The rain outside the Savannah café beat against the glass like angry knuckles, but I didn't hear it. The only sound in my universe was the chaotic, deafening thud of my own heart slamming against my ribs.

The sun broke through the heavy clouds just as my SUV rolled into the industrial outskirts of Savannah.

I didn't go to a hotel. I didn't go to a corporate office. I drove straight to the small, unassuming brick building with faded lettering above the door: Marlowe Antique Restoration.

The front windows were dusty, cluttered with wrought-iron hinges, half-finished mahogany chair legs, and the warm, golden glow of a desk lamp from the back room.

I parked across the street, cutting the engine, and sat in the silence of the cabin for a long moment. My hands were steady for the first time in days. The corporate war was won, Warren was awaiting trial, and Brooke was out of my life permanently. But none of that mattered if the woman inside that workshop refused to ever look me in the eye again.

I pushed open the door, setting off a small brass bell that chimed cheerfully overhead.

The smell of turpentine, beeswax, and old wood immediately filled my senses—a scent that used to mean home before I let ambition blind me.

Elise was standing at her worktable in the back, wearing her familiar denim apron smeared with dark walnut stain. She was delicately carving intricate floral patterns into the armrest of an antique chaise lounge.

She didn't look up immediately. She assumed it was just another local client dropping off a broken chair.

"Just leave it by the front counter, I'll write up an estimate by—" she started, her voice trailing off as she finally glanced up and saw who was standing in her workspace.

The chisel slipped from her hand, clattering loudly against the concrete floor.

She wiped her hands slowly on her apron, her expression guarded, wary, and unreadable.

"How did you find the time away from your boardrooms, Adrian?" she asked quietly, her voice devoid of emotion. "Didn't your new wife need help packing her designer bags?"

"Brooke is gone," I said simply, taking a cautious step forward into the workshop. "And Warren has been removed from the company. He's facing federal charges for fraud and obstruction."

Elise blinked, processing the weight of my words. She crossed her arms defensively over her apron. "And why are you telling me this? Does this somehow make up for six years of lost birthdays? Six years of raising two boys alone while you were living in a glass palace in Charleston?"

"No," I answered instantly, the raw honesty of it stripping away all my defenses. I closed the remaining distance between us until I was standing just a few feet away, smelling the familiar scent of sawdust and lavender that I had foolishly walked away from. "Nothing can make up for that. No corporate victory, no amount of money, and no apology can give us back those six years."

A tear slipped down her cheek, but she didn't look away this time.

"I didn't come here to ask for forgiveness, Elise," I continued, my voice trembling slightly as I looked into her tired, beautiful eyes. "I came here because I finally realized what I threw away. You didn't just give me peace; you gave me life. And your boys... our boys... deserve a father who doesn't run away when things get complicated."

Before she could answer, a small door at the back of the workshop creaked open.

"Mama?"

It was Noah, rubbing sleep from his eyes, wearing a dinosaur pajama shirt that was a size too big. Behind him peered Miles, clutching a wooden toy truck I had carved for him—wait, no, it wasn't mine, it was one Elise had whittled by hand.

They both stopped dead in their tracks when they saw me standing there.

Miles grabbed his brother's sleeve, whispering loudly, "It's the man from the rainy place."

Elise looked down at her sons, then back up at me. The defensive wall around her heart didn't instantly crumble, but for the first time, a small, fragile crack of hope appeared in her expression.