You will regret this someday!” I stopped, and turned my head, and looked at him one final time.

I looked at the empty wine glass resting on the linen table beside him.

“Warren,” I said softly.

“The only thing I regret is taking thirty-two years to stop asking your permission to be proud of myself.” And we walked out.

In the quiet of the hotel elevator, Rafael pulled me against his side.

“Are you okay?” I looked at my reflection in the polished metal doors — hair slightly damp with wine, gown stained, but my makeup intact, my spine straight, my heart entirely at peace.

For the first time in my life, I felt no need to explain myself to anyone.