The burgundy sweater I wore was stained with a light dusting of flour and a faint trace of rosemary, the physical evidence of forty-eight relentless hours spent standing over hot burners, scrubbing counters, and wrestling a twenty-pound turkey into submission. My feet throbbed, my lower back ached with a dull, persistent fire, and my hands smelled permanently of garlic and butter. I had poured every ounce of my energy into making Diane’s Thanksgiving table look and taste like something out of a magazine, all because Eric had begged me, practically on his knees, to step in and rescue the holiday after their caterer backed out at the last minute.

The following Thanksgiving, exactly one year after the disaster at Diane’s dining room table, the weather in Boston was crisp, clear, and gloriously bright.

I stood in my own modern, sunlit kitchen, wearing a brand-new burgundy sweater that matched the old one in color but carried none of the bitter memories. The marble countertops were covered with an absolute feast: a perfectly browned rosemary turkey, maple-glazed carrots, garlic mashed potatoes, rich gravy, cranberry sauce, pumpkin cheesecake, and three overflowing baskets of golden, buttery homemade rolls.

My home was filled with the rich, comforting aromas of herbs and baking pastry, mingling with the sound of laughter, clinking wine glasses, and lively conversation.

Arthur and Maya Vance were there, along with several close friends and colleagues who felt more like family than anyone sharing my last name ever had.

Maya walked up behind me as I pulled the final tray of rolls from the oven, inhaling deeply with a grin.

“Claire, I swear, if these rolls taste even half as good as they smell, I might never leave your house,” she joked.

I laughed, setting the tray down on the island. “Take as many as you want, Maya. There’s no scarcity here.”

Later, as we all sat down around my dining room table—a table I had bought with my own money, in a house I owned entirely on my own terms—Arthur raised his wine glass in a toast.

“To Claire,” Arthur said, looking around the table with genuine warmth. “For brilliant strategy, uncompromising integrity, and proving that the best recipe for life is never letting anyone compromise your worth.”

Everyone smiled, raising their glasses in agreement.

I took a sip of my wine, looking around the table at the people who loved me for who I was, respecting my mind, my career, and my heart without condition.