Prologue
Prologue
Joselyn
T he Las Vegas summer sun beats down mercilessly, a cruel contrast to the somber scene at Serenity Gardens Cemetery. Always conscious of my image—in a city that’s all about image—I’m wearing a sleek black sheath, oversized sunglasses, and a large-brimmed black mesh hat. It was an instinctive choice; my years as one of the city’s top event planners have taught me well.
I stand a little apart from the mourners, a habit formed from years of orchestrating events where my presence is crucial, but never center stage. Today, though, I’m not running the show. I’m just another guest, invited by the widow of Henry Dalton, a man I admired for his business savvy, as well as his generosity and warmth.
The eulogy is over, and the casket begins its slow descent into the ground. A sharp, keening sob breaks through the murmurs of condolences. I glance toward the sound and see a young woman clutching a tissue, her shoulders shaking as she speaks to a man I recognize as Henry’s son. As I search her face, I realize she has the look of Henry about her, and I think I’ve seen her in family portraits in his office.
“I should’ve just called him,” she chokes out, her voice raw with regret. “It was always later . I kept thinking there’d be time, and now…now it’s too late.”
Her brother lays a hand on her shoulder, his face tight with his own grief. She shakes her head, wiping at her eyes as if the tears offend her.
“I wasted so much time being mad at him. And now he’s gone.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. My breath catches, and I feel their weight as I focus on breathing in and out. If this were my father’s funeral, I’d have to say the same . The realization slices through me, sharp and unforgiving. I grip my clutch tighter, as if the act might anchor me against the tide of emotions rising inside. The thought that follows is worse, darker. Is he still alive?
It’s been almost ten years since I last saw him. Since I got in my car and headed west—no destination, just away from the East Coast and far away from Pelican Point, my father, his evil boss, and the only man I ever allowed myself to love, Brennen Murphy.
Brennen. I should have trusted that my love for him could overcome all obstacles. We had such a tight bond, as tight as the Celtic knot in the logo for his family’s business. We both loved the serenity of the Pelican Point beach and the rich roots of the Murphy land. We both lost our mothers at a young age. We surrendered our virginity together, vowing to be each other’s first and last. And we both had a complex relationship with our respective fathers.
Instead of trusting Brennen to get me through the awful thing my father did, I stormed out, vowing never to look back, afraid that he would find me guilty by association. I fled into a self-imposed exile, throwing myself into getting an education, finding work, and building a new life for myself, convinced I didn’t need anybody from the old one.
When birthdays and holidays passed without so much as a call or text, I let myself believe it was Papa’s fault. He’s the parent. He could’ve reached out. The lie comforted me. Until now. The fact is, my father had no way of contacting me or even knowing if I was still alive. And Brennen—why would he try to contact me? I left without a word to him, and according to his father, I would never be good enough to take on the Murphy name.
The minister’s voice draws me back to the present, but I barely hear his words. My gaze remains fixed on the casket, now halfway covered with dirt. I picture myself standing at another grave. Papa’s . The thought leaves me hollow. What would I say? How would I feel? There would be no stories to share, no fond memories to soften the blow. Just regret. Bitter, choking regret.
The crowd begins to thin. Some head to their cars, others linger to offer hugs and whispered condolences. I remain rooted in place, unable to move. My father could be gone already. My phone buzzes in my purse, a familiar interruption. I pull it out, almost relieved for the distraction. A text from my assistant flashes across the screen:
Venue update for the Madison wedding at three p.m. Need approval.
I stare at it for a moment before slipping the phone back into my bag without answering. The Madison wedding can wait. For the first time in years, work isn’t the priority. I’ve come to a decision while standing here in the dry Las Vegas heat. It’s shaky and uncertain, but it’s real. It’s time to go home.
Maybe he doesn’t want to hear from me. Maybe he’s angry, or maybe he’s forgotten me altogether. I don’t know. But I can’t live with this gnawing uncertainty and regret.
I’ve planned flawless galas, handled spoiled celebrities, calmed panicked brides, and smoothed over every disaster thrown my way. I can do this. I have to.
Because if I don’t, one day I’ll be standing at Papa’s grave, and I’ll never forgive myself.
Brennen
The sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows across the vines. From atop Kerry, my majestic Friesian gelding, the winery stretches out in front of me in perfect, symmetrical lines, the green of the leaves vibrant against the Florida soil. The breeze carries the faint scent of the sea, mingling with the earthy undertone of the land itself, and something faintly sweet. It’s a custom scent that’s become as much a part of me as my own skin.
This is my ritual, my moment. Every year, before the fall harvest season begins, I ride to this spot at the front of the property and look out at what my father’s ancestors built and what my mother loved. What I’ve kept alive. Me —not Emma, not Ryan, and certainly not my father.
It’s peaceful now, but it wasn’t always this way. The memory of the storm that brought me here is as vivid as the setting sun.
Twenty-two years ago, her death started it all.
