"Maybe he's changed," Hasley suggested.
"Maybe he hasn't. Maybe he's just here temporarily for whatever legal thing he's working on for the new big firm with law offices all over the state, and he'll leave again the second it's done." Ashley lifted her drink, tipped her head back, and gulped her wine like a shot of whiskey. "I can't do it. I won't."
"But you want to," Hasley said.
"Wanting something doesn't make it smart." Ashley sighed.
"No," Hasley agreed. "But it makes it worth considering. Life's too short to avoid things because they might hurt. Sometimes the risk is worth it."
"Says the woman who hasn't dated anyone seriously in three years," Ashley shot back without heat.
"Exactly. I'm living proof that playing it safe doesn't make you happy." Hasley raised her glass. "Take the risk, little sister. Or spend the rest of your life wondering what if."
The conversation shifted again, this time to Bryson and Riley. How long has he been carrying that ring? Whether tonight might finally be the night he popped the question—or if he’d put it off again because of everything that was going on.
"I give it another week," Ashley said. "He's overthinking it. Probably has seventeen backup plans, and we all know how sensitive Bryson can be. He’s not going to do anything while this house is in turmoil.”
“I hate that I’m responsible for that.” Emery fiddled with the blanket.
“It’s not just you. It’s everything. But he should just do it," Hasley said. "Riley would say yes if he proposed in a parking lot. All this elaborate planning is just a little residual fear from years ago and maybe his marriage with Monica."
Emery listened, contributing when appropriate. But her body felt heavy, exhausted from adrenaline crash and fear and the constant strain of being a target. She stood, stretching her legs, needing to move before she fell asleep on the sofa.” I’m going to grab some water," she said. "Anyone need anything?"
Both sisters shook their heads, already debating whether Bryson would stick with proposing at the tree or somewhere more elaborate.
Emery padded into the hallway, heading toward the kitchen. But voices from the den stopped her mid-step.
“I don’t agree.” That was Devon, his voice tense. “We need to tell her. I’m tired of keeping this from her.”
“It’s just a little while longer.” Her father's voice was firm.
"The adoption records Declan found—they match the timeline exactly. Private adoption, sealed records, handledthrough a now-defunct agency that specialized in discretion,” Devon said.
"Discretion or illegality?" Walter asked.
"Both, probably. The adoption was closed. And we have the paperwork, but we both knew it wasn’t necessarily legal. We didn’t have to jump through the same hoops as we did with her sister." Her father sighed. "But that doesn't prove anything. Just because the adoption was questionable doesn't mean Emery is David's daughter."
Emery's hand found the wall, steadying herself. Adoption records. Black market. David's daughter.
"The timeline fits," Devon said. "She was born here, same month and year as the heir would have been. Private adoption through shady channels. Her birth mother?—"
"We don't know who her birth mother is," her father interrupted. "That's my point. Yes, Declan found records of a private adoption in Stone Bridge thirty-three years ago. Yes, it matches Emery's birthday. But that's circumstantial. There could have been multiple private adoptions that year."
"How many babies do you think were born and adopted five weeks later through black market channels in a town this small?" Walter's voice was gentle but pointed. "I understand you don't want this to be true?—"
"It has less to do with that and more to do with her being crushed over speculation," her father said, his voice rising. "
Oh, it more than crushed her. The words were like a bomb exploding in her heart.
"But if it's true—" Devon started.
"If it's true, she deserves to know," her father finished. "But not yet. Not until we have proof. Real proof, not just timelines and sealed records. She's been through enough. She doesn't need this on top of everything else."
Emery's breath came in short gasps. David Callaway's daughter. The heir everyone was looking for. The reason someone was trying to kill her.
"Devon, I know you want to tell her." Her father's voice softened. "I know keeping secrets from her feels wrong. But trust me on this—telling her now, with no proof, while someone's actively trying to kill her? That will destroy her. Let Declan keep digging. Let's find something concrete before we turn her entire world upside down."
"How long?" Devon asked.
