Five minutes after my divorce was final, my dad told me to block every single card—and that same night, my ex-husband tried to spend nearly a million dollars on his mistress and was publicly destroyed.

The next year was the best of my life.

The company grew.

We took on bigger projects.

Opened a second office in New York.

Hired twenty more people.

Sarah was made partner.

She deserved it.

She’d been there through everything.

Ethan and I moved in together.

A beautiful brownstone in Lincoln Park.

Old world charm.

High ceilings.

Hardwood floors.

We renovated it together.

I designed.

He built.

Every room was a collaboration.

A perfect blend of both of us.

My family loved him.

His family loved me.

His mom came to visit from Iowa.

We hit it off immediately.

She taught me her secret apple pie recipe.

I taught her about modern art.

Everything was perfect.

Too perfect.

I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

For something to go wrong.

For Michael to somehow come back.

For Diego to get out early.

For another betrayal.

Another lie.

Another disaster.

But nothing came.

Day after day.

Week after week.

Month after month.

Just… happiness.

Normal, boring, wonderful happiness.

Ethan proposed on our one-year anniversary.

We were in Italy.

Florence.

At sunset.

On the Ponte Vecchio.

He got down on one knee.

Pulled out a ring.

Simple.

Elegant.

A single sapphire set in platinum.

“Mari Salazar,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “I’ve spent the last year watching you rebuild your life. Watching you be the strongest, kindest, most incredible woman I’ve ever known. I don’t want to spend another day without you. Will you marry me?”

I cried.

Of course I cried.

And through the tears, I said the only word that mattered.

“Yes.”

He slipped the ring on my finger.

It fit perfectly.

We called our families from the bridge.

Screaming.

Crying.

Celebrating.

Mom screamed so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear.

Abuela started planning the wedding before we hung up.

We were married six months later.

A small ceremony.

Just family and close friends.

At my parents’ house.

In the backyard.

Dad walked me down the aisle.

He squeezed my hand so tight I thought he’d break it.

“Don’t let him go,” he whispered. “He’s a good one.”

“I won’t.”

Ethan was waiting at the altar.

He cried when he saw me.

I cried when I saw him.

The ceremony was short.

Perfect.

Sarah was my maid of honor.

Ethan’s brother was his best man.

When the priest said “you may kiss the bride,” Ethan lifted me off my feet.

Kissed me like the world was ending.

The reception was loud.

Joyful.

Chaotic.

The way Salazar parties always are.

Abuela danced with every man under eighty.

My aunts cried.

My uncles drank too much.

Carlos gave a speech that had everyone laughing and crying at the same time.

At one point, Dad pulled me aside.

He looked at Ethan across the yard.

Laughing with my cousins.

Holding a beer.

Happy.

“I haven’t seen you smile like that since you were a little girl,” Dad said.

“I’m happy, Dad. Really happy.”

He squeezed my shoulder.

“You deserve it, mija. More than anyone I know. You went through hell. And you came out the other side stronger. Better. You didn’t let it break you. That takes a special kind of courage.”

I looked at my husband.

At my family.

At the life I’d built from the ashes of the old one.

“I couldn’t have done it without you. Without all of you.”

Dad smiled.

“That’s what family is for. Now go. Your husband is waiting. And I think Abuela is about to make him dance the tango.”

I laughed.

Walked back to Ethan.

He took my hand.

“Everything okay?”

“Everything is perfect.”