Chapter 19 #2
Emery looked at her father. His face was carved from stone, every line etched deep, but his eyes were swimming with unshed tears.
"David paid the facilitator a quarter of a million,” Declan continued.
“And paid Sarah twenty thousand to sign the papers and disappear.
Paid your parents the fifteen thousand in 'processing fees.'" He said it without judgment, but Emery heard it anyway. Her parents had paid for her, even if they hadn’t understood that’s what they’d done.
“Though, it cost your parents a lot more than that.”
"We would have paid a million," Michael said hoarsely. “One look at you, and we were in love.”
“I’ve always loved being your child.” Emery reached across the table, taking his hand. “I don’t have any negative feelings about what you or Mom did. But I can’t say the same about the Callaways.”
"David walked away," Declan said quietly. "Never contacted Sarah again. Never checked on you. Never sent money or asked how you were doing. As far as he was concerned, the situation was handled. Problem solved."
"And Sarah?" Emery asked, though dread was already pooling in her stomach. She knew from Declan's expression that this part wouldn't end well.
"Sarah struggled." Declan's voice went softer.
"She tried to pull her life together. Got a job waitressing, rented a small apartment. But she’d been using drugs before you were born, and she picked up again after she gave you up.
Within a year, she'd lost her apartment, lost her job. She was arrested multiple times for possession and sex work.”
Emery felt Devon's arm come around her shoulders, anchoring her.
"The records suggest she was trafficked for several years. Moved up and down the coast, controlled by men who exploited her addiction and her desperation." Declan's hands tightened on the document. "She died of an overdose at thirty-five.”
Jesus, that was only two years older than Emery now.
The number hit Emery like a physical blow. While she’d been finishing college, starting her career, falling in and out of love, building a life, Sarah Mitchell had been dying alone, destroyed by a choice she'd made at eighteen when a wealthy man had taken what he wanted and walked away.
The room was silent except for the grandfather clock ticking in the corner, marking seconds that felt too loud, too final.
"I'm sorry," Declan said, and he sounded like he meant it. "I know that's not the story you hoped to hear."
Emery couldn't speak. Couldn't think past the image of a girl—barely more than a child—holding her baby and trying to make it work. Couldn't process the trajectory of a life destroyed by one man's refusal to take responsibility.
Devon pulled her closer, his chin resting on top of her head. Her father's hand squeezed hers hard enough to hurt, and she was grateful for the pain because it meant she could still feel something other than this hollow ache.
"You're a Tate," her father said, his voice fierce despite the tears now streaming down his face.
"Sarah gave you to us because she loved you.
Because she wanted you to have the life she couldn't provide.
And we loved you from the moment we held you.
That makes you ours. David Callaway's DNA doesn't change that.
His money doesn't change that. Nothing changes that you're my daughter. "
"I know." And she did. The Tates were her family. Had always been her family. But knowing the truth about Sarah—about the girl who'd carried her, birthed her, loved her for five weeks—changed something fundamental about how Emery understood herself.
She was the daughter of a girl who'd been exploited and abandoned. The daughter of a man who'd paid to make his mistake disappear. The daughter of desperation and privilege, of hope and cruelty, of love and devastating loss.
"What do you want to do?" Harlan asked after a moment, his voice gentle. "About the inheritance. You have a legitimate claim. With DNA evidence, we can prove you're David's biological daughter. The will is clear—you're entitled to a portion of the Callaway estate."
"How much time do I have to decide?"
"The will stipulates the heir must be found within three months of David's death.
We're at two months now." Harlan consulted his notes.
"But Winston's cooperation extends the timeline.
If he's willing to acknowledge you as his sister and facilitate DNA testing, the courts will likely allow additional time for legal proceedings.
You probably have another six months before you need to make a final decision. "
Emery looked at the folder. At all the documents proving she was someone's bastard daughter. Someone's inconvenient mistake. Someone's dirty secret.
