"Good," Michael Tate said quietly, the single word carrying more weight than a speech.
“Shall we move on to this?” Declan slid the folder toward Emery with careful deliberation, like he was sliding a loaded weapon across the table. "This is everything I found. Birth records, adoption papers, and correspondence between David Callaway and the adoption facilitator. Hospital records from your birth. Financial transactions. Witness statements." He paused, his expression softening in a way that made Emery's stomach clench. "It's not pleasant reading. But you deserve to know the truth."
Emery stared at the folder. For thirty-three years, she'd wondered. Had spun stories in her head about star-crossed lovers or tragic circumstances or noble sacrifices. She'd imagined her birth mother as someone who'd loved her desperately but couldn't keep her—had imagined her birth father as someone who'd ached with the loss but had no choice.
She'd never imagined this. Whatever this turned out to be.
"Do you want me to summarize?" Declan asked gently. "Or would you rather read it yourself first?"
"Summarize." The word came out barely above a whisper. "Please. I'll read the details later, but right now I just... I need to know."
Declan pulled out a document, but he barely glanced at it. "Your birth mother's name was Sarah Mitchell." He spoke slowly, giving her time to absorb each piece. "She was eighteen years old when she met David Callaway at a wine industry event in San Francisco. According to multiple witness statements I obtained, she lied about her age. Told David she was twenty-three."
Eighteen. God. Barely more than a child. But Emery had known that. Accepted it. It wasn’t like she hadn’t believed she could conquer the world at that age. Thought that she was more of an adult than most people twice her age. But David had been older—twenty-six maybe? And now, this just felt icky.
"They had a brief affair. Two months, maybe less. David was single at the time. But he broke off the affair when he met his current wife. A few weeks later, when Sarah discovered she was pregnant, she told David the truth. About the baby and about her real age." Declan's voice remained carefully neutral, but Emery heard the judgment underneath. "David was eight years older. Established in his career. And he told Sarah he couldn't acknowledge the baby. Couldn't risk his reputation, his position in the wine industry. And he was falling in love with another woman.”
"So, he abandoned her," Devon said flatly.
"He offered to pay for an abortion. Sarah refused." Declan turned a page. "She returned to Stone Bridge—this was her hometown, she'd grown up here—and tried to make it work. She gave birth to you at the county hospital. Kept you for five weeks—and David knew all about it.”
Five weeks.
Emery's throat closed. Five weeks of holding her baby. Five weeks of trying to be a mother when she was barely more than a child herself. Five weeks of hoping her child’s biological father might see her and change his mind before reality crushed it.
"But she was eighteen. Alone. No family support—her parents had died in a car accident when she was sixteen, and she had no siblings. No money. No resources. No way to care for an infant." Declan's professional mask slipped slightly, showing something that looked like sympathy. "According to the notes from the adoption facilitator, Sarah contacted David again. Begged him to take you. To acknowledge you as his daughter and give you the life she couldn't provide. To step up and be a father."
"Let me guess.” Her father slapped his hand down on the table, open palm. "He refused."
“That would be correct.” Declan pulled out another document. "Instead, he arranged a private adoption through a facilitator who specialized in discreet placements. Black market, essentially. He paid for everything—Sarah's outstanding medical bills, her living expenses for three months, and the adoption fees. The couple who adopted you—your parents—had been contacted because they were on a long list of couples waiting for an infant, and this was one way to put them in the front. They were assured it was legal, and by all accounts, on paper, it looks that way.”
Emery looked at her father. His face was carved from stone, every line etched deep, but his eyes were swimming with unshed tears.
"David paid the facilitator a quarter of a million,” Declan continued. “And paid Sarah twenty thousand to sign the papers and disappear. Paid your parents the fifteen thousand in 'processing fees.'" He said it without judgment, but Emery heard it anyway. Her parents had paid for her, even if theyhadn’t understood that’s what they’d done. “Though, it cost your parents a lot more than that.”
"We would have paid a million," Michael said hoarsely. “One look at you, and we were in love.”
“I’ve always loved being your child.” Emery reached across the table, taking his hand. “I don’t have any negative feelings about what you or Mom did. But I can’t say the same about the Callaways.”
"David walked away," Declan said quietly. "Never contacted Sarah again. Never checked on you. Never sent money or asked how you were doing. As far as he was concerned, the situation was handled. Problem solved."
"And Sarah?" Emery asked, though dread was already pooling in her stomach. She knew from Declan's expression that this part wouldn't end well.
"Sarah struggled." Declan's voice went softer. "She tried to pull her life together. Got a job waitressing, rented a small apartment. But she’d been using drugs before you were born, and she picked up again after she gave you up. Within a year, she'd lost her apartment, lost her job. She was arrested multiple times for possession and sex work.”
Emery felt Devon's arm come around her shoulders, anchoring her.
"The records suggest she was trafficked for several years. Moved up and down the coast, controlled by men who exploited her addiction and her desperation." Declan's hands tightened on the document. "She died of an overdose at thirty-five.”
Jesus, that was only two years older than Emery now.
The number hit Emery like a physical blow. While she’d been finishing college, starting her career, falling in and out of love, building a life, Sarah Mitchell had been dying alone, destroyed by a choice she'd made at eighteen when a wealthy man had taken what he wanted and walked away.
The room was silent except for the grandfather clock ticking in the corner, marking seconds that felt too loud, too final.
"I'm sorry," Declan said, and he sounded like he meant it. "I know that's not the story you hoped to hear."
Emery couldn't speak. Couldn't think past the image of a girl—barely more than a child—holding her baby and trying to make it work. Couldn't process the trajectory of a life destroyed by one man's refusal to take responsibility.
