Chapter 7 #2
Devon felt Bryson tense beside him, but it was his dad who stepped forward.
"This is David's funeral, not an opportunity for you to indulge your vindictive nature,” his father said softly, but in a firm and fierce tone.
Monica's smile faltered. "I was just making conversation."
"You were being deliberately cruel. There's a difference." His dad’s expression could have carved stone. "Now, if you'll excuse us.” He turned his back on her, a dismissal more cutting than words. Monica's face flushed red before she stalked off toward Winston.
"That woman is poison," Brea said.
"Always has been," Riley agreed.
“Besides wishing I had never married her, I wish it hadn’t cost us a few million to force her to give up the Boone name.” Bryson rubbed the back of his neck.
“Worth every penny,” Brea said.
Movement caught Devon's eye. Across the cemetery, Winston had cornered Gabe near a cluster of oak trees. The distance prevented Devon from hearing their conversation, but the body language was clear—Winston leaning in, aggressive, while Gabe stood his ground, his expression stony.
"What the hell?" Bryson glanced between the exchanged and Devon.
"Winston never talks to Gabe," Mason observed. "Like, ever. What changed?"
Devon watched the conversation escalate. Winston's face reddened, his gestures becoming more animated. Gabe remained calm, but Devon could see tension in every line of his body. Olivia hovered nearby, her expression anxious.
"Should we intervene?" Bryson asked.
"Not yet." Devon kept watching. "But be ready."
Whatever Winston said next made Gabe's fists curl. For a moment, Devon thought his friend might actually throw a punch at a funeral. Instead, Gabe leaned in close, said something sharp and short, and walked away. Olivia followed, casting a worried glance back at Winston.
Winston stood alone among the gravestones, his expression unreadable from this distance.
"That was intense," Mason said.
"Something's happening." Devon felt certainty settle in his gut. "Something more than grief."
"You think it's about the will?" Bryson asked.
Before anyone could answer, Callie appeared at Winston's side. They engaged in a heated conversation, Callie gesturing emphatically while Winston's expression grew darker.
"This family is imploding," Riley observed quietly. "And we're getting a front-row seat."
Sandy Kane appeared from the direction of the parking lot, still in her police uniform. She scanned the crowd with professional efficiency before spotting their group.
"Everything alright?" she asked, joining them. "I saw some tension from the road."
"Just the Callaways being the Callaways," Mason said, dropping a kiss on his wife's cheek.
"Actually," Devon said, "did you see that conversation between Winston and Gabe?"
"Hard to miss. Winston looked ready to start a fight." Sandy's cop instincts were clearly engaged. "You know what that was about?"
"No idea. But given Winston's never given Gabe the time of day before..." Devon trailed off.
"It's worth noting," Sandy finished. "I'll keep an eye on things."
The crowd began dispersing in earnest now, families heading to their cars, conversations wrapping up. Devon saw Gabe and Olivia hurrying toward their vehicle, Gabe's arm protectively around his wife's shoulders.
"We should talk to him," Bryson said.
"Not here. Not now." Devon watched Winston and Callie still locked in a heated discussion. "But soon. Something's happening, and I want to know what."
"Could be about the third heir," Mason suggested. "Maybe Winston thinks it's Gabe?"
"Gabe doesn't want anything to do with the Callaway legacy," Devon said. "He made that clear."
"Doesn't mean Winston would believe him.”
Fair point.
"Boys," Walter called. "We should head out. Your mother wants to get home before the vultures start circling for the reception."
"We're not going to the Callaway house?" Bryson asked.
"Absolutely not." Brea's tone brooked no argument. "I will not spend an afternoon watching Monica preen and Callie play the victim while they plot God knows what. We’ve paid our respects. That's sufficient."
They made their way to the parking lot, the afternoon heat hitting like a physical force after the cemetery's shade. Devon loosened his tie, already sweating through his shirt.
"Devon.” Winston's voice carried across the lot. "That word? Now would be good."
Devon exchanged glances with Bryson, who shrugged. "Want me to come?"
"Please."
They approached Winston, who'd shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his carefully maintained composure had frayed at the edges.
"What can we do for you?" Devon asked.
Winston glanced around, ensuring privacy before speaking. "I understand you've hired Emery."
"We have."
