Chapter 7 - The Rest of My LifeThe penthouse apartment overlooking Lincoln Park was alive with laughter, music, and the bright pop of champagne corks.
Jenna poured two crystal flutes to the brim, handing one to me while raising her own toward the sparkling night sky visible through the glass balcony doors.
“To Claire,” Jenna toasted, her eyes shining with unshed tears of pride. “The only woman in Chicago who attended her own funeral and lived to tell the tale.”
“To Claire,” I echoed, clinking my glass against hers.
The cool champagne bubbled on my tongue, sharp and refreshing. Down below, the city traffic hummed like a distant ocean, indifferent to the dramas and heartbreaks playing out in its shadows. But up here, high above the streets where deceit and betrayal had tried to bury me, the air felt light, clean, and entirely my own.
I walked out onto the balcony, resting my hands against the glass railing and looking out over the glittering expanse of the lake.
I thought about the cathedral. I thought about the white lilies, the heavy wooden casket, and the cruel whispers of a mistress who thought she had won. I thought about the cold, dead weight of the months spent fighting a disease that nearly robbed me of my future.
They had buried a ghost.
And in its place, something unbreakable had risen.
The wind caught my hair, warm and sweet with the promise of summer. I took a deep, full breath, feeling the strength in my lungs, the steady beat of my heart, and the absolute, unyielding power of a woman who had walked through hell and returned to claim her kingdom.
May you like
The funeral was over.
The rest of my life was just beginning.
