"It wasn't my idea," I said honestly. "It was theirs."
"You scared everyone."
"I know. I'm sorry."
Her arms were still crossed, but some of the tension in her shoulders eased. "You could've just driven."
"Not fast enough."
She exhaled, shaking her head. "Micah?—"
"I brought pastries," I said, pointing to the boxes Ethan had set on the porch. "From the bakery below your condo."
Her expression shifted—surprise, then something softer.
"You brought pastries," she repeated.
"Yeah."
She stared at the boxes for a moment, then back at me. "You're ridiculous."
"I know."
And just like that, the fight went out of her.
Not completely. But enough.
Then we heard it again.
The unmistakable sound of helicopter rotors.
My brothers reappeared from their positions, all of them converging on the yard, eyes on the sky.
The helicopter descended, and through the window, I saw him.
Byron Dane.
My father.
My jaw tightened so hard it ached.
The helicopter touched down. Byron stepped out, waved to the pilot, and the bird lifted off immediately, leaving him standing alone in the middle of Joy's family's yard.
He walked toward us slowly, deliberately, like he knew exactly how volatile this situation was.
"I'm sorry for the intrusion," he said, looking at Joy first. "Mine. And Victoria's."
Joy stepped forward, and I felt a surge of pride so fierce it nearly knocked me sideways.
Because she didn't cower. Didn't shrink.
She laid into him.
"You don't get to apologize forintrusion," she said, voice sharp. "That woman threatened my family. On our land. Because ofyou."
Byron took it. Didn't flinch. Didn't deflect.
Just nodded. "You're right."
