Devon pulled her closer, his chin resting on top of her head. Her father's hand squeezed hers hard enough to hurt, and she was grateful for the pain because it meant she could still feel something other than this hollow ache.
"You're a Tate," her father said, his voice fierce despite the tears now streaming down his face. "Sarah gave you to us because she loved you. Because she wanted you to have the life she couldn't provide. And we loved you from the moment we held you. That makes you ours. David Callaway's DNA doesn't change that. His money doesn't change that. Nothing changes that you're my daughter."
"I know." And she did. The Tates were her family. Had always been her family. But knowing the truth about Sarah—about the girl who'd carried her, birthed her, loved her for five weeks—changed something fundamental about how Emery understood herself.
She was the daughter of a girl who'd been exploited and abandoned. The daughter of a man who'd paid to make his mistake disappear. The daughter of desperation and privilege, of hope and cruelty, of love and devastating loss.
"What do you want to do?" Harlan asked after a moment, his voice gentle. "About the inheritance. You have a legitimate claim. With DNA evidence, we can prove you're David's biological daughter. The will is clear—you're entitled to a portion of the Callaway estate."
"How much time do I have to decide?"
"The will stipulates the heir must be found within three months of David's death. We're at two months now." Harlan consulted his notes. "But Winston's cooperation extends the timeline. If he's willing to acknowledge you as his sister and facilitate DNA testing, the courts will likely allow additional time for legal proceedings. You probably have another six months before you need to make a final decision."
Emery looked at the folder. At all the documents proving she was someone's bastard daughter. Someone's inconvenient mistake. Someone's dirty secret.
But she was also Michael and Catherine Tate's chosen daughter. The daughter they'd fought for, paid for, loved fiercely.
She was Walter and Brea Boone's employee and friend, Devon's partner and love.
She was her own person, built from her own choices, her own determination, her own refusal to be defined by other people's mistakes.
"I don't know what I want to do," she admitted, her voice steadier now. "I love my job. I love being a Tate. I'm not sure I want to be a Callaway, too. I'm not sure I want David's money or his name or any connection to the man who destroyed Sarah's life and then pretended I didn't exist."
"You don't have to decide today," her father said firmly. "Take your time. Think about what you want—not what you think you should do, not what anyone else expects. What you want."
"And whatever you decide," Devon added, his voice rough with emotion, "we'll support you. If you want to claim the inheritance and use it for something good—honoring Sarah's memory, helping people like her—we'll be there. If you want towalk away and never speak the Callaway name again, we'll be there for that, too."
Declan and Harlan gathered their materials and promised to follow up on DNA testing procedures and legal timelines. After they left, her father stood, moving around the table to kiss her forehead.
"I'm going to give you two some privacy," he said quietly.
After he left, Devon pulled his chair closer, turning her to face him. His hands found hers, holding on like she was the only thing keeping him grounded.
"How are you really doing?" he asked.
"I don't know." The truth felt too big, too complicated to articulate. "I feel angry. And sad. And guilty." The words tumbled out faster now. "Sarah gave me up so I could have a better life, and then her life became a nightmare. She died alone because she made the mistake of trusting the wrong man. And I got everything—education, opportunity, love—while she got nothing."
"None of that is your fault." Devon's hands cupped her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You didn't ask to be born. You didn't ask for Sarah to be exploited. You didn't ask for David to be a coward. None of that is on you."
"Then why does it feel like it is?"
"Because you have a heart. Because you care about people you’ve never met. Because you're the kind of person who feels other people's pain." His thumbs wiped away the tears rolling down her cheeks like a river. "But Sarah's tragedy doesn't diminish your right to exist. David's choices don't make you any less worthy of love, happiness, or success. You're not responsible for fixing what they broke."
"Then what am I supposed to do with all this?" She gestured vaguely at the folder, at the weight of information that felt likeit was crushing her chest. "How do I just... carry this and keep going?"
"You don't carry it alone." Devon pulled her into his arms, holding her tight. "You let me help. You let your dad help. You let this family—this crazy, overwhelming, sometimes overbearing family—help shoulder it. And you give yourself time to figure out what it means and what you want to do about it."
They sat like that for a long time, Devon's arms around her, his heart beating steady against her ear. The grandfather clock kept ticking. Outside, she could hear birds calling to each other. Life continuing despite the ground shifting beneath her feet.
He tilted her face up, his eyes intense. "I love you. Not because of who your father was or wasn't. Not because of what you might inherit. I love you because you're brilliant, brave, and stubborn as hell. Because you fight for what you believe in. Because when the world tried to break you, you refused to stay broken."
Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "I love you too."
She kissed him then, pouring everything she couldn't say into it—gratitude and fear and hope and love all tangled together. He kissed her back like she was air, and he'd been drowning, his hands gentle despite the desperation she felt in the way he held her.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, she rested her forehead against his.
"No more secrets?" she whispered.
