"I think someone might believe she is. And they're doing everything they can to drive her away before anyone else figures it out." Devon's voice was steady despite the chaos in his mind. "Think about it—Harold fires her publicly. She gets blacklisted and has to leave Stone Bridge. But then we hire her, and she suddenly is being attacked from every angle. Forged documents, anonymous tips, a hit-and-run that could have killed her."
"Winston and Callie," Bryson said. "They're trying to eliminate the heir before the three-month deadline."
"Or at least make sure she leaves town and never stakes a claim," Robert added.
"But how would they know?" Gabe asked. "How would Winston and Callie know Emery might be David's daughter when she doesn't even know herself?"
“When David had his heart attack last year, he felt his mortality. He could’ve told his kids about the sibling,” Walter said grimly. "If I had hired someone to find the heir, and that investigator started digging into private adoptions in Stone Bridge thirty-three years ago, Emery's name might come up, private adoption or not.”
"They would have had months to plan how to at least discredit her to the point that David might have second thoughts about naming a third heir,” Bryson said. “David did struggle with his father’s legacy.”
"Harold is the key," Gabe said suddenly. "What if they paid Harold to set her up? To destroy her career and drive her away from the valley entirely?"
The pieces fit too well. Devon’s stomach twisted into a tight knot.
"We need proof," Walter said, standing. "I'm calling Declan. He needs to know what we’re thinking. This might change the way he investigates the situation. If anyone can connect all the dots, it's him."
"And I need to tell Emery," Devon said quietly.
"Tell her what?" Robert asked. "That you think she might be David Callaway's secret daughter? That Winston and Callie have been trying to destroy her professionally, personally, and possibly now kill her to protect their inheritance? You don't have proof. Just speculation. And that poor girl has been through enough. She’s barely had any time to digest this information about her father. Piling more shit on her won’t help.”
“We should consider having a conversation with Michael,” Walter added. “See what he knows, match it to what Declan finds. Get facts before we say anything."
"She deserves to know," Devon argued. “Knowledge is power.”
"She deserves the truth, not theories, especially with everything that’s happened to her in the last few days," Walter countered. "Give it a few days. Let Declan work. Then we'll tell her everything we know for certain."
Devon wanted to argue, wanted to run to the guesthouse right now and tell Emery everything they'd just pieced together. But his father was right—without proof, this was just speculation. Dangerous, potentially devastating speculation.
"Fine," he said. "A few days. But the moment Declan has anything concrete?—"
"You'll be the first to know," Walter promised. “And then you can be the one to tell Emery.”
After Robert and Gabe left, Devon stood alone by the fireplace, staring into the flames. Somewhere out there, Winston and Callie Callaway might be plotting their next move againstthe woman Devon loved. A woman who had no idea she might be fighting for an inheritance she didn't even know existed.
And he had to stand here and keep that information from her while Declan investigated.
It felt like the worst kind of betrayal.
But it was also the only way to protect her until they knew the truth.
Fourteen
The production building hummed with the controlled chaos of late harvest—workers moving between fermentation tanks, the sweet-sharp smell of crushed grapes hanging heavy in the air, clipboard-wielding supervisors calling out updates on sugar levels and pH. Emery stood at a stainless-steel workstation with authentication records spread before her, trying to focus on provenance documentation while the activity swirled around her.
Gabe worked beside her, ostensibly reviewing her notes, but his attention kept drifting. He'd flip a page, stare at it without really seeing it, then flip back like he'd forgotten what he just read. His jaw was tight, his shoulders hunched, and he'd barely said three words since she'd arrived twenty minutes ago.
In a matter of twenty-four hours, the whole winery felt like—everyone was tense, conversations stopping when she walked into a room, concerned glances exchanged over her head like she was made of glass and might shatter if someone looked at her wrong.
Emery slapped her pen down on the counter. "Okay, what the hell is going on?"
Gabe's head snapped up. "What?"
"You. Everyone. The entire winery is walking around like someone died, and I'm taking it personally." She crossed her arms. "If this is about the hit-and-run, I'm fine. A few bruises don't make me an invalid."
"It's not that." Gabe set down the papers and rubbed his face. "I'm just stressed about the gun collection being stolen. Those guns were dangerous enough in locked cases. Now they're out there somewhere, in the hands of God knows who."
The explanation made sense, but something in his delivery felt off. Too rehearsed.
