“You should be grateful I got in an Uber and drove all the way out here within the hour of you calling, you know? Just because you decided to engage in day drinking with celebrities.”
“Will you stop?” She slapped him on the arm.
Lizanne watched them from the back, her head resting against the cool window. Their bickering was a symphony—practiced, effortless, and underpinned by an obvious, unbreakable affection. A small, wistful smile tugged at her lips.
“What’s the joke back there?” Quinn asked, catching her eye in the rearview mirror as he navigated the winding vineyard road.
“I’m just jealous,” Lizanne admitted. “I always wanted a sibling to squabble with. I’m an only child. My parents were already in their late forties when I was born, and there were some pretty severe complications. My mother had to have a hysterectomy right after. I was the miracle baby, which sounds great until you realize you’re the only one left to hold the memories when they’re gone.”
The car grew quiet, the playful tension between the siblings evaporating into a soft, empathetic silence.
“They passed away a few years back,” Lizanne continued, the wine making her more honest than was strictly safe. “Now, it’s just me. And Trina. And my manager, Pat. It’s a small circle. Sometimes it feels more like a fortress than a family.”
She didn’t say the rest: that the fortress felt like it was under siege. That Trina, the person who was supposed to be her co-commander, seemed to be spending more and more time outside the walls.
Lizanne leaned back and let her eyes wander. From her position in the backseat, she saw Quinn lean toward the center console, his profile silhouetted against the fading twilight outside. Rose was turned toward him, her hand resting on the back of his headrest, her posture relaxed in a way it never was when they were talking business.
A cold, sharp clarity pierced through Lizanne’s buzz.
She knew that silhouette. She had studied it on her iPad when she was vetting Rose. It was the exact same angle, the same slope of the shoulders, and the same way the man’s hair curled at the nape of his neck. It was the photo from Rose’s wedding registry—the one of her and her fiancé, Derek.
Heart racing, Lizanne pulled her phone from her clutch. She didn’t use the flash. She just framed the back of their heads and snapped a high-resolution photo.
Just as the shutter clicked, Rose’s phone erupted with a bright, poppy ringtone. Rose jumped, nearly dropping the device before pressing it to her ear.
“Hello? Yes, this is Rose Delaney.” Her voice suddenly transformed, becoming vibrant and professional, though there was an underlying tremor of excitement. “Wait, really? Next Tuesday? No, that’s perfect. We will be there. Thank you so much, Clara.”
She hung up and spun around in her seat, her face illuminated by the passing streetlights. “Lizanne! That was the bakery—thebakery. I have a contact there from a gala I did last year, and she managed to squeeze us in for a cancellation. We have a tasting for the cakes next Tuesday.”
Lizanne felt a genuine spark of joy, pushing the suspicion to the back of her mind for a moment. “That’s incredible, Rose. Truly.”
“I’m going to make sure they have the lavender-honey sponge you mentioned,” Rose said, her eyes dancing. “It’s going to be perfect.”
“And no lemon. Not a lemon drop in sight.”
“Noted.”
When Quinn finally pulled up to the gates of Lizanne’s sprawling estate, the high of the news had settled into a heavy, thoughtful silence. Quinn helped her out of the car with a wink and a “Get some sleep, Hollywood,” while Rose waved from the passenger seat, looking exhausted but triumphant.
Lizanne entered her house, the marble floors echoing with the click of her heels. The lights were dimmed, and the silence was absolute. She went straight to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and sat at the island.
She pulled out her phone. First, she called Trina.
“Hi, you’ve reached Katrina Holmes. I’m either in the booth or at a meeting. Leave a message.”
“Hey, babe. Just got home. The vineyard was... interesting. We got a cake tasting for Tuesday. Call me when you’re done.”
She set the phone down and opened her laptop. Bakery or not, the detective work had to go on.
She started with Quinn. It didn’t take long to find his Instagram—he was a working actor with a decent following. She scrolled through years of photos. There were pictures of him onsets, pictures of him and Rose at what looked like a dive bar, and pictures of him holding a toddler who had to be Daisy.
Then she looked for “Derek.” Nothing. Either Quinn and Derek weren’t friends, Derek didn’t do social media or…
Lizanne opened the registry photo she had saved and held her phone up to the screen, displaying the photo she had taken in the car.
She compared the two. The jawline was identical. The slight scar near the left ear—Quinn’s ear—was a perfect match.
The “fiancé” in the photo wasn’t an attorney named Derek. It was Rose’s brother, Quinn.
