"Smart woman," Erin added. "This crowd would've eaten her alive."
Disappointment settled in Devon’s chest. He understood Emery's reasoning, but part of him had hoped she'd show up anyway. Prove she wasn't going to hide.
"There's Mom, Dad, Ashley, and Hasley,” Bryson said, nodding toward the front where Walter and Brea Boone had eased into a pew on the left side. Brea wore an elegant black suit, her graying hair swept up in a French twist, while Walter looked distinguished in his dark suit, his expression grave.
The girls made their way forward, taking a seat in the pew behind their parents while Devon and Bryson hung at the back of the church.
Mason appeared moments later with the quiet competence of someone who'd learned to navigate small-town social dynamics despite being an outsider. "Sandy's working," he explained in a low voice. "Someone had to be on duty during the funeral. Half the valley is here."
The organ began playing, and the congregation rose. Devon and Bryson joined the other pallbearers—Winston's golf buddy, two cousins Devon vaguely recognized, and Mason. The casket was surprisingly heavy, the weight of it a physical reminder of mortality's finality.
They settled it at the front of the church, and Father Michael began the service.
Devon's mind wandered during the readings and prayers. He found himself cataloging who'd shown up—which competitors, which business associates, which town dignitaries. David Callaway had been well-respected, if not universally loved, in spite of his father’s criminal activity. The turnout reflected that complicated legacy.
It wasn't until communion that things got interesting.
Devon watched Gabe and Olivia move toward the altar, Olivia's hand firmly clasped in Gabe's. She moved carefully, as if afraid her body might betray her again. When they returned to their pew, Winston's gaze followed them with an intensity that seemed out of place.
"Did you see that?" Bryson whispered.
"Winston staring at Gabe? Yeah."
"Winston doesn’t generally even acknowledge Gabe with a sideways glance. It’s almost like he’s invisible."
“That will changed everything.” Unease prickled at the back of Devon’s neck.
The service concluded, and the congregation filed out for the burial. The cemetery lay adjacent to the church, shaded by oak trees that had stood for generations. Gravestones marked the valley's history—pioneers who'd first planted vines, families who'd built the wine industry, children who'd never had the chance to grow old.
They lowered David Callaway into the ground that had held Callaways for a hundred and fifty years.
After the final prayers, the gathering fractured into small groups. Some headed to their cars, others lingered to offer condolences. Devon noticed Monica break away from Winston, her expression predatory as she approached their family cluster.
"Well, well," she said, her voice carrying just enough to draw attention. "The Boone family, out in force. How touching."
"Monica." Brea's voice was ice. "This isn't the time."
"Isn't it? I was just wondering where Devon's girlfriend is. Too ashamed to show her face after that article?" Monica's smile had that same venomous twist it had the day she showed up on Bryson’s arm as if she’d won the damn freaking lottery. "Or is she off having another public meltdown? I heard she made quite the scene at your tasting room."
Devon felt Bryson tense beside him, but it was his dad who stepped forward.
"This is David's funeral, not an opportunity for you to indulge your vindictive nature,” his father said softly, but in a firm and fierce tone.
Monica's smile faltered. "I was just making conversation."
"You were being deliberately cruel. There's a difference." His dad’s expression could have carved stone. "Now, if you'll excuse us.” He turned his back on her, a dismissal more cutting than words. Monica's face flushed red before she stalked off toward Winston.
"That woman is poison," Brea said.
"Always has been," Riley agreed.
“Besides wishing I had never married her, I wish it hadn’t cost us a few million to force her to give up the Boone name.” Bryson rubbed the back of his neck.
“Worth every penny,” Brea said.
Movement caught Devon's eye. Across the cemetery, Winston had cornered Gabe near a cluster of oak trees. The distance prevented Devon from hearing their conversation, but the body language was clear—Winston leaning in, aggressive, while Gabe stood his ground, his expression stony.
"What the hell?" Bryson glanced between the exchanged and Devon.
