"That's actually a good angle," Riley admitted, making notes on her tablet. “If it’s pushed as nepotism, we can frame it as industry standard rather than an exception."
"It's not an angle, it's the truth." Brea stood, moving to pour herself coffee from the carafe on the side table. “When this reporter asks about you and Devon—and she will ask—don't dodge it. Don't get defensive. Just own it. You're two adults who developed feelings for each other while working together. It happens. What matters is that you're both professionals who keep business separate from personal."
"Are we though?" Emery asked quietly. "Keeping them separate? Because right now it feels like everything's tangled together."
"Of course it's tangled," Brea said, returning to her chair with fresh coffee. "Life is tangled. Relationships are messy. Work bleeds into personal and personal bleeds into work, especially when you care about what you're doing and who you're doing it with." She settled back, cradling her mug. "The key is being honest about that while maintaining boundaries where it counts."
"Like what?" Emery felt like she was drowning in advice and strategy, all of it well-meaning but overwhelming.
"Like not letting your relationship influence authentication decisions," Ashley said from the floor. "If Devon brings you a wine and says it's legit, but your research shows it's questionable, you say so. That's the boundary."
"But having coffee together in the morning? Holding hands at the farmers' market? That's not crossing any lines." Hasley took a sip of her wine. "That's just being human."
"The town's going to talk no matter what you do," Brea added. "They talked when Riley came back. They talked when Ashley dated that sommelier from Meadowbrook. They talkedwhen Hasley cut her hair short and started wearing blazers to wine events."
"Why did they talk about my hair?" Hasley asked. “That seems like a dumb thing to gossip about.”
"Because you looked hot and it confused all the men who'd been hitting on you." Ashley grinned. "Best decision you ever made."
"Can we focus?" Riley tapped her tablet. "The interview is in less than an hour."
"We are focused." Brea's voice was gentle but firm. "We're making sure Emery understands that authenticity matters more than perfection. Sarah Martinez is a good reporter, but she's not looking for robots. She's looking for a story. Let’s give her one, but one that we can be on board with.”
“I’m not sure I like this,” Emery said. “It feels like a game, and games can backfire.”
“We’re using the truth to our advantage instead of letting someone else distort it to make it something ugly.” Brea met her eyes steadily. “You’re a brilliant authenticator who got publicly humiliated by a mentor who threw you under the bus. You found a second chance with a family who values expertise over scandal. You’re building something meaningful here, both professionally and personally. You’re human, not perfect, and you're not apologizing for either."
“Sometimes, future mother-in-law, you’re perfectly magnificent.” Riley set her tablet aside. “Maybe you should be doing my job.”
“Good heavens, no.” Brea laughed. “I’ll stick with fundraising, charities, and taking care of all of you.”
Emery let Brea’s words settle in her mind. She'd been so focused on saying the right things, avoiding the wrong topics, protecting everyone's reputations, that she'd forgotten the power of simple honesty. That hiding never did anyone anyfavors—except make them look guilty, and that brought her to another painful topic.
"What if she asks about my father?" The question came out smaller than Emery intended. She sat up taller. “Because I can’t imagine they will let that one go unnoticed.”
The room went quiet. Riley snagged her tablet, her fingers dancing across the screen. Ashley stopped playing with the ottoman's fringe. Even Hasley set down her wine glass.
“Battle everything with the truth. It’s what Walter has always done,” Brea said.
“But what if they ask the question that most people are afraid to ask?” Emery’s heart pounded.
“And what’s that?” Riley glanced up.”
“If I believe my father’s guilty of the crimes he’s been accused of.”
“That’s an interesting question.” Riley glanced between Emery and Brea. “There is that saying,innocent until proven guilty in a court of law,something to which I know a little bit about since my mother keeps tossing it around like confetti. When she’s been asked, ‘why’d you do it’, or ‘did you do it’, she gives vague answers, like the truth will come out when I get my day in court. But when my siblings and I are asked, we all say the same thing.”
“And what’s that?” Emery asked.
“That we believe she put that poison in our father’s coffee, handed it to Grant, and that led to our father dying. That she purposefully, and with intent, killed our dad. No question.”
“Yeah, but people in this town always think something," Hasley said. “Unfortunately, not enough time has passed since Sean was murdered, and there are a few idiots who whisper that maybe it wasn’t Elizabeth. That may be something else happened.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Ashley added, "half the people talking probably have family members with secrets. Everyone's got something. The difference is whether you own it or let it own you."
“The problem is I don’t know what to believe when it comes to my father.” Tears welled in Emery’s eyes. She hated herself for even having one single doubt, but she had plenty. Her dad never once publicly defended himself. He had a team of lawyers, but all he said was that time would fix everything. And to her, that sounded like a guilty person. “If asked, I worry I’d stumble over the question, giving that reporter something to chew on, to twist and distort, and the next thing that would happen is my poor dad would be watching on YouTube how I think he’s guilty.”
Riley was typing furiously now. “Thing is, you can’t comment on what you don’t know, and we can use that. It’s an ongoing investigation. Simple.”
