her thumb brushing over my knuckles.

The sun dipped below the horizon, the first stars coming out, the sound of crickets starting up in the grass around the porch.