The first time I saw Clara Evans, she was standing in the dead center of a hushed diner, fighting back tears while her five-year-old daughter asked

David was right.

Three days later, Clara and I sat in a sterile conference room at David's law firm. Across the mahogany table sat Mark and his lawyer. Mark looked significantly less smug than he had at the winter festival. In fact, he looked terrified.

David slid the dossier of Mark's financial crimes and DUI records across the table. Mark's lawyer opened it, read the first three pages, and visibly paled. He leaned over, whispering furiously into Mark's ear.

Mark glared at Clara. "You're extorting me."

"I'm protecting my daughter," Clara said, her voice steady and clear. She didn't shrink back. She didn't look at the floor. She looked him dead in the eye. "You lost the right to call yourself her father the day you walked out. Sign the papers, Mark. And never come near us again."

Mark hesitated, his ego warring with his survival instinct. He looked at me, standing behind Clara like a stone wall. He swallowed hard, picked up the pen, and signed his name on the dotted line.

He threw the pen on the table and stormed out of the room.

The silence that followed was entirely different from the silence in the diner weeks ago. This was the silence of a chain breaking.

Clara let out a massive, shuddering breath and collapsed against me, burying her face in my shoulder. "It's over," she cried, gripping my jacket. "He's gone."

"He's gone," I affirmed, wrapping my arms tightly around her.

We drove back to the house in a daze of relief. When we walked through the door, Lily was painting a picture at the kitchen table. She looked up, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.