“And she’s my woman,” Cole fires back.
A stunned silence falls over all of us.
Heat rushes to my cheeks, chest, and throat. Cole doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t flinch. He stands there like it’s the simplest truth in the world.
Jace shakes his head. “This can’t happen.”
“It’s already happening,” I reply. “And none of you even tried to understand it.”
“You blindsided us,” Zane says.
“Oh, please,” I snap. “Like any of you would’ve reacted calmly if we’d walked into Sunday breakfast holding hands?”
They don’t answer.
I poke a finger into Zane’s chest. “You want to talk about age differences? You and Ava have the same ten-year gap. And I supported you from day one. I smiled, cheered, and welcomed her into this family.”
Zane’s jaw clenches, but he stays quiet.
“And Jace,” I say, turning to him, “Tessa was twenty-three when she fell in love with you. Same age gap as Cole and I. I stood by you both when you doubted that she was too young for a single dad with a complicated life.”
Jace swallows hard, but his face stays stone-still.
“And Beck?” I continue. “Quinn was hired to clean up your reputation. Your whole relationship started in chaos. Did I ever judge you?”
He looks away. I take a breath, shaky, exhausted, hurt.
“I have been nothing but supportive of all of you. Your relationships. Your choices. Your messes. But the second I find something good for myself, something real, you attack it.”
None of them speak.
It hurts. God, it hurts.
I turn back to Cole, grabbing his hand. “We’re done here.”
“Ella—“ Zane starts.
“No,” I say, voice firm and final. “You don’t get to tear him apart and pretend it’s love. Not today.”
I tug Cole with me, steps sharp against the gravel, disappointment burning hot in my chest. Cole walks beside me silently, his hand firm around mine, steady even though he’d just been ready to throw punches on my behalf.
24
COLE
The walk back to my cabin feels longer than it should, even though it’s barely a few minutes from the construction site. Ella’s fingers are laced with mine the entire way—warm, stubborn, certain—everything I’m not sure I deserve.
She’s quiet, but it’s not the soft kind of quiet. It’s the kind that vibrates as if building up to something. I can feel her anger under her skin, buzzing like she’s too full of it to contain. And I can feel something else, too—disappointment. Not in her brothers. In me.
The closer we get to the cabin, the louder the weight in my chest gets. By the time we reach the porch steps, the guilt is so thick I swear I can taste it.
She turns to me as soon as we’re inside, crossing her arms, her cheeks flushed from the confrontation, the walk, and the whole damn mess of the morning.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
It’s not the usual gentle and sweet tone she uses on me. It’s earnest, honest, and it almost destroys me.
“Yeah,” I manage, even though my throat feels tight. “You?”
