"Best guess? He wants to control the narrative. If Peyton shows up at his gala, on his territory, it looks like she's seeking his approval or that they’ve come to some mutual agreement.”
“So it’s optics," Peyton says flatly. "Everything's always about optics with men like him.”
“You’re right. Just like in politics, optics are everything in Wintervale.” Talia pulls out her laptop and shows us surveillance photos from the Evergreen event. "The HC council will be there, every founding family, and Silas."
"Of course he will." My jaw tightens. “So, Nonno has actually given that clown full control of the family?”
“Silas wasn’t given anything. He just took it. He's been making calls all day, consolidating support, calling in favors. Word is he's planning something big." Talia looks at me with concern. "Blake, he's positioning this as a loyalty test in an effort to ice you out. He's telling people you've either gone rogue or you're playing a deeper game. Either way, the gala is your chance to prove which side you're on."
"I'm on her side." I don't look at Peyton, but I feel her presence beside me like gravity. "That's the only side that matters."
The weight of my words doesn’t go unnoticed by Talia, who looks between me and Peyton with a raised eyebrow. She shoots me a silent sisterly look of warning that she’s only given me a few times in our lives.
“That's what I more or less told Silas,” she finally responds. “But he didn't take it well."
We work through scenarios until my head hurts, and Peyton's yawning into her coffee. Talia leaves around eight, promising to have additional security in place, people she trusts, which in Wintervale is a very short list. When the door closes behind her, the silence feels heavier.
“You and your sister have an interesting relationship.”
“Meaning?”
“Who’s older? I can’t tell.”
“I’m the oldest, but she thinks she is.”
Peyton yawns again, and the circles under her eyes are deeper than they were yesterday.
"You should sleep," I tell her. "Tomorrow's going to be brutal."
"So should you."
"I don't sleep much."
"I've noticed." She moves to where I'm standing by the window, looking out at Wintervale's lights. "You've been watching that building for the last hour. What is it?"
I point to a structure three blocks south, which is abandoned and boarded up. It’s in a part of town that the city neglects because tourists never see it. They promised to demolish it, but it never happened. "White Ember or what's left of it."
Her hand finds my arm. "That's the warehouse you burned?”
"Yeah." The word comes out rougher than I intend. “I’m thinking they left the building standing as a reminder, maybe. Or a warning."
"Of what?"
"That some things can't be burned away." I turn to face her. "I saved six girls that night, but there were others. Ones who'd already been moved, ones I didn't know about, ones I couldn't reach in time. They're still out there. Still being trafficked. Still suffering."
"That's not your fault."
"Isn't it? I knew what Silas was doing. I knew for weeks before I acted. I told myself I needed proof, needed to be sure, needed a plan." My hands fist at my sides. "But the truth is, I was scared. Scared of what walking away would cost. Being in this family is all I’ve ever known. But while I was being scared, girls were suffering."
"Blake." Peyton steps closer, frames my face with her hands. "You were one man against an entire system. You did what you could. You saved the ones you could reach."
"It wasn't enough."
"It was everything to them. To Sophia. To the others." Her thumbs brush my cheekbones. "You're not responsible for your uncle’s sins. You're only responsible for your own choices, and you chose to fight. That's more than most people do. I've spent my whole life watching powerful people, including my own father, choose comfort over courage. Choose silence over action. Choose themselves over everyone else." Her eyes are fierce, unwavering. "You're not like them."
I want to believe her. I want to accept the absolution she's offering, like it's that simple. But my guilt doesn't work that way. It doesn't care about logic or perspective or how many people tell you it's not your fault. It just sits in your chest like smoke, poisoning everything.
"Come here," Peyton says, taking my hand.
