"104°F Fever, Shut-Off Phone, and a Mistress: 'You're Too Late,' Said the Doctor." "You're too late..."

The wedding took place the following spring, when the cherry blossoms along the Chicago lakefront were in full, breathtaking bloom.

It wasn't a grand, ostentatious ceremony filled with superficial socialites and fake corporate associates like the one I had endured years ago with Marcus. Instead, it was an intimate, joyful celebration surrounded by our truest friends, federal colleagues who had stood by us in the darkest hours, and Dr. Vance, who attended as our honored guest of honor.

Lily served as our flower girl, wearing a delicate dress of white tulle and scattering pale pink petals down the aisle with absolute pride and concentration. As I walked down the aisle on the arm of a retired federal commander who had acted as Ethan’s surrogate father during his undercover years, I looked ahead.

Ethan stood at the altar, dressed in a classic navy suit, his eyes shining with tears of pure happiness. As our eyes met, every scar, every tear, and every night of agonizing grief melted away into nothingness. We were finally home.

The ceremony was short, heartfelt, and filled with vows that carried the weight of everything we had survived together. When the officiant pronounced us husband and wife, Ethan pulled me into a kiss that made the entire gathering cheer and applaud.

Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and cast a warm golden glow over the reception terrace overlooking the sparkling skyline, Ethan and I stood by the railing, watching Lily dance with boundless energy on the lawn with her new friends.

Ethan wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin gently on my shoulder. "How does it feel, Mrs. Vance?"