Chapter 12 The Secret & The Scandal
The Secret she cares about selling copies.
Later that night, I spot Carrie’s car parked outside Ray’s old property line, her headlights off. She’s watching, waiting, digging. And I know—this isn’t going away quietly.
***
By Monday morning, the damage is done. My phone buzzes with messages from friends and business partners. The Chronicle headline sprawls across the front page: “Farmhouse Fling: Carter Heir and City Blogger Fake Romance to Secure Inheritance.”
Below it is a photo of me and Madison at the farmer’s market—her smile bright, my hand at her back.
Innocent in reality, damning on the page.
The article spins our every move into manipulation: a fake relationship, staged affection, all orchestrated to satisfy the WILL.
Carrie twists Madison into the villain, branding her as a social-climbing influencer exploiting the Carters.
The piece quotes “anonymous locals” who apparently saw us rehearsing our lines behind the bakery. Lies, all of it. But lies travel faster than the truth, especially when they confirm what people already half-suspect.
Worse, Carrie drags Matthew into it, painting him as the betrayed brother, torn between loyalty to his family and loyalty to his best friend. My fists clench when I read it. She’s not just targeting Madison anymore—she’s coming for all of us.
***
By noon, the whole town is buzzing. At the diner, conversations drop to silence when Madison walks in. At the hardware store, customers whisper behind displays. Online, the comments turn cruel: She’s using him. Poor Dylan. Knew she wasn’t cut out for this.
At the farmers’ co-op, a woman I’ve known since childhood pats my arm and whispers, “Don’t worry, Dylan.
We’ll forgive you for being fooled.” As if Madison is nothing more than a scam artist and I’m some naive farm boy who never saw it coming.
The words cut, but the worst part is Madison hearing them too.
I see her jaw tighten, the light dim in her eyes, and I know it’s hitting harder than she’ll admit.
I should speak up, shut this down, but every time I open my mouth, the words die in my throat. The Carter name carries weight in this county, and a part of me—ashamed as it is—hesitates to throw fuel on the fire. My silence tastes like betrayal even as I tell myself I’m protecting the farm.
That evening at the church potluck, whispers follow us into the fellowship hall.
Madison stands beside me, balancing a plate of fried chicken and biscuits, while people glance her way like she’s carrying contagion.
Mrs. Latham, never one to keep quiet, mutters loudly to her neighbor, “She won’t last a season.
City girls never do.” Madison pretends not to hear. I do, and shame burns hot in my gut.
Even Matthew notices, jaw tight as he shoulders his way through the crowd. He leans close and mutters, “Say something, Dylan. For her.” But the words stick, cemented by years of training myself to stay quiet in storms.
***
That evening I find her back in the farmhouse, suitcase open at her feet, hands shaking as she shoves clothes inside. My gut twists. “Madison—”
She spins on me, eyes blazing, cheeks streaked from tears she probably swore she wouldn’t cry. “Don’t. You had the chance to say something. To defend me. And you stayed silent.”
“I didn’t want to give Carrie more ammunition—”
“Bull.” Her voice cracks, and the sound wrecks me more than the words. “You were protecting yourself. Protecting your name, your family. And you left me to burn.”
“I was trying to protect both of us,” I argue, but it’s weak even to my own ears. “This town—they’d believe her lies before they’d believe the truth. I thought it was better not to stoke the flames.”
Her laugh is bitter. “You don’t fight fire by pretending it isn’t burning, Dylan.” She shoves another handful of clothes into the suitcase. “You don’t get it. Every time you stayed quiet, you told them they were right about me.”
Her words are fire, and I take every hit. Because she’s right. And because I don’t know how to tell her that silence was the only weapon I’ve ever known.
Then she lowers her voice, trembling but steady enough to slice: “Uncle Ray trusted me. He saw me for what I could do. And today you showed me you never will.”
The accusation lodges deep, a wound I don’t know how to mend.
***
She zips the suitcase with finality, the sound like a door slamming shut. “I’m done, Dylan. I won’t be the joke this town tells over pie and coffee.”
I reach for her, but she sidesteps, chin high, dignity her last shield. My chest aches with all the things I should have said sooner, but the moment’s gone.
The screen door bangs behind her as she steps into the fading light.
And then Matthew is there, striding up the steps, eyes dark as the storm rolling in.
“What the hell did you do?” His voice is low, dangerous, the kind that used to stop me cold when we were kids. Only this time, it’s not a warning—it’s a verdict.
“She’s walking away because of you,” he snaps. “You were supposed to protect her, Dylan. Not let the whole damn town tear her apart.”
I have no defense. None that matters. The sound of her suitcase rattling down the steps haunts me. All I could do was stand there, guilty under Matthew’s furious stare.
His voice drops, rougher, personal. “You break her, and you lose me too.”
The words land heavier than the thunder in the distance. Because losing Madison is one thing. Losing Matthew, the brother I chose, would finish me.
***
MADISON
The slam of the farmhouse door still echoes in my ears as I stumble down the porch steps into the rain, suitcase banging against my leg.
My breath comes ragged, half sob, half relief, because all I know is I can’t stand another second in that house with Dylan.
Not after his silence, not after the whole town turned on me and he let them.
