“Stel…” His voice is quiet, almost reverent. “I don’t… I don’t think this letter is about lies.”
I blink at him, raw and furious. “Did you not read the same damn letter?”
“I did.” He shifts closer, holding the paper between us like it’s proof of something I can’t see yet. “And yeah—it’s heavy. It’s dark. There’s stuff in here that would crush anyone. But do you see what else it says? Do you see what your parents did for you?”
I shake my head, gripping the blanket tighter, unwilling to let go of the rage just yet.
“They carried all of it,” he says, his thumb brushing the edge of the page. “Your father took on the weight so you wouldn’t have to. Your mother stood beside him. They took every ugly, dangerous thing and kept it out of your hands. This isn’t just a confession—it’s love. The kind you give when you’re willing to break yourself to keep your kid safe.”
The words land heavier than I want them to. I turn my face away, staring at the dying glow in the hearth. “It doesn’t change what’s true.”
“No,” he says softly. “But it changes why it’s true.”
The next couple of months feel heavier than anything we’ve carried before. Inheriting not one family legacy but two has been a whirlwind—part grief, part obligation, part fear of what it all means.
We spend more hours than I want to admit picking apart our future, mapping what it might look like now that everything has changed. Moving back to Agave Hills would mean Donovan walking away from everything he’s worked for. Collegiate coaching isn’t just a job for him—it’s the dream.
I could sell the companies. Take my parents’ legacy and turn it into something entirely my own. More than one man—suits too slick for funerals—has made offers no grieving daughter should have to hear. Too many zeros to count. Enough to build the kind of art gallery I’ve always imagined—not the modest, curated space I could open tomorrow, but something sprawling and showstopping. The kind of place people fly in for.
But Donovan refuses to let me give up what my father built. And I refuse to let him give up what he’s fought for.
Ansel and Theo check in but mostly keep to themselves. The tension in the apartment has been thick enough to cut with a knife.
I’m cooking dinner; five place settings are already on the table. Blythe will be here any minute. I am tired of crying. I am tired of grieving. I just need life to feel normal again.
I pop open a bottle of wine to let it breathe. A light tapping comes from the door, and Ansel practically hurdles the couch to open it.
Blythe walks in holding a birthday cake. Ansel takes it and sets it on the counter. Theo and Donovan greet her with hugs.
“Hey Blythe, how’d you know it was my birthday?” Theo teases.
Ansel freezes mid-step, whipping toward him. “Theodore Alvin Lightheart, you never told me when your birthday was.”
Theo throws up his hands in playful surrender. “First off, you know my name isn’t Theodore Alvin. Second—yes, I did tell you.”
Ansel kisses his nose. “It’s February fifth. Not today. He was just being funny,” she explains, shaking her head.
“Wait, Blythe—why the birthday cake?” Ansel asks.
Blythe hesitates, fingers twisting together. “Because… with the curveball thrown in, we didn’t get to celebrate Stella’s birthday.”
Every head turns toward me. I glance down at my feet. It’s strange, realizing I didn’t even notice my birthday had passed.
We eat the pasta I made, the wine flowing easily. The laughter is a relief, a sharp contrast to the weeks before. I realize now how lucky I am to have these people—my friends, my family.
We swap funny childhood stories. Donovan talks about the day we met, adding details I never knew.
Maybe it’s the wine, but I tell them about the time Elaine and her friends ran my underwear up the flagpole during P.E. I try not to laugh through my embarrassment, while Theo looks at me like I’ve just confessed to murder.
“Why the fuck did she hate you so much?” Blythe asks, completely serious.
“Honestly? I’m not even sure. She and her friends have been assholes since I started in public schools.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Donovan shifting in his chair. The mention of Elaine makes him uncomfortable.
After dinner, we help clean up before cutting the cake—everyone singing happy birthday like it’s a competition in volume. I notice the way Ansel looks at Theo, like he’s the only person in the room. Something mischievous takes over, and—thwap—I shove a piece of cake in her face. The next thing I know, we’re in a full-blown food fight.
The laughter is still ringing when an angry pounding rattles the door. A man’s voice is muffled but furious.
