Thankful to have a task, I did exactly as she said, picking a bottle from the fridge, going through the process of opening it, and throwing the cork into the large glass vase that was sitting on a shelf in my bar. The vase was filled with other corks. Any time anything big was happening in my life—good or bad—I saved the cork from whatever bottle of wine I was drinking to either deal with or celebrate that life event.

I liked the ritual of it, collecting moments in my life. Both to learn from and to relish in. I wasn’t quite sure what the events of today would mean, but I knew for certain that they were pivotal. That this was a day to be remembered. This was, as Rowan said, the beginning of something.

I felt giddy just thinking about his tone, the look in his eyes when he uttered those words.

Fiona had gotten two glasses out and put them on the counter.

“No, those are Pinot glasses,” I told her. “This is a French Burgundy. You need those glasses.” I pointed to the Burgundy glasses on the second shelf.

Fiona stared at me with a blank look on her face, two glasses dangling from her fingers.

“You are such a fucking grown woman,” she groaned after a beat, returning the glasses to the cabinet. “I mean, different glasses for red wine?” She shook her head. “And fancy ass glasses too.” She held one up in appreciation, twirling it in the light. “I drink my wine from teacups, water glasses or a vase in a pinch.”

I laughed, taking the glasses and pouring from the decanter.

“I swear, you make me feel like I’m twelve years old,” she muttered, taking her glass and sitting in the window alcove, settling amongst the cushions that had taken me six months to find.

“You have fancy cushions that probably cost you a hundred dollars a pop.” She fingered the fringe on them.

I took a sip of my wine, settling beside her. More like two hundred a pop... Not that I would tell her that. I was slightly ashamed that I’d spent that much money on pillows. Then I reminded myself that I’d worked fricking hard to be able to spend two hundred dollars on pillows and not bat an eyelash. I’d spent years counting every penny I spent, living in a crappy apartment that smelled of mold. Then more years living in a construction zone as I slowly did this house up. I had my own bakery that made a lot of money, after two years of barely breaking even. Not to mention the childhood with empty cupboards, electricity being shut off, different houses every six months, clothes that were always two sizes too small, shoes with holes in them.

Yes, I deserved the pillows. The expensive hand soap in the glass bottle, the rugs, the six different kinds of wine glasses, the French Burgundy.

I’d sacrificed my twenties for my dream home, for my successful business, for security. Financial and otherwise. Because I was yearning for something else, something more, I let myself pretend I was falling in love with a man who was completely wrong for me. Because I desperately wanted to be a mother and wife, I’d said yes to that man when he presented me with a ring that said nothing about the person I was, showing me that he had not thought about me when picking it, merely what people would say when they saw it.