(Hailey Miller's point of view)
Pregnancy pressed on, and with it a quieter kind of peace settled into our days. The last of Liam’s assets had been sold, the old chapter closed like a door bolted behind us. The money — parceled into anonymous funds and locked accounts — became a tool to protect what we were building, not the prize itself.
One morning, while we ate breakfast on the porch, Miguel arrived with a folder under his arm and a grin that spread like sunrise.
“I found the property,” he announced, unfolding the plans on the weathered table. “It’s twenty hectares in the valley. There’s a stream, fertile soil, and it’s isolated but accessible.”
Liam leaned over the paper, studying contour lines with the same intensity he once reserved for skyscraper blueprints. Only now he measured