I shift in the saddle, the familiar creak of leather grounding me as I let the memories rise, unbidden. My mother. She’s the one who taught me the importance of this legacy. I can still see her in the way the sunlight hits the vines and her precious sunflowers, in the way the dew clings to the leaves in the early morning. Once she became a Murphy, she poured her soul into this land, every decision she made driven by a vision of what this place could be for her children and the generations of Murphys to follow.
When they said it was suicide, I didn’t believe them. She wasn’t the kind of person to give up, and she would never leave her children behind. Ryan, my older brother, was eighteen, but I was just fifteen, and Emma, my baby sister, was only ten. When the coroner pronounced her death a suicide, no amount of shouting or pleading by my brother could change the official story. The whispers in town started almost immediately, a cloud of doubt and speculation that hung over us like a curse.
Then Ryan left. He was the golden child, the one people expected to carry on the family name. But the Navy called to him, and off he went, leaving me here to deal with everything even though I was just a teen. As an adult, I’ve made my peace with it, but at the time I felt he abandoned me and Emma.
Eight years later, Emma went off to college, and I was the only one left to hold it all together. My father thought I did it for him. Hell, no. I did it for my mother and all the other Murphys.
Patrick Murphy—calling him my father leaves a bitter taste in my mouth—was pure evil. The way he treated our mother. The lack of love and affection for his children. His constant comparison of me to Ryan, with me never measuring up in his eyes. Telling me I wasn’t smart enough to run the business that he was destroying.
Guess what, Patrick? I’m running it now, and you can rot in hell—which is exactly where you belong.
By the time he became sick with bladder cancer not long after the scandal that shook our business to its core, no one had any sympathy for the man. He deserved every bit of the pain and suffering he experienced from the nasty disease that robbed him of his dignity after inflicting so much pain on others. When he finally passed five years ago, despite my best efforts, virtually nothing was left of the business other than a facility in disrepair and a trail of secrets and lies.
Once he was gone, so much was exposed to the light of day. I finally learned the primary reason behind the sabotage of our prize-winning wines that fateful day nine years ago. It destroyed everything I held dear in an instant and changed my life forever. He was deep in debt due to gambling losses, and instead of leaving his children a well-preserved dynasty, he bequeathed a failing business, a ruined industry reputation, and a mountain of debt.
No one mourned his passing. By the time he died, he’d burned every bridge he ever crossed, leaving no friends, business associates, or family who cared. There was no funeral service; his body was thrown in an incinerator and burned like the garbage he was. No way in hell was I going to spread his tainted ashes on our sacred land. I’ll never forget the look on the funeral director’s face when I told her to dispose of him any way she saw fit.
And loyalty? Patrick Murphy didn’t know the meaning of the word. When Carlos Vargas sabotaged the wine competition, my father led everyone to believe Carlos had acted on his own. Carlos was our father’s best friend, as well as the winery’s long-time maintenance man and jack-of-all-trades, responsible for keeping all of the machinery and facility operations running smoothly. He wasn’t just a trusted employee; he was like family. Deep down, I never believed that Carlos would betray us. It just didn’t make sense.
Right after that incident, Joselyn, Carlos’s daughter and my fiancée, disappeared, slipping away without so much as a goodbye. One day we were inseparable; the next she was gone, and I was left with an ache I couldn’t name.
It would’ve been so easy to walk away from everything myself. My siblings did. No one would’ve blamed me. In fact, most people probably expected it. But years earlier, at my mother’s funeral, I had made a promise to her. The Celtic Knot would not die. I could have jumped on any one of numerous offers to buy us out when my father died. Hell, the land under my feet is worth millions. But you can’t put a price on loyalty, honor, and family; and this land represents all of that to me. It will never be for sale as long as I am living and breathing.
Kerry shifts beneath me, sensing the tension in my body caused by my reflections of the past. His gentle nature calms and relaxes me. He’s the only constant in my life, remaining by my side through every conceivable circumstance, good or bad. I reach down and stroke his neck, murmuring softly to him until he stills.
The truth is, I haven’t stayed here because I wanted to. Not at first. I stayed because someone had to. Someone had to pick up the pieces, and I couldn’t bear the thought of my mother’s memory and the Murphy legacy turning to ash—or worse, a five-star resort where people trampled all over this land, blissfully unaware of its history. So, as soon as I was old enough to challenge my father and force the reins from his hands, I dug in, working to rebuild the damage he’d caused, learning the business, getting my hands dirty, regaining what had been lost. Year after year, little by little, the business has been coming back to life.
Now, looking over the property, I feel the same fierce pride and determination that my ancestors must have felt. This place is not just a plot of land and some buildings; it’s a legacy. The Murphy family legacy.
I straighten in the saddle, my eyes scanning the horizon. The sun is dipping lower now, painting the sky with streaks of gold and crimson. It’s time to head back, to prepare for another season, another harvest, another reason to carry on. But for just one more moment, I let myself linger, let myself feel the weight of the promise I made. This place isn’t just home. It’s my purpose, my anchor. And as long as I draw breath, I’ll fight to keep it alive.