Chapter 39
Kori
I straighten my seat back as the pilot announces our final descent into Calgary.
The flight has been quiet—too quiet—everyone lost in their own thoughts about what awaits us.
Lana sits beside me, her bruises now faded to yellowish smudges beneath carefully applied makeup.
It’s been a week since Kane and his brothers confronted Mark, a week of healing and preparation for this journey.
“Nervous?” Lana asks, her voice still carrying a slight rasp from the damage to her throat.
“Terrified,” I admit, keeping my voice low. “I feel like I’m intruding on a family pilgrimage.”
She squeezes my hand. “You were invited. You belong here.”
I’m not sure about that. Even after everything—the confrontation with Mark, the nights spent in Kane’s arms, the quiet moments getting to know his siblings—I still feel like an outsider in this world of MacGallan wealth and drama.
Across the aisle, Kane catches my eye and smiles. That smile still does things to my insides, still makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
“What do you think we’ll find?” I ask him, leaning across the gap between our seats.
“Knowing my father? Something dramatic and unnecessarily complicated,” he replies, but there’s less bitterness in his tone than before. Time and distance have softened some of his anger toward Tomas.
The plane touches down with a gentle bump, taxiing to our gate with efficient precision.
As we gather our things, I notice the tension in everyone’s movements—the way Declan checks his watch repeatedly, how Kat’s fingers drum restlessly against her thigh, the careful blankness of Connor’s expression.
We’re met at the airport by a driver holding a sign that reads “MacGallan.” Of course. Even in death, Tomas has arranged for his children to travel in style.
Two black SUVs wait outside, engines running despite the spring chill in the air. The driver loads our luggage efficiently, then hands Declan an envelope.
“What is it?” Wren asks as Declan tears it open.
“Directions,” he replies, scanning the contents. “And room keys for a hotel in town. We’re supposed to check in, freshen up, then proceed to the coordinates.”
“Of course we are,” Kane mutters. “Heaven forbid we just go straight there.”
I slide into the back seat of the second SUV with Kane, Lana following close behind. Rory and Kat join us, while the others take the lead vehicle.
The drive into Calgary passes in relative silence, the sprawling city giving way to glimpses of the distant Rocky Mountains on the horizon. I’ve never been to Alberta before, and despite the circumstances, I can’t help but appreciate its rugged beauty.
Our hotel turns out to be a luxurious downtown high-rise with spectacular mountain views.
We’re given a block of suites on the top floor, each more opulent than the last. Kane whistles low when we enter ours—a corner unit with floor-to-ceiling windows and a living area bigger than my entire condo in Toronto.
“Your father didn’t do anything by halves, did he?” I say, running my hand over the smooth marble countertop in the kitchenette.
“Apparently not,” Kane replies, dropping our bags by the king-sized bed. “Even his posthumous scavenger hunts come with five-star accommodations.”
We have just enough time to shower and change before meeting the others in the lobby.
The tension from earlier has only intensified, everyone fidgeting in their own way—Declan pacing, Wren twisting her wedding ring, Kat repeatedly checking her phone.
However, there’s clearly no one she’s expecting to hear from.
“Everyone ready?” Declan asks, though it’s not really a question. No one’s ready for whatever awaits us, but we’re going anyway.
Back in the SUVs, we follow the GPS coordinates out of the city, heading west toward the mountains. The landscape changes dramatically, urban sprawl giving way to rolling foothills of the Canadian Rockies.
“It’s beautiful,” Lana murmurs beside me, her face pressed close to the window. “So different from home.”
Home. The word catches in my chest. Where is home now? Not Toronto, with its memories of Mark and betrayal. Not Ireland, though Wavecrest had begun to feel like a sanctuary. Maybe home isn’t a place at all, but the feeling I get when Kane’s fingers intertwine with mine, as they do now.
“Almost there,” the driver announces as we turn onto a gravel road that winds through a dense pine forest. “About five minutes out.”
Kane’s grip on my hand tightens. I look at him, finding his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
The forest opens suddenly into a vast clearing, and collective gasps fill the vehicle.
Before us stands not a ranch house as we expected, but a stunning modern lodge—all glass and timber, stretching along the edge of a pristine lake.
Behind it, the Canadian Rockies rise in jagged majesty, their snow-capped peaks glowing in the afternoon sun.
“Holy shit,” Rory breathes. “That’s not a ranch, that’s a resort.”
