Before Clara Monroe entered my life, I lived alone inside a routine built from double shifts, bitter coffee, and laundry spinning long after midnight. Then Clara appeared—a medical technology representative with auburn hair, bright hazel eyes, and a voice that made the future feel safe and warm. She spoke about holidays, quiet Sundays, and finally having a home where I belonged.
I wanted desperately to believe her.
Our wedding at the Denver courthouse was small and elegant. My brother Noah stood beside me smiling, though uncertainty still lingered in his eyes.
“Six months, Ethan,” he murmured quietly. “You’re sure about this?”
“When you know, you know,” I replied.
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