"The morning my divorce from my billionaire husband became final, I walked out of my attorney’s Manhattan office determined never to see Ethan Blackwood again. Before leaving, he looked me straight in the eyes and said, “If that last night somehow got you pregnant, call me. I’ll cover whatever it costs.” Less than twelve hours later, I was sitting on my bathroom floor staring at two bright pink lines.

Six months later. May.

The Hudson Valley was alive with the vibrant colors of late spring. Wild apple blossoms covered the hillsides in white and pink, and the clear waters of the creek bubbled softly past Whispering Pines Cottage.

On the wrap-around front porch, a handmade teak rocking chair swayed gently in the warm afternoon breeze.

I sat in the chair, wearing a soft white linen dress, resting my hands over my full, nine-month belly.

Inside the house, the mouth-watering scent of fresh lemon tart and roasted chicken floated through the open windows. Clara was in the kitchen, arguing loudly with my father, who had driven up from New Jersey to help build the nursery shelving.

In the backyard, near the timber garden beds, Ethan stood wearing a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark jeans, and boots. He was carrying a large wooden crib frame he had hand-carved over the last two months from local Hudson Valley oak.

Mark Harrison stood nearby, holding a level, looking utterly amused as the six-billion-dollar hedge fund tycoon meticulously adjusted a brass bolt on the crib railing.

“Is it level, Mark?” Ethan called out, checking the corner joint with a carpenter’s square.

“It’s level to within one-hundredth of a millimeter, sir,” Mark replied crispness. “It could sustain a direct structural impact.”

“Good,” Ethan said, wiping his brow and stepping back to inspect his work.

He turned toward the house, his grey eyes catching mine on the porch.

His face lit up with a warm, radiant smile that transformed his entire posture.

He walked up the wooden porch steps, sat down on the wide railing beside my rocking chair, and reached out to hold my hand.

He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against my lips, then rested his forehead against mine.

“How are you feeling?” Ethan asked softly, his thumb gently tracing the back of my hand.

“Strong,” I smiled, looking into his clear, peaceful eyes. “The contractions are still three hours apart. Dr. Vance said we have plenty of time before we drive to the birthing center.”

Ethan reached into his pocket, pulled out a slender leather velvet box, and set it on my lap.

I looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Ethan... we agreed no more expensive gifts.”

“It’s not an expensive gift, Emma,” Ethan said quietly. “Open it.”

I lifted the velvet lid.

Inside sat a simple, delicate ring made from polished rose gold. Set into the band was no massive diamond, no multi-carat flawless gem from an auction house in Geneva.

It was a simple, raw river stone gathered from the creek behind our cottage, hand-cut and polished into a smooth, shining cabochon.

Engraved on the inside of the rose gold band were three small words:

Home at last.

Tears filled my eyes as I looked up at him.

“We’re not re-signing the old contracts, Emma,” Ethan said, taking the ring from the box and sliding it gently onto the ring finger of my left hand, right beside my bare skin. “We’re not going back to Blackwood & Sterling. We’re not going back to Tribeca.”

He dropped to one knee beside my rocking chair, placing his hand over my rounded belly, feeling our child kick strongly against his palm.

“I resigned as CEO of Blackwood Enterprises yesterday morning,” Ethan announced softly.

I gasped, staring at him in total shock. “Ethan... what?! You resigned?!”

“I appointed a new managing board,” Ethan smiled serenely. “I retained my equity shares, but my executive duties are finished. I am a private investor now. My primary office is sitting on this porch, watching my wife raise our child, and helping your sister expand her bakery into Beacon.”

I stared at him—this magnificent, stubborn, incredible man who had conquered the financial world, only to walk away from six billion dollars of noise just to sit on a wooden porch with me.

“You crazy, wonderful man,” I whispered, leaning down and pulling his face up to mine, kissing him with all the deep, fierce love that ten years of life had built between us.

A sharp, distinct contraction rippled through my abdomen. I gasped softly, clutching his shoulder.

Ethan stood up instantly, his grey eyes lighting up with intense, joyful readiness.

He reached down, picking me up gently into his strong arms as if I weighed no more than a feather, holding me secure against his broad chest.

“Mark!” Ethan shouted toward the yard, his voice ringing out over the Hudson Valley with pure, triumphant joy. “Get the car! We’re having a baby!”

Clara slammed the kitchen door open, holding a dish towel, her eyes wide with excitement. “Is it time?!”

“It’s time,” Ethan laughed, stepping down the porch stairs carrying me toward the waiting Range Rover.

I rested my head against his shoulder, holding his hand, feeling the warm rose gold ring against his skin, looking out at the sun setting over the blue mountains of Beacon.