"Interesting choice." Winston's tone was neutral, but Devon heard judgment underneath. "Given her history."
"Her qualifications speak for themselves."
"Do they? Or did other factors influence your decision?" Winston's gaze was sharp, assessing.
"Her hiring was based purely on merit," Bryson said, his voice tight. "What's this about?"
"I'm curious about Stone Bridge's expansion plans. The premium market, authentication services, collector outreach—that's new territory for you." Winston's expression remained carefully blank. "Territory that could overlap significantly with Callaway interests."
"There's room for multiple players in the premium space," Devon said carefully. "We're not trying to edge you out." But what bothered him more was the idea that Winston was fishing for information—something that Devon and his family wasn’t willing to discuss with the competition.
"Aren't you?" Winston's mask cracked slightly. "My father spent years building relationships in that market. Now Stone Bridge is positioning itself as a major player, hiring someone with—questionable ethics aside—exactly the expertise needed to compete directly with us."
"Competition is healthy," Bryson pointed out.
"Competition is one thing. Predatory business practices are another." Winston's voice dropped. "I'm aware that Emery has contacts in auction houses and collector circles that took my father decades to cultivate. If she's using those relationships to benefit Stone Bridge at Callaway's expense..."
"She's doing nothing of the sort," Devon said, anger flaring. Winston had always been a bit of an asshole, but this was a new low, even for him. "And I resent the implication."
“That’s funny. Because from where I stand, this looks like opportunism disguised as compassion." Winston stepped closer. "You swoop in when she's vulnerable, offer her a job, and suddenly have access to every connection and piece of insider knowledge she gathered working for Harold Pemberton."
"That's not what happened."
"Then explain why someone so careful about business as you are would hire someone radioactive in the industry."
"Her ethics are impeccable," Bryson said, his voice carrying that deep tone he only used when someone had pushed him too far.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps you're too close to see clearly." Winston's gaze locked on Devon. "I hear you two have a personal relationship. That you've had one for months. Makes me wonder if your judgment is clouded by factors that have nothing to do with business."
Devon felt heat creep up his neck. "My personal life is none of your concern."
"It is when it affects business relationships in this valley.
When it potentially damages Callaway interests.
" Winston straightened his tie, composure sliding back into place.
"Consider this a courtesy warning. If Stone Bridge's expansion comes at Callaway's expense—if we lose clients or relationships because of your new hire—there will be consequences. "
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a statement of fact." Winston's smile was about as stone-cold as an ice cube. "We're competitors. Always have been. But we've maintained a certain professional respect. Don't let poor judgment destroy that." He walked away before either of them could respond.
"What the hell was that?" Bryson asked.
"A shot across the bow." Devon watched Winston rejoin Callie and Monica. "He's worried about Emery. About what she brings to the table."
"Good. Let him worry." Bryson's expression had that hard edge their father had—untrusting, unwavering, and if someone took a shot at family, Bryson would crush them like bad fruit. "But I don't like the implications. That sounded like he's planning something."
Devon didn't respond, but unease coiled in his gut. Winston's warning had been specific, calculated. This wasn't grief talking or an emotional reaction to his father's death.
This was strategy.
And Devon had a sinking feeling they were only seeing the opening moves.
Emery settled deeper into the bed in the guesthouse, her phone screen casting a soft glow in the darkened room. Outside, the vineyard sprawled in shadowy rows beneath a sliver of moon, and the only sounds were the whisper of wind through leaves and the distant hoot of an owl.
Her phone buzzed with another text from Devon.
Devon: You should be sleeping. Early morning tomorrow.
Emery: Says the man who's also awake texting me.
Devon: Fair point. But I have an excuse. I'm reviewing harvest schedules.
Emery: And I'm reviewing provenance documentation. We're both workaholics.
Devon: Okay, but you’re obsessed.
She smiled despite herself. He wasn't wrong. She'd spent the last four hours cross-referencing storage conditions with vintage years, building the kind of meticulous documentation that would make collectors salivate.
Emery: Fine. I'm turning off the light now. Happy?
Devon: Delighted. Sleep well.
Emery: Goodnight.
She set the phone on the nightstand and reached for the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. The sudden absence of light made the shadows deeper, the silence more pronounced. She pulled the throw blanket over herself, closed her eyes, and let exhaustion pull her under.