"Claire, I am finished faking it with you. She is the one I actually want."

Two years later.

The summer sun shone brilliantly over Lincoln Park, casting warm golden light across the manicured garden of my craftsman home.

The four-bedroom townhouse was filled with the sound of acoustic guitar music, warm laughter, and the mouth-watering scent of a summer barbecue. Over twenty friends, family members, and colleagues gathered on the outdoor patio, celebrating the third anniversary of my design firm.

Mrs. Diane sat in a comfortable teak armchair near the hydrangeas, holding a glass of iced tea, chatting happily with my sister’s children.

Marcus stood at the outdoor grill, laughing as he served grilled salmon to our guests, looking over at me with a warm, loving smile.

I stood on the back porch, wearing a light white linen dress, resting my hand against the warm wooden railing.

My phone, resting on the patio table behind me, chimed with an automated news update.

I pulled it out. A small blurb in the local legal gazette noted that Ethan Vance’s personal bankruptcy petition had been officially recorded, closing his financial file permanently as he relocated to a small rural town in Indiana to work at a regional auto-parts warehouse.

I looked at the notification for two seconds.

I didn't feel a single sting of bitterness. I didn't feel a drop of remaining pain. The name Ethan Vance was simply a closed, forgotten chapter in an old book.

I swiped the alert off my screen, set the phone face-down on the table, and walked down the porch steps into the sunlit garden to join my true family.

Three years ago, an arrogant man had walked through my front door, believing he could break my heart, humiliate my spirit, and take my home.