Chapter 2

Ethan scoffed. "Home? This shack? Don' t be ridiculous, Ava. You were meant for more than this. You were meant to be a Prescott."

His words, once a promise, now felt like a brand. He still saw me as an extension of himself, a possession he' d misplaced.

"I am exactly where I' m meant to be," I replied, turning towards my cottage door. "Now, if you' ll excuse me, I have things to do."

Sophia, ever the performer, placed a hand on Ethan' s arm. "Darling, perhaps we should go. It seems Ava has... moved on. In her own way." The condescension was thick.

"Moved on?" Ethan' s voice rose. "She can' t have. We had an agreement. A life planned." He was clinging to a past he' d personally destroyed.

I paused at the threshold, looking back at them. "You ended that agreement, Ethan. Remember? You made your choice very clear."

The image of him standing in the grand Prescott library, Sophia at his side, delivering his verdict, was seared into my mind. "You' re a liability, Ava. A stain on our reputation. Sophia is a far more suitable match." His words had been cold, clinical. He' d cut me off, financially and emotionally, with the precision of a surgeon.

He' d accused me of theft, of trying to undermine Sophia. His family, swayed by his conviction and Sophia' s crocodile tears, had stood by him. Only Mr. Prescott Sr., his grandfather, had looked at me with a flicker of doubt, a hint of the kindness he' d always shown my mother. But he was old, his influence waning.

I' d been driven out of Connecticut, out of the only life I' d known since my mother became the Prescott' s housekeeper. I was a child then, growing up alongside Ethan.

We were friends, then confidants, then lovers. The engagement had felt like a fairytale, blessed by Mr. Prescott Sr. himself.

Then Sophia arrived, the orphaned daughter of a distant family friend. She was all wide-eyed innocence and whispered vulnerabilities. Ethan, always susceptible to a damsel in distress, had fallen for it completely. My warnings, my attempts to show him her manipulative nature, were dismissed as jealousy.

The accusation about the necklace was the final nail. Sophia had "lost" it, and I, the housekeeper' s daughter, was the obvious suspect. Ethan' s rage had been terrifying. He' d smashed the music box, my mother' s gift, its delicate melody silenced forever. He' d told me to pack my things and leave, that he never wanted to see me again.

His cruelty hadn't ended there. He ensured every door in our shared social circle was slammed in my face. No one would help me.

I was alone, adrift. The first few months in Maine were a blur of grief, hunger, and a bone-deep despair. Buster' s illness, his eventual death in my arms because I couldn' t afford the vet bills after Ethan froze my accounts, was the lowest point. It was a grief so profound, it almost swallowed me whole.

But I hadn' t broken. I' d mourned, I' d raged, and then, slowly, I' d started to rebuild.

"My husband's name is Julian Vance," I said, my voice clear and devoid of the tremor I felt inside as I relived those dark days. I watched their faces for a reaction. The name clearly meant nothing to them in this context.

Sophia smirked. "Julian Vance? Never heard of him. I suppose congratulations are in order, however... unconventional."

Ethan just stared, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "You' re lying. This is some kind of game, Ava."

I simply smiled, a genuine, peaceful smile this time. "Believe what you wish, Ethan." I stepped inside my cottage, the scent of baking bread and drying herbs welcoming me. "Now, if you' ll excuse me."

I closed the door, not slamming it, but shutting it with a quiet finality on that chapter of my life.

From the window, I saw them linger for a moment, Ethan looking bewildered, Sophia whispering furiously in his ear. Then, they got back into their expensive car and drove away, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.

I leaned against the door, letting out a breath I hadn' t realized I was holding. They were gone. For now.

A few minutes later, a familiar silver sedan pulled into the driveway. Julian stepped out, his tall frame exuding a quiet confidence. He was considerably older than Ethan, with kind eyes and a smile that always reached them.

He was Ethan Prescott' s step-uncle, though Ethan likely never gave him much thought beyond a polite nod at family gatherings. Julian, however, had always seen me. He' d been aware of the injustice, a silent observer from the fringes of the Prescott drama.

He' d found me in Maine, not by accident, but because he' d sought me out after hearing whispers of my exile. He' d offered friendship, then support, then love. A love that was a balm to my wounded soul.

"Everything alright, my love?" he asked, his gaze searching mine as he entered.

I nodded, moving into his embrace. "Ethan and Sophia paid a visit."

Julian' s arms tightened around me. "And?"

"I told them I was married," I said, looking up at him.

He smiled, a warm, reassuring smile. "Good. It' s the truth, after all." He kissed my forehead. "Let them wonder. Their opinions no longer matter."

He was right. My life was here now, with him. I had my cottage, my garden, and my thriving vlog, "American Hearth & Hand," where I showcased traditional American artisans and crafts.

My camera, a constant companion, had helped me find my voice and a community that valued authenticity. I was no longer the broken girl Ethan had discarded. I was Ava Vance, a woman who had forged her own path to happiness.