Here, she didn’t feel tacky. Or embarrassing. Or cringe. Her crafts weren’t childish—they were expressive. Emotional. Authentically hers.
Here, she wasn’t hiding in an attic craft room because someone was ashamed of her. Here, she got to take up space.
She turned to her computer inbox, clicked on yet another commission email, forcing her focus back where it belonged—on work, on creation, on the version of herself she was finally allowed to be.
She touched her wedding ring—still on her finger, still heavy with questions.
And suddenly Christmas flashed through her—the humiliation sharp and fresh, even now.
The way she’d foolishly peeked into his bag and let herself believe a necklace was waiting for her.
The way she’d held out her quilt to him, heart in every stitch, and watched his face fall.
The way he’d handed her an envelope she’d prayed would hold something tender—maybe a letter, maybe a promise—and instead found a check.
Could she really forgive and forget something that had cut so deeply? She could. For Tom, she could.
Muse buzzed around her like a living thing—fierce, stylish, chaotic in the best way. These women had pulled her out of despair, out of shame.
When she looked at the whiteboard, she saw her name written under upcoming features.
When she looked at her desk, she saw the wreath she’d made in rage and clarity.
When she saw her inbox, she saw demand.
When she breathed, she felt possibility.
And when she thought of Tom?—
She felt the beginning of something dangerous and hopeful unfurling in her chest.
“Ready?” Wren asked. “Vivian wants to talk branding.”
Branding.
Her. A brand.
Lauren inhaled deeply.
She could be more than someone’s embarrassing, gauche, tacky wife.
She reached for her notebook, straightened her shoulders, and walked toward the conference room—her pulse steadying, her steps sure.
Time to build a life that didn’t fit in anyone else’s attic. Not even Tom’s.
But thinking of Tom tugged at her again—warm, complicated, magnetic. Her two futures were pulling at her from opposite sides.
Her phone chimed.
She took a steadying breath and opened the text message he’d sent.
A heart.
And just like that, the truth rose, clear and terrifying and bright.
She wantedeverything.
Her new life—this fierce, creative, expanding world where she wasn’t small, wasn’t hidden, wasn’t ashamed.
