It's starting to feel normal.

Coming home to our beautiful castle on the shore after a long day at Grounded, only rivaled by our lovely corporate condo in Seattle. I take over for our nanny and put dinner on, usually having an hour or two for our little boy and me, before Ryan comes walking through the door.

When I huddle on the sofa with our son, Joseph, I marvel at the beautiful boy we've created.

He's calm, strong willed, and has his father's eyes. He'll have a sibling in another year, one more beautiful link in the long chain of our love.

These evenings alone, I think about the past a lot. I remember what he said on our honeymoon – you're priceless.

But it's wrong, even if it makes me smile. It's our love that's truly special, irreplaceable, a love like I've never had and never will have with another man.

When you meet the one, you know. You'll fight to bring him home when he lays out his heart, miss him when he's gone, and embrace every second chance.

I'm nodding off with our baby boy in my arms when I hear the door open. I don't look up until he's standing behind me, laying his hand on my shoulder, his intoxicating scent filling the space between us.

“Welcome home.”

“Where's my kiss?” He brushes his lips against my neck, a reminder that words are cheap every time we get to have another evening together.

Smiling, I turn my face up, and we kiss. He runs strong fingers through my hair, tugging loose strands down my back, running his stubble against my neck when he pulls away.

He still excites me in a way that should be impossible.

Hell, impossible is what all of this should be.

Ryan Caspian has taught me about faith in his love. It happens whenever I start doubting him, whenever I wonder if this lifestyle will last forever, or if he can really keep spreading happiness to our whole family, and our town.

“You're a little late,” I tell him, noticing the time.

“Your brother called before I left the office. He wanted to set up the installation next week, and I told him I'd check it out personally after it's done.”

“You're crazy if you think anybody can afford to bring a driverless car into his new garage,” I say, letting my tongue tease him between my teeth.

“No, not now. But in five, ten years?” he says, pulling my hair again. His fingers always make me yearn for more. “I'm planning for the long-term, Kara-bou. Just like I do with everything. And your brother's graciously decided to set up his business with the first prototypes designed to service the new models.”

“Sure, Nostradamus.” I stand up, turning our little boy to face his dad. Ryan leans down and kisses his forehead. “It makes me sad to think there probably won't be a part-time job in Lilydale Garage someday. It'll all be robots in fifteen years.”

“Babe, he'll do anything he wants, and so will the rest of our children. Love is enough for any future, robots and all,” he says, moving in, resting his forehead against mine.

He's there so long I can't help but smile. “I guess. Love, and money, is surely enough.”

“Well, there's always plenty of that.”

He isn't kidding. His company has exploded the last couple years. It's easily worth another billion, maybe more. I don't obsessively follow the articles anymore, like I used to, when I was settling into my role as a billionaire's wife.

I know how to act in public at his corporate events in Seattle and throughout the U.P. It scared me at first, but I learned to adapt. Every dinner feels more natural, and my smile is real every time I lift my glass for a toast.

Thankfully, amid all the changes, some things stay the same.

In Split Harbor, I'm still just Kara. Not Mrs. Caspian, married to a celebrity. I'm the girl who serves up the best coffee and cherry pie on this slice of Superior shore.

“What'll it be tonight?” I ask. I love that he lets me cook for him, even though we could easily hire a caterer for every meal.

“How about that new Mediterranean recipe you've been wanting to try? We haven't had lamb since Easter.” He smiles, taking our baby boy from my arms. Joseph bounces up and down until he cracks a smile and giggles. “We're as rich as most Greek billionaires. Might as well eat like them, too.”

I pour him a glass of wine and get to work. He chills on the couch with our little boy, relaxing for ten minutes, before he puts our baby in the play pen and joins me at the counter.

He's humming along with the radio while we chop vegetables. It takes me a few minutes to recognize the song, but when I do, I'm joining him.

It's a miracle I can hum anything through my smile, which couldn't possibly get any wider.

It's Stairway to Heaven. The Zeppelin tune that always used to play over the radio in daddy's garage, the same song I remember hearing the day I fell face down in the oil slick, tumbling into the love of my life.

It's taken years to reach this love, this happiness. Time for thousands of songs, just as many tears, and two marriage proposals. Sometimes, like now, it hits me all at once in a giant wave that makes my head spin.

I have to focus, moving the knife on the cutting board, flashing him a smile when I get up to grab something from the refrigerator. His rich blue eyes remind me there's one thing embedded in my mind and in my heart.

I'd marry him again.

I'd do it a thousand times over.

Through tears, through grins, through countless winding years, I love my Ryan. Loved him when he was just the orphan kid working in my father's garage, and when he came home a billionaire, going from heartbreaker to hero before my eyes. I'll love him when he's seventy, everything on his face going silver and pale except those gorgeous blue eyes.

Every day I have on this earth, I'm his alone. I'll still be smiling, wiping away tears, next year when I'm holding our next born or renewing our vows.

Second chances are real. Every hour since embracing mine, I'm reminded how lucky I am.