---- Chapter 10 Emmitt Mccormick POV: | proposed to Charlotte on a Tuesday. There was no fanfare, no fancy dinner, no getting down on one knee. We were in the kitchen of the sun-drenched loft we' d bought together, the one with massive windows overlooking the city she was now helping to reshape. Blueprint, who was now a gangly, oversized teenager of a dog, was asleep at our feet. She was laughing about something, her face lit up with a joy that was still so new, so precious, that it sometimes made my cynical old heart ache. | looked at her, this brilliant, resilient woman who had walked into my office like a ghost and had somehow brought my own life back into vibrant color, and the words just came out. "Marry me, Charlotte." Her laughter stopped. Her eyes, wide and searching, met mine. "Are you serious, Mccormick?" "I've never been more serious about anything," | said, my voice a little rougher than | intended. "I've spent my life looking for the truth in other people's messes. And the truest thing I've ever found is that my life is exponentially better with you in it. | love you." ---- Tears welled in her eyes, but these were not the tears of sorrow | had first seen. These were tears of pure, unadulterated happiness. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, Emmitt. Of course, yes." | slid a simple, elegant ring on her finger. It wasn't a giant diamond from a society jeweler. It was a custom piece from a local artisan, a thin band of platinum with a single, uncut sapphire, the color of her eyes when she was deep in thought. It was perfect. It was us. We were married a month later at City Hall, with Blueprint as our only witness, his leash held by a bemused city clerk. It was the happiest day of my life. Our life together was a quiet, steady masterpiece. Her firm flourished. | continued to take cases, but | found myself turning down the messy family dramas. | had my own family now, and it was the only one | cared about protecting. About a year after our wedding, Charlotte came home from a doctor's appointment with a strange, secretive smile on her face. She handed me a small, sealed envelope. Inside was an ultrasound picture. A tiny, miraculous little bean. | stared at it, my breath catching in my throat. A father. | was going to be a father. The thought was terrifying and more wonderful than anything | had ever dared to imagine. | swept her into my arms, burying my face in her hair, overwhelmed by ---- a wave of love so fierce it almost brought me to my knees. We were building not just buildings, but a life. A family. On a foundation of truth. The past, however, is never truly gone. It just waits for an invitation to return. The invitation came in the form of a letter, addressed to Charlotte, forwarded from her old firm. The return address was a high-end rehabilitation center upstate. It was from Ashton. Charlotte read it, her face impassive. She then handed it to me. His letter was different this time. The frantic desperation was gone, replaced by a quiet, sober tone. He wrote about his therapy, about finally confronting the jealousy and insecurity that had driven him for years. He wrote about the profound shame he felt, not for his own downfall, but for the years he had stolen from her. | know | don't deserve forgiveness, the letter concluded. And | am not asking for it. | just wanted you to know that | finally see the truth. | see you. The brilliant, kind, and strong sister | was too small a man to appreciate. | hope you are happy. You deserve all the happiness in the world. "What do you want to do?" | asked her gently, watching her face. ---- She was quiet for a long time, her hand resting protectively on her still-flat stomach. "Nothing," she said finally. "It's good that he's getting help. I'm glad. But his journey is his. It has nothing to do with me anymore." She was right. Her life was here, with me, with Blueprint, with the new life growing inside her. A few months later, we were walking through the park on a crisp autumn afternoon, Blueprint bounding ahead of us, when | saw him. Ashton. He was sitting on a bench, looking thin and older than his years. He was watching us, his expression a mixture of profound sadness and something that looked like peace. He saw that | had spotted him. He gave a small, sad smile and a slight nod, a gesture of acknowledgment, not of intrusion. Then he stood up and walked away in the opposite direction. He hadn't come to confront us. He had just come to see. To see that she was happy. Charlotte, her attention on the dog, hadn't even noticed. "What is it?" she asked, seeing the look on my face. | looked at my wife, her face glowing with health and happiness, a new life safe inside her. | looked at the path ---- where her brother had just been, a ghost from a past she had finally triumphed over. "Nothing," | said, slipping my arm around her waist and pulling her close. "Just thinking how much | love you." She smiled, leaning her head on my shoulder. We stood there and watched our dog chase the falling leaves. The past was a story that had been told, its last chapter written. Our story, the one we were building together, was just beginning. And the blueprints were beautiful.