Chapter 1

Eleanor Hayes, my godmother, sat across from me. Her presence filled the familiar study, a place of comfort and quiet power.

"Ethan," she began, her voice gentle but firm, "it's time you thought seriously about settling down."

A silver tray with several discreetly bound portfolios lay between us. New York's finest, apparently. A life choice, presented by a woman who was more family than my own blood.

A cold dread seeped into me. This conversation, this room, I knew it.

Isabelle Vance. Her beautiful, cruel face flashed in my mind. Our bitter marriage. Her leaving me for Julian Croft.

"You were never good enough for me, Ethan," she'd hissed, her eyes like ice. "Julian understands ambition. You just... exist."

Then, the shouting, the confusion. Her spoiled son, a reckless prank during a confrontation I tried to stop. A fall. Darkness. The memory of my own death, sharp and undeniable.

I blinked. The scent of Eleanor' s roses, the weight of her gaze – it was real.

I was back. Years earlier. The very day it all began.

My heart hammered. A second chance.

Eleanor watched me, a flicker of concern in her eyes. "Are you alright, dear? You look pale."

I nodded, trying to gather myself. "Just thinking."

She pushed the tray closer. "Take your time. No pressure."

But there was pressure. The ghost of Isabelle loomed.

My hand hovered over the portfolios. Then, almost as an afterthought, Eleanor slid one more folder onto the tray. It was slimmer, plainer than the others.

"This one is... less conventional," she said softly. "But I felt you should see all possibilities."

I opened it. Captain Sarah "Sarge" Riley. A photo showed a woman in uniform, a strong jaw, direct eyes. Another, more recent, showed her in a wheelchair, face etched with pain but still defiant. Decorated U.S. Army Captain. Severe injuries in Afghanistan. Medical discharge. Reclusive.

Something in her eyes, a shared understanding of pain, of fighting back, called to me.

"Her," I said, my voice hoarse. "I choose her. Captain Sarah Riley."

Eleanor' s perfectly sculpted eyebrow rose. "Ethan? Captain Riley?"

She picked up the folder, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, a deep frown.

"She's a hero, undoubtedly," Eleanor said, her tone laced with a disapproval that surprised me. "But Ethan, the file says she's... confined to a wheelchair. Permanently, it seems."

Her disapproval was a physical weight in the room.

"I understand that," I said, my voice steadier now. "I still choose her."

"Captain Sarah Riley," Eleanor read aloud softly, as if testing the name. "Distinguished Service Cross. Purple Heart. Led her unit through an ambush, saved three lives while sustaining multiple gunshot wounds, IED shrapnel. A true warrior."

She paused, looking at the photo again. "The reports say she' s... changed. Understandably. Withdrawn. Cynical."

I remembered my father, a soldier too, telling me, "Son, look for strength not in perfection, but in how someone carries their scars." That wisdom felt more real now than ever.

"Her strength isn't gone, Eleanor," I said. "It's just... tested. I see integrity there."

I stood up, then slowly knelt before Eleanor, a gesture I hadn't made since I was a boy.

"Eleanor, she' s a hero who sacrificed for others. Society might see her as 'less than' now, but I see someone extraordinary."

My voice was quiet but firm. "This isn't a whim. This feels... right. Fated, even."

Eleanor looked at me, her eyes softening, but the concern lingered.

"Your father," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "he made me promise to look out for you, to ensure your happiness. You were so lost after he and your mother passed."

Her care for me was a tangible thing, a shield I had often taken for granted.

"This is a difficult path, Ethan. For both of you."

The ghost of Isabelle' s betrayal, the hollowness of that first marriage, solidified my resolve.

"A difficult path with someone genuine is better than an easy one with... deceit," I said, thinking of Isabelle. "I've learned that."

Eleanor sighed, a deep, slow exhale. The disapproval in her eyes faded, replaced by a reluctant understanding.

"Very well, Ethan. If this is your heart's choice."

"The wedding will be in three months," Eleanor declared, her tone shifting back to its usual efficiency. "At the Long Island estate. We'll make it beautiful."

Her endorsement, once given, was absolute.

A wave of gratitude washed over me. "Thank you, Eleanor."

As I left the study, feeling lighter than I had in what felt like a lifetime, I nearly collided with them.

Isabelle Vance and Julian Croft. Coming to see Eleanor, no doubt.