Headlights cut through the storm, sweeping across the lane. Matthew’s truck. Relief buckles my chest. I drop the suitcase handle and jog the last few steps, yanking open the passenger door before he’s even killed the engine.
He doesn’t ask what happened—one look at my face is enough. “Grab your suitcase, and get in,” he says, voice low, steady. I slide into the bench seat, the familiar smell of leather and black coffee wrapping around me like a blanket I didn’t know I needed.
I watch him stride toward the porch, fury in every line of his shoulders. Dylan stands in the doorway, shadowed and stiff. My brother’s voice cuts through the storm: “What the hell did you do?”
I press my forehead against the cool glass, heart pounding.
Their voices rise and clash, muffled by the rain and the truck’s thin frame.
For a few minutes, I let myself be small, tucked away while Matthew does what he’s always done—protect me.
But hiding in here feels wrong. Cowardly.
I wipe my wet cheeks and sit straighter.
If I don’t face Dylan, I’ll never forgive myself.
I grab the handle, push the truck door open, and step back into the storm. My boots sink into gravel as I march across the yard toward the two men who have defined my whole life in different ways.
“Enough!” I shout, climbing the steps, water dripping off my hair and jacket. Both of them freeze—Matthew mid-accusation, Dylan pale and hollow in the porch light. My voice shakes, but I don’t back down. “If there’s going to be a fight, it’s not going to be about me. It’s going to be with me.”
For a heartbeat, silence. Only the wind howling through the trees, only the rain hammering on the porch roof.
Dylan’s eyes meet mine, dark and unreadable, and it feels like the storm is trapped between us.
I want to demand answers, demand why he never speaks up, why he lets the world paint me as the villain.
But the words knot in my throat. Instead, I stand there shaking, staring at him, waiting for something—anything.
His jaw flexes, his mouth parts as if he might finally say what he should have said hours ago. But nothing comes. And the emptiness of his silence cuts sharper than Matthew’s anger ever could.
Matthew mutters something under his breath, pulls me gently by the elbow, and steers me back into the rain. The porch door bangs shut behind us, leaving Dylan alone in his quiet shadows. My heart pounds like it’s trying to break out of my chest, half fury, half heartbreak.
Matthew doesn't let go until we're both at the truck, and even then, I feel his grip lingering like a tether keeping me from unraveling. I’m drenched, the storm plastering my hair to my face, again. I swipe at my eyes, unsure whether it’s rain or tears blurring everything.
Matthew doesn’t start the engine right away. He looks at me, jaw tight. “You okay?”
I let out a brittle laugh. “Do I look okay?”
He exhales hard, gripping the wheel. “He should’ve defended you. I told him to. You didn’t deserve that.”
“Maybe I did,” I whisper, surprising even myself. “Maybe coming back here was a mistake.”
Matthew’s eyes soften, but his voice stays firm. “Don’t you ever say that. Ray picked you for a reason. You’re tougher than they think. Tougher than Dylan thinks.”
The words splinter something inside me. Because I want to believe them. I need to.
***
Back in the farmhouse, the silence is suffocating. Her suitcase’s absence is louder than any slammed door. I walk through the rooms—kitchen, parlor, Ray’s study—and every corner feels hollow without her presence. The smell of her perfume lingers faintly in the hall, mocking me.
I sink into Ray’s old armchair, guilt pressing harder than the springs. I think about the WILL, the responsibility, and Ray’s faith in both of us. He’d trusted me to protect this land, but he’d trusted her too—with vision, with moxie. And I failed them both tonight.
My fists clench on the armrests. Silence might be my shield, but tonight it feels like a prison.
***
Memories surface unbidden. Ray leaning on the fence line one summer evening, watching Madison chasing fireflies with Matthew and I looking on. He’d said, “That girl’s got grit. Different kind than us, but grit all the same. Don’t you ever underestimate it.”
I’d shrugged it off then. But now, the memory burns. Because Ray had seen her clearly when I refused to.
Lightning cracks outside, echoing the storm inside me. I bury my face in my hands, wondering if I’ve already lost the one person who could have made this place whole.
***
MADISON
Morning comes too soon. I wake in Matthew’s guest room above the garage, the mattress hard, the ceiling low. Newsprint rustles downstairs—he’s already reading. Bracing myself, I head into town, thinking maybe errands will distract me.
No such luck. At the café, conversations falter when I enter. Someone at the counter mutters, “She’s the one from the paper.” Another shakes her head, pity in her eyes. I grab a coffee anyway, holding my chin high, but inside my chest feels hollow.
I scroll my phone, thinking maybe my online world will steady me. But even there, comments sting: Knew she was fake. Just chasing clout.
Everywhere I turn, someone’s ready to believe the worst.
***
Later that afternoon, Matthew corners me outside the barn. His arms are crossed, face thunderous. “You’ve got to fix this.”
I rub the back of my neck. “She won’t listen to me now.”
“Then make her. Find the words you should’ve said last night. Because if you let her walk away for good, you’re not just losing her—you’re losing this farm. And maybe me too.”
His voice breaks on the last part, and I see it then—the fear beneath the fury. He’s not just protecting his sister. He’s protecting what’s left of us, of the family Ray tried to stitch together.
I swallow hard, resolve forming like steel in my chest. If silence was my prison, then words will have to be my way out.
***