Chapter 10 - Choosing the Future
A year later.
The sun was rising over Lake Michigan, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold, as I stood on the balcony of the penthouse Ethan had bought us in downtown Chicago. I was seven months pregnant, my belly big and round, and I rested my hands on it, feeling our baby kick—strong, steady, alive.
“Careful, Mrs. Caldwell,” a familiar voice said behind me. “You know what the doctor said. No standing on balconies at five in the morning without supervision. You might get carried away staring at the view and forget to eat your breakfast.”
I turned, smiling, as Ethan walked out onto the balcony carrying a tray with two mugs of coffee and a plate of blueberry pancakes—my favorite. He was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair messy from sleep, looking more relaxed and happy than I’d ever seen him. He’d put on a little weight over the last year—all the pancakes, he joked—and the lines around his eyes were from laughing now, not from stress.
He set the tray down on the small table and wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder, his hands covering mine on my belly.
“Good morning, Mr. Caldwell,” I said, leaning back against his chest. “Or should I call you Mr. Mayor-Elect Caldwell now?”
Ethan laughed, pressing a kiss to my neck. Six months earlier, he’d shocked everyone by announcing he was running for mayor of Chicago. Not as a Republican or a Democrat, but as an independent, running on a platform of helping the working class, fixing the broken healthcare system, and giving single mothers and people struggling with medical debt a fighting chance. The campaign had been brutal—the press had dug up every detail of our past, Ryan and Victoria’s trial, my time as a maid, Ethan’s sale of the family company. But the people of Chicago had loved it. They’d seen us as underdogs. As people who’d fought hard and won. Who knew what it was like to struggle.
He’d won in a landslide three weeks earlier. He’d be sworn in in January.
“Please,” he said. “Don’t call me that. Makes me sound old. I’m just your Ethan. Always will be.”
“Hmm,” I said, pretending to think about it. “I don’t know. Mayor-Elect has a nice ring to it. Very sexy. Makes me want to—”
“Mommy! Daddy! Up!”
We both turned, laughing, as our two-year-old daughter, Lily, came waddling out onto the balcony, her blonde curls messy, her favorite teddy bear tucked under one arm. She was the best surprise of our first year of marriage—conceived on our wedding night, born nine months later, a tiny copy of her father with my green eyes and his stubborn chin.
Ethan scooped her up, tossing her in the air and catching her, making her squeal with laughter. “Good morning, my sweet girl. Did you sleep well? Did you have good dreams?”
“Dreamed of ponies,” Lily said seriously, resting her head on his shoulder. “Want a pony for Christmas, Daddy. A pink one.”
Ethan mock-gasped. “A pink pony? Well, we’ll have to see what Santa says. But I think Santa might be able to arrange something. If you’re a very good girl and eat all your pancakes.”
Lily nodded solemnly. “I’ll eat ’em. Promise.”
We spent the rest of the morning eating pancakes on the balcony, watching the city wake up below us. Lily fed bites of pancake to her teddy bear. Ethan and I held hands across the table, stealing kisses when we thought she wasn’t looking. It was perfect. Simple. Ours.
Later that day, we drove out to the estate. We’d kept it, even after everything—too many memories to sell. We’d renovated it, turning the west wing into a shelter for women and children escaping domestic violence—free housing, free counseling, free job training, everything they needed to start over. It was called Ivy’s House, and it had already helped over two hundred women in the six months since it opened.
We spent the afternoon there, talking to the women, playing with the kids who lived there, helping serve dinner in the big industrial kitchen—the same kitchen where it had all started. As I stirred a big pot of tomato sauce on the stove, watching Ethan teach a group of little boys how to make meatballs, flour all over his expensive shirt, Lily on his hip, I felt a hand on my shoulder.
I turned. It was Mrs. Higgins. She was retired now, but she still came to the shelter every day to volunteer, running the kitchen with an iron fist just like she’d run the estate’s staff. She was softer now, though. Smiled more. Laughed more.
“You’ve done good, child,” she said, looking around the kitchen at the laughing, happy faces. “Real good. Your mom would be proud.”
I blinked back tears. “Thank you, Mrs. Higgins. For everything. For being there when no one else was.”
She patted my cheek. “Anytime. Now, stop crying and stir that sauce before it burns. We’ve got fifty people to feed, and I won’t have my kitchen serving burnt food. Even to future mayors.”
I laughed and went back to stirring.
That night, after everyone had gone home, Ethan and I walked through the quiet halls of the estate, hand in hand, Lily asleep in his arms. We stopped outside the kitchen door—the same heavy oak door he’d locked that night so long ago.
“Remember this?” Ethan asked softly.
“How could I forget?” I said. “I thought you were going to kill me. Or fire me. Or both.”
Ethan laughed. “I never could’ve fired you. Not even then. The second I saw you standing there, bleeding, looking at me like I was your only hope… I knew. I knew my life was never going to be the same. And I was right. It’s better. So much better.”
He leaned down and kissed me, slow and sweet, right there in front of the kitchen door.
“I love you, Ivy Caldwell,” he said. “More than the sky. More than the stars. More than all the words in all the books in the world.”
“I love you too, Ethan Caldwell,” I said. “Forever and always.”
We walked out into the cool autumn night, toward the car, toward our future. Behind us, the lights of Ivy’s House glowed warm and bright, a beacon of hope for anyone who needed it. In front of us, the road stretched on, endless and full of possibility.
I didn’t know what the future held. I didn’t know if Ethan would be a good mayor. I didn’t know if our son—due in two months—would have his eyes or mine. I didn’t know if Lily would ever get that pink pony she wanted.
But I knew one thing for sure.
May you like
Whatever came our way—good or bad, easy or hard—we’d face it together. Hand in hand. Heart to heart. Just like we’d done from that very first night in the kitchen.
The night the billionaire had locked the door and changed my life forever.