But she was also Michael and Catherine Tate's chosen daughter. The daughter they'd fought for, paid for, loved fiercely.
She was Walter and Brea Boone's employee and friend, Devon's partner and love.
She was her own person, built from her own choices, her own determination, her own refusal to be defined by other people's mistakes.
"I don't know what I want to do," she admitted, her voice steadier now. "I love my job. I love being a Tate. I'm not sure I want to be a Callaway, too. I'm not sure I want David's money or his name or any connection to the man who destroyed Sarah's life and then pretended I didn't exist."
"You don't have to decide today," her father said firmly. "Take your time. Think about what you want—not what you think you should do, not what anyone else expects. What you want."
"And whatever you decide," Devon added, his voice rough with emotion, "we'll support you.
If you want to claim the inheritance and use it for something good—honoring Sarah's memory, helping people like her—we'll be there.
If you want to walk away and never speak the Callaway name again, we'll be there for that, too. "
Declan and Harlan gathered their materials and promised to follow up on DNA testing procedures and legal timelines. After they left, her father stood, moving around the table to kiss her forehead.
"I'm going to give you two some privacy," he said quietly.
After he left, Devon pulled his chair closer, turning her to face him. His hands found hers, holding on like she was the only thing keeping him grounded.
"How are you really doing?" he asked.
"I don't know." The truth felt too big, too complicated to articulate.
"I feel angry. And sad. And guilty." The words tumbled out faster now.
"Sarah gave me up so I could have a better life, and then her life became a nightmare.
She died alone because she made the mistake of trusting the wrong man.
And I got everything—education, opportunity, love—while she got nothing. "
"None of that is your fault." Devon's hands cupped her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You didn't ask to be born. You didn't ask for Sarah to be exploited. You didn't ask for David to be a coward. None of that is on you."
"Then why does it feel like it is?"
"Because you have a heart. Because you care about people you’ve never met.
Because you're the kind of person who feels other people's pain.
" His thumbs wiped away the tears rolling down her cheeks like a river.
"But Sarah's tragedy doesn't diminish your right to exist. David's choices don't make you any less worthy of love, happiness, or success.
You're not responsible for fixing what they broke. "
"Then what am I supposed to do with all this?" She gestured vaguely at the folder, at the weight of information that felt like it was crushing her chest. "How do I just... carry this and keep going?"
"You don't carry it alone." Devon pulled her into his arms, holding her tight.
"You let me help. You let your dad help.
You let this family—this crazy, overwhelming, sometimes overbearing family—help shoulder it.
And you give yourself time to figure out what it means and what you want to do about it. "
They sat like that for a long time, Devon's arms around her, his heart beating steady against her ear. The grandfather clock kept ticking. Outside, she could hear birds calling to each other. Life continuing despite the ground shifting beneath her feet.
He tilted her face up, his eyes intense.
"I love you. Not because of who your father was or wasn't. Not because of what you might inherit.
I love you because you're brilliant, brave, and stubborn as hell.
Because you fight for what you believe in.
Because when the world tried to break you, you refused to stay broken. "
Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "I love you too."
She kissed him then, pouring everything she couldn't say into it—gratitude and fear and hope and love all tangled together. He kissed her back like she was air, and he'd been drowning, his hands gentle despite the desperation she felt in the way he held her.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, she rested her forehead against his.
"No more secrets?" she whispered.
"No more secrets. No more lies hiding behind the harvest. Just us. Just truth. Just whatever future we build together, one honest day at a time."
"Just us," she agreed.
And for now, in this moment, with Devon's arms around her—that was enough.
The danger was over. The secrets were exposed. Whatever came next—whatever she decided about the Callaway inheritance, whatever complications arose from being David's daughter and Sarah's tragedy—she wouldn't face it alone.
She had Devon. Had her father. Had a family who'd claimed her as their own.
She had a life she'd built through her own determination, talent, and refusal to quit.
And that, she was beginning to understand, was worth more than any inheritance David Callaway could have left behind.