Chapter 10 - Ten Years of Lost Time
Six months later.
A brilliant, golden June afternoon swept over the rolling green lawns of a historic five-acre estate in Lake Forest, Illinois.
The house—a magnificent stone manor with slate roofs and climbing ivy—was alive with music, laughter, and the mouthwatering scent of a backyard barbecue.
Near the stone patio, a large grill was smoking. Standing behind it, wearing a faded navy apron over a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, was the Chief Executive Officer of Sullivan Group.
Ethan had grease on his thumb and charcoal dust on his jaw. He was expertly flipping gourmet burgers, arguing intensely with Lucas Sterling, who sat on a teak lounge chair with a craft beer in hand.
"I’m telling you, Lucas, his defensive positioning is flawless," Ethan was insisting, waving a spatula for emphasis. "The opposing striker didn't get a single clean shot past midfield!"
"He’s ten years old, Ethan," Lucas chuckled, shaking his head. "He spent half the first half explaining the physics of angular momentum to the referee after an offsides call."
"And he was right!" Ethan beamed, looking like the proudest father on the North American continent. "The referee's line of sight was obstructed by the corner flag! Noah filed a verbal grievance that was airtight!"
Across the lawn, a soccer ball came flying through the air.
"Dad! Heads up!"
Noah sprinted across the grass, wearing bright crimson soccer cleats, blue athletic shorts, and a gray Sullivan Group tech t-shirt. His wire-rimmed glasses were secured by a sports strap behind his ears. He trapped the ball with an effortless, professional touch Ethan had spent four hours teaching him the previous weekend.
Ethan caught the ball with his foot, grinning down at his son. "Nice trap, partner. Five minutes until the Wagyu burgers are off the grill."
"Make sure the cheese is properly melted," Noah instructed, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Thermal consistency is key to structural burger integrity."
"Yes, Mr. Chief Investment Officer," Ethan laughed, reaching out and ruffling Noah’s hair.
Noah pretended to duck away, but the wide, brilliant grin on the boy’s face showed he wouldn't trade that ruffled hair for all the money on Wall Street.
Down by the rose garden, the sound of classical piano music floated out through the open French doors of the sunroom.
Sophie sat at a baby grand piano, playing a Chopin nocturne with delicate, astonishing grace. She was dressed in a light-yellow summer sundress, a white ribbon in her hair. Sitting on the piano bench beside her was an elderly, elegant woman with kind eyes—Ethan’s maternal aunt, Clara, the only member of the Sullivan extended family who had broken ties with Eleanor years ago and had now returned to embrace the children.
I stood on the stone veranda, holding a glass of iced lemonade, watching my family.
The six months had not been without storms.
Eleanor Sullivan had taken a plea deal—three years of federal prison for corporate fraud and grand larceny, with all her remaining assets seized to pay retroactive child support and civil damages into an irrevocable trust for Noah and Sophie. She had tried to write Ethan three times from the correctional facility in Pekin. Ethan had returned every letter unopened.
The Vance family had collapsed into bankruptcy, their predatory acquisition exposed to the light of day.
Sullivan Group had evolved. Ethan had restructured the company’s charter, stepping back from seventy-hour workweeks to share the executive chair with a newly appointed operating board. Every Friday at three o'clock, his calendar was blocked out in red: *Noah’s Game / Sophie’s Ballet.* The board of directors knew better than to schedule an emergency meeting during those hours; the last director who tried had been unceremoniously replaced.
And as for Ethan and me...
He had kept every single word.
He had showed up.
He had sat in my modest Lincoln Park kitchen three nights a week, helping Noah debug code, letting Sophie paint his fingernails bright sparkly purple, and washing every single plate until the ceramic squeaked. He had never pushed. He had never demanded. He had courted me with the patience of an architect rebuilding a cathedral from ashes—sending wildflowers, writing letters by hand, and taking me to small, quiet coffee shops where we talked until the staff turned off the lights.
Last month, we had purchased this house together in Lake Forest—not with Sullivan Group capital, but with our combined personal earnings, a home built on clean soil.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
A pair of strong, warm arms slid gently around my waist from behind.
Ethan rested his chin against my shoulder, the faint scent of sandalwood, summer grass, and woodsmoke enveloping me. His chest pressed against my back, firm, steady, and entirely home.
I leaned back against him, letting out a soft, contented breath. "I was just thinking about that interview."
Ethan tightened his hold, kissing the crook of my neck with reverent sweetness. "Which one?"
"Thursday night. Six months ago," I murmured, turning slightly in his arms to look up into his slate-gray eyes. "When you told thirty million people that your greatest regret was that you never had children."
Ethan’s gaze softened into an ocean of deep, unshakeable devotion. He reached up, his thumb gently caressing my cheek, tracing the soft curve of my jaw.
"I lied to those thirty million people, Claire," Ethan whispered, his voice trembling with an emotion so deep it brought sweet, happy tears to my eyes.
"Oh? What is your greatest regret, Ethan Sullivan?"
Ethan smiled—a radiant, whole, beautiful smile that had no shadows left in it.
"My greatest regret," Ethan said, leaning down until his lips brushed against mine in a slow, breathless, forever kiss, "is that I didn't kiss you in the rain ten years ago and walk away from that house with you in my arms."
He pulled back, his eyes dancing with love.
"Dad! The burgers are burning!" Noah’s voice bellowed across the lawn.
Sophie burst out laughing from the sunroom window, waving her hands. "Dad! Noah says you're ruining the thermal integrity!"
Ethan groaned, kissing my forehead one last time before shouting back across the grass, "I’m coming! I’m coming! Sullivan men do not burn Wagyu!"
He ran down the stone steps toward our children, his laughter echoing across the green lawn beneath the summer sky.
I stood on the veranda, watching my husband and my twins laughing together in the golden light.
May you like
The thirty dollars had been paid. The ghosts were laid to rest.
And for the first time in ten years, the silence was finally, beautifully broken.
