A year later, we stood on a sunlit beach in Monterey, California. This time, the wedding was small and real. No grand ballroom, no reporters, no lies.
When Ethan walked down the aisle beside me — truly walked — I saw tears in my mother’s eyes. Maybe she finally understood that wealth can’t buy peace, and love isn’t measured in debt or status.
“Do you regret marrying me?” he asked.
I smiled. “Not anymore. Sometimes we have to fall to learn how to stand.”
He laughed softly. “Together this time.”
And that’s exactly what we did.
Epilogue
Today, Ethan runs his family’s company with honesty, rebuilding both the business and his life. As for me, I help manage his charity for rehabilitation centers — a tribute to the accident that once defined him but no longer controls him.
At night, when the ocean wind slips through our windows, I think back to that first fall — the night everything seemed broken.
I realize now that it wasn’t the end of a forced marriage. It was the beginning of something real.
Because sometimes, falling isn’t failure — it’s how two people finally learn to stand tall side by side.
