“I’m glad to hear that,” I said.

Over the next three weeks, I divided my time between a small motel near Maren’s cottage and my office in Boston.

I met with my legal team to finalize the divorce from Celeste.

She didn’t fight me on the division of assets; she only wanted to protect her family’s social standing.

“I want the townhouses in Boston and the Cape house,” Celeste said during our final meeting in my lawyer’s conference room.

She sat across from me in a tailored grey suit, her face pale and expressionless.

“You can have them, Celeste,” I said, signing the papers without looking up.

“You’re giving up too easily, Adrian,” she said, her voice laced with bitterness. “That isn’t like you.”

“I don’t care about the houses anymore,” I said, handing the pen back to my attorney.

“You’re going back to her, aren’t you?” she asked. “The girl from the cove.”

“I am going to try and be a father,” I said, standing up and buttoning my coat.

She didn’t answer, turning her gaze out the window toward the Boston skyline.