They stood in tense silence, the weight of secrets pressing down like a physical force. Near the break in the vineyard rows, Devon could see a figure approaching across the vineyard—Emery, moving quickly between the rows, her expression concerned even from this distance.
She had no idea she’d walked right into a trap that had been set two years ago—only the jaws hadn’t snapped shut yet.
And the worst part? Devon had no idea how to save her without potentially destroying the very thing that might prove her father innocent.
The woman he loved was being hunted with weapons she couldn't see, attacked with truths she couldn't speak, and defended by a federal case she didn’t even know existed.
And he was standing here, holding pieces of information that could either save her or condemn everyone involved, with no clear path forward.
Ten
The Boone family room sprawled across the back of the main house like an invitation to relax. Oversized leather sofas faced a stone fireplace tall enough for Emery to stand inside, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the vineyard beyond. Afternoon sunlight poured through the glass, warming the hardwood floors with a honied glow and catching dust motes that drifted like lazy snowflakes.
It was the kind of space that made you want to kick off your shoes and stay awhile. The kind of place where family gathered, where roots ran deep, where people belonged. Emery wanted that—wanted to sink into this warmth, to trust it, to believe she could be part of something like this. But her father's shadow followed her everywhere, and her own scandal sat like a stone in her chest. How could she let herself belong here when everything she touched seemed to crumble?
Emery perched on the edge of a sofa, Riley's tablet balanced on her knees, while the Boone women arranged themselves around her in a protective circle. Brea claimed the armchair nearest the fireplace, her reading glasses perched on her nose as she reviewed notes. Riley sat beside Emery, occasionally reaching over to swipe through documents. Ashley sprawled onthe floor, her back against the ottoman, legs stretched out as if she owned the place. Hasley had claimed the window seat, one knee pulled to her chest, wine glass in hand, despite the early hour.
"Okay," Riley said, tapping her tablet. "Let's run through the key talking points one more time. Your background in art history and chemistry, how that led to wine authentication, your qualifications?—"
"She doesn't need to recite her resume," Brea interrupted, looking up from her notes. "The reporter already has all that information. What she needs is to be human."
"Being prepared is being human," Riley protested.
"Being prepared is being robotic." Brea set her papers aside with a delicate touch. She was regal for a woman barely approaching sixty, yet remarkably down-to-earth. It was a contradiction that made her both unique and fascinating. "Emery, sweetheart, have you ever watched a political debate where the candidate answers every question with talking points?"
"Yes?" The word came out hesitantly, but understanding dawned as soon as she said it. Those debates were painful to watch—all performance, no substance. Brea was telling her not to be that. To be herself, messy and imperfect and real.
"Boring as hell, right? Makes you want to throw something at the TV." Brea leaned forward, her eyes danced with mischief. "That's what happens when you're too politically correct, too careful, too focused on saying the right thing instead of the true thing."
"Mom—" Ashley started. “You’re insulting Riley.”
"Let me finish." Brea waved her hand. "Riley, you're brilliant at this social media stuff, and I agree with most of your strategy. But dancing around certain topics, answering questions by being vague or pivoting to safer subjects—that only adds fuel to afire the whole town is already speculating about. We can’t stop gossip, but like you always say, we can control the narrative.
Emery sat frozen, absorbing every word. They were so sure—Brea, Ashley, Riley—like this was just another problem to solve. Like Emery's reputation could actually be salvaged. She wanted to believe them. God, she wanted to sink into their confidence and let it carry her. But they didn't understand what it was like to be her right now. To have every mistake catalogued online, every relationship dissected, her father's crimes attached to her name like a brand she couldn't scrub off. Being "authentic" sounded lovely in theory. But what if authentic wasn't enough? What if the real Emery was exactly as disappointing as everyone already thought?
Riley leaned back, fingers resting on the side of the tablet. “Yes, but we don’t want to feed the beast. The relationship angle is sensitive."
The relationship. Right. Because that's what everyone would focus on—not her credentials, not the authentication process, but who she was sleeping with. Emery's stomach twisted. She'd worked her entire career to be taken seriously, and now she was about to do an interview where her relationship with Devon would be the headline. Again. It didn't matter that what she felt for him was real, that he made her feel safe in a way she'd never experienced. All anyone would see was another scandal.
"It's only sensitive if we act like it is." Brea's voice was firm but not unkind. "Listen, future daughter-in-law?—"
Riley's face flushed. "I'm not—we're not?—"
"Oh, please." Brea's smile was so wide, and her light blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight. "It's only a matter of time before Bryson proposes. That boy's been carrying his grandmother's ring around in his pocket for two weeks. I know because I found it when I was doing his laundry."
“Since when doesn’t he do his own laundry?” Riley asked.
"He brings it here sometimes after staying at your place for five days, and I just can’t help myself.” Brea shrugged. "Now, would you say no if he asked?"
Riley opened her mouth, closed it, then sighed. “You all know I wouldn’t.”
"Exactly. So, future daughter-in-law it is." Brea turned back to Emery. "My point is this—you're dating Devon. That's not a scandal. That's life. It's new, it's private, and it doesn't affect your employment any more than Riley's relationship affects hers, or the fact that family members run all major departments at this winery."
Emery's throat closed. She'd braced herself for judgment, for the subtle distance that came when families realized their son was involved with someone complicated. Someone damaged. But Brea wasn't pulling back—she was leaning in, reframing Emery's entire situation like it was nothing more than two people falling for each other. Like Emery was already part of this family, worth defending, worth normalizing. The acceptance of it—the fierce, unapologetic way Brea claimed her as Devon's—made Emery's eyes burn. She blinked hard, trying to hold it together.
"Except Gabe," Hasley added from the window seat. “But he's basically family at this point."
"Exactly." Brea tapped her perfectly polished nails against her slacks. "This is a family business. If the world wants to call out the Boones for mixing personal and professional, they’d have to call out half the valley. The Meadowbrook sisters run their place together. The Chen family at Red Oak has three generations working side by side. The Pattersons at Hillside View are all married to people they met through the business. And let’s not forget the Callaways.”