The SUVs pull to a stop in the circular driveway. For a long moment, no one moves, all of us taking in the unexpected sight.
“Well,” Declan says finally, opening his door. “Let’s see what dear old dad left for us.”
We follow him up the stone pathway to the front entrance—massive double doors carved with intricate Celtic knotwork that echoes Kane’s tattoos. Declan uses the key from the envelope, and the doors swing open silently.
The interior is even more impressive than the exterior—soaring ceilings, a wall of windows framing the mountain view, and a central fireplace large enough to stand in. But what draws everyone’s attention is the massive portrait hanging above the mantel.
Tomas MacGallan stares down at us, his expression enigmatic. He’s younger in the painting than in the photos I’ve seen, perhaps in his mid-fifties, standing beside a gleaming chestnut horse. At his feet sits a young girl, maybe eleven or twelve, with wild red curls and his same penetrating eyes.
“Ella,” Kane whispers, moving toward the portrait as if in a trance. “But how? She doesn’t exist.”
“Actually,” a voice says from the shadows of a hallway, “she does.”
We all spin toward the sound. A woman steps into the light—tall and slender, with the same red hair as the child in the portrait, though now streaked with silver at the temples.
She’s perhaps thirty-eight, with lines of laughter and sorrow etched into a face that bears an unmistakable resemblance to Kane.
“Hello,” she says, her voice carrying a slight Irish lilt. “I’m Eleanor MacGallan. Though you know me as Ella.” Her eyes find Kane in the group, and her expression softens. “And some of you must be my half-siblings.”
The room falls into stunned silence. I can’t tear my eyes away from Ella—a woman who was supposed to be a fabrication, a ghost story created to bring the MacGallans together. Yet here she stands, flesh and blood, looking at Kane with an expression that mirrors his own shock.
Before anyone can speak, the sound of small footsteps patters down the hallway behind Ella. A little girl appears, no more than eight years old, with blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She peeks around Ella’s legs, curious blue eyes surveying our group.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mama,” she says in a small voice. “I heard voices.”
Ella’s face softens as she places a protective hand on the child’s shoulder. “It’s alright, sweetheart. These are the people I told you about.” She looks up at us, her expression a careful mix of pride and apprehension. “This is my daughter, Nora.”
The little girl gives a shy wave, then tucks herself closer to her mother’s side.
Kane takes a half-step forward, his face a storm of emotions I can’t begin to untangle. I reach for his hand, finding it trembling slightly.
“Nora,” Ella says gently, “why don’t you go find Scout and play with him for a while? Mama needs to talk to these people.”
“But I want to stay,” Nora protests, her eyes fixed on Kane with undisguised curiosity.
“The dog misses you,” Ella insists, her tone firmer now. “And we’ll be talking about boring grown-up things. Go on now.”
With a dramatic sigh that only children can truly perfect, Nora reluctantly turns and skips back down the hallway, calling for Scout as she goes.
Once the sound of her footsteps fades, Ella faces us again. The confident facade slips just slightly, revealing the nervousness beneath.
“I imagine you have questions,” she says, her eyes moving from face to face before settling on Kane again. “Many questions.”
“You could say that,” Declan responds, his voice tight with controlled emotion. “Starting with how you exist when we were told you were a fabrication.”
Ella gestures toward a large seating area near the fireplace. “Please, sit. It’s a long story, and not an easy one to tell standing in the entryway.”
We move as if in a daze, settling onto plush sofas and armchairs. Kane sits rigid beside me, his face unreadable. I place my hand on his knee, offering silent support.
“Would anyone like a drink?” Ella asks, moving to an ornate bar cart in the corner. “I think we could all use one.”
“Skip the pleasantries,” Kat says sharply. “Just tell us what the hell is going on.”
Ella nods, abandoning the bar cart to take a seat across from us. She folds her hands in her lap, a gesture so like Kane’s that it makes my breath catch.
“I am Tomas’ daughter,” she begins, her voice steady despite the tension crackling in the air. “His oldest daughter. Born to a woman named Irina thirty-seven years ago.”
“Dr. Reid told us you didn’t exist,” Connor says, leaning forward. “That you were invented as part of Tomas’ plan to bring us together.”
A small, sad smile crosses Ella’s face. “Malcolm Reid has been protecting me my entire life. He lied to protect me now.”