Six months later.

Late June on the coast of Martha’s Vineyard.

The evening sun was setting over the Atlantic Ocean, casting a warm, golden glow across the private beach behind our cedar-shingled home.

The tide washed softly against the shore, carrying the gentle scent of salt, rosehip, and summer air.

On the wooden deck overlooking the water, a long table was set for dinner with simple white linen, wildflowers, and candles.

My grandmother’s old brass drafting set sat on a small side table—a gift Carolina had framed for my new private architecture and investment studio, which operated entirely out of Boston, far away from the toxic concrete halls of Wall Street.

I stood near the edge of the deck, holding nine-month-old Gabriel in my arms. He was wearing tiny blue shorts, laughing hysterically as I bounced him up and down.

“Look at the water, Gabe,” I whispered, pointing to the golden reflection of the sun on the waves. “That’s your playground.”

Gabriel let out a happy squeal, reaching his chubby hands toward my face, grabbing my chin with surprising strength.

Behind me, the screen door slid open.

Carolina walked out onto the deck, wearing a flowing white sundress that accentuated the soft, beautiful curves of her body. Her auburn hair was down, catching the warm summer breeze.

She looked radiant, happy, and entirely at peace.

She walked over to us, wrapping her arms around my waist from behind, resting her cheek against my back.

“The roasted chicken is ready,” she murmured softly.

I turned around in her arms, keeping one hand securely around Gabriel’s back, and pulled Carolina close to me.

“Let it cool,” I smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss against her lips.

Carolina closed her eyes, kissing me back with a deep, effortless warmth that made eight months of pain feel like a distant, faded memory.

When she pulled back, she looked up into my gray eyes, her thumb softly tracing the line of my jaw.

“Did Arthur call today?” she asked quietly.

“He did,” I replied, shifting Gabriel to my hip. “The legal separation from Lockwood Financial is ninety-nine percent complete. The new firm, Lockwood-Hayes Design & Capital, opens its doors next month.”

“And your mother?” Carolina asked gently.

I looked out at the ocean. Eleanor had retired to her estate in Palm Beach, stripped of her board positions, completely isolated from the corporate world she had spent her life cultivating. She sent a letter last month asking to see Gabriel, but Arthur had returned it unopened, per our strict agreement.

“She chose her path, Carolina,” I said softly. “And I chose mine.”

Gabriel let out another loud laugh, reaching out to grab a flower from the table centerpiece.

Carolina laughed, taking the flower from his tiny hands before he could put it in his mouth.

“He has your determination, Silas,” Carolina said, looking at our son with infinite love. “And your stubbornness.”

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“Good,” I said, drawing Carolina back against my chest, surrounding her and Gabriel in my arms as the sun slowly dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in breathtaking shades of purple, crimson, and gold. “He’s going to need it to run this world.”

We stood together on the deck, listening to the waves, holding the family we had fought so hard to reclaim—a family built not on empires or titles, but on truth, forgiveness, and a love that could never be stolen again.