Chapter 33 Adaline
Adaline
The Rose Hills town hall smells like old wood and burnt cigars, like every argument ever held inside these walls has been scrubbed down but never really erased.
I taste the nerves at the back of my throat as we step inside.
Not mine. His.
And if this room turns on him, I won’t let him face it alone.
Hunter moves beside me like he’s walking into a courtroom, shoulders squared, jaw set, the muscles in his neck tight enough to snap. He is still confident, but he knows this is more about him than the project itself.
Aunt Jane links her arm through his with a quiet kind of stubbornness, as if she’s decided that the town will see him as hers first, loved, claimed, before they see him as anything else.
And me? I walk on his other side, close enough that our sleeves brush.
Close enough to remind him he isn’t alone.
The moment we enter, whispers ripple through the rows of folding chairs like wind through dry leaves.
Hunter doesn’t look at them. But I can feel the way he hears everything anyway.
The front rows are mostly filled, with town council members at a table near the stage, local business owners, and a few parents with restless teenagers who keep shifting in their seats. Along the back wall, Liam and Mrs. Lane linger like sentinels.
Mrs. Lane’s posture is calm and composed, but her eyes are sharp, scanning the room like she’s cataloging every person who ever made Hunter’s life harder than it needed to be. Liam’s expression is set in that stubborn, protective way that makes him look older than he is.
We slide into the front row.
Hunter is seated between us. His knee bounces once, then stops when he notices. Control. Always control.
The town clerk calls the meeting to order. Papers shuffle. A microphone squeals briefly and then quiets.
A sponsor’s attorney steps up to the podium, a man in a gray suit with kind eyes and a practiced voice. He introduces himself, thanks the council, and begins explaining the proposal: a technical career and trade school on the outskirts of town.
Programs for electrical work, welding, automotive repair, and carpentry. Partnerships with local shops. Scholarships. A pipeline for teens who don’t have a clear path, kids who need structure, skills, and a reason to believe they can build something solid.
I glance at Hunter.
His face is unreadable, but his gaze is fixed on the attorney like he’s listening with his whole body.
“Rose Hills has always been a community,” the attorney says, voice steady. “This program strengthens that community by investing in its youth.”
A few people nod. A few murmur. Some faces remain carefully blank.
Then a chair scrapes.
An older man stands from the second row, his movements stiff with age and conviction. He has a weathered face and a cap in his hands, twisting it like he wants something solid to hold.
“Can we trust Hunter Rexon?” he asks. The room stills. Even the air feels like it stops moving.
I feel the moment before Hunter reacts. I feel it like a pressure change. His body goes rigid. His jaw tightens so hard I can see the tendon jump.
He starts to rise, and I grab his hand and stand with him.
Aunt Jane lifts her hand and touches Hunter. She whispers from her seat, “Hunter, wait.” He looks at her pleading eyes.
My fingers close around his knuckles, and I squeeze, grounding him the way he grounded me in the storm. The way he held me when I didn’t know how to breathe.
Hunter’s head turns slightly toward me, as if he’s surprised by the contact.
I don’t let go. I stand with him.
Every eye in the room shifts, tracking us both.
Hunter freezes mid-motion, caught between fight and flight. I lean just enough that only he can hear me.
“Stay,” I whisper. Not a plea. A promise.
If they’re going to accuse him, they’re going to know the truth while they do it.
His breath shudders once, like he’s holding back something sharp. His eyes flick to mine, storm-gray and raw.
The older man’s mouth tightens. The attorney begins, “Sir, this proposal—”
“That’s the question,” the man says.
I feel Hunter’s hand flex inside mine. Like he’s about to pull away. Like he’s about to retreat behind those walls again. I tighten my grip.
And then, another chair scrapes.
Mr. Reeves stands.
The movement draws attention because he’s not a man who takes the floor casually. He’s older too, with thick hands and a sturdy build that looks like a lifetime of honest work. He doesn’t look at the attorney.
He looks at the town.
His gaze sweeps the room slowly, like he’s counting the years he’s swallowed this truth.
“I’d like to answer that,” he says.
The room shifts again, startled. Whispers flare and then die.
The older man narrows his eyes. “You are going to defend him, John?”
“Yes, I’m,” he says simply. He scans the room to make sure everyone is listening.
“Most of you know me from Reeves’s Repair. Been in this town longer than most people here today.”
A few people straighten, recognition passing through the crowd.
Mr. Reeves swallows, jaw working as if the words are heavy.
“Hunter Rexon didn’t set that fire,” he says.
Hunter’s head lifts sharply. His shoulders go even more rigid, like something heavy has locked into place inside him.
Mr. Reeves keeps going before anyone can interrupt him.
“Richard set it,” he says, voice firm. The room stirs.
“Richard, Hunter’s stepfather, was a con artist and a fraud. He lit the shop up for insurance money and left that boy to carry the blame.”
The words land like stones thrown into still water.
Shock, disbelief, and murmurs bloom, then spread.
The older man scoffs. “That’s—”
“It’s true,” Mr. Reeves cuts in. His voice breaks on the edge, and it makes the room go quiet again. “And I knew it. I knew it back then.”
Mr. Reeves’s eyes gloss with something like shame. “I stayed quiet,” he admits. “Because Richard threatened me. Told me he’d ruin me. Told me he’d make sure Hunter went down with him—take the boy’s future and bury it.”
Hunter’s fingers go cold in mine.
I glance at him and see pain flicker across his face. The kind of pain that doesn’t bleed outward because it’s been held down too long.
Mr. Reeves shakes his head once, like he’s disgusted with himself.
“I let this town believe a lie,” he says. “I let a kid take the fall for a man who deserved to rot. And I’ve regretted it every day since.”
Silence fills the hall, not polite silence. Stunned silence.
The older man’s face shifts in confusion, cracking through certainty. The council members lean toward each other, whispering. Someone in the back mutters, “Is that true?”
Mr. Reeves lifts his chin.
“It is,” he says. “And if you’re asking if you can trust Hunter Rexon? Ask yourselves why he kept showing up anyway. Why he kept giving back to a town that spat him out?”
I take a tiny step forward, still holding Hunter’s hand, and face the room.
“My name is Adaline,” I say, voice clear even though my heart is racing. “I work for Hunter. I care for Aunt Jane.”
I glance down at Aunt Jane, who looks up at me with pride shining in her eyes.
Then I look back at the crowd.
“You hold on to his reputation. You see whatever version of Hunter you decided to believe.”
Hunter’s hand tightens once, like he wants to stop me.
But I don't. I take a breath.
“In the time I’ve lived at Rexon Mansion, I’ve learned something,” I say.
“Hunter Rexon has been supporting Rose Hills for years—quietly. Anonymously. He’s paid for repairs on homes. Covered scholarships for local teens.”
The room shifts again, a low rustle of surprise. A woman near the aisle whispers, “Scholarships?”
A man two rows back mutters, “That was him?”
I nod, because the truth matters more than my fear.
“He never asked for credit,” I say. “He never asked for praise. He just… did it.”
My voice wavers for the first time. Not because I’m nervous. Because I know him now.
“And I’ve seen the way he protects the people he loves.”
The older man’s face is no longer hard. It’s… uncertain. The hum shifts, not louder, just different.
Mr. Reeves steps forward then, moving toward Hunter like gravity is pulling him there.
“Son,” he says, voice thick. Hunter doesn’t move.
He looks stunned. Almost wounded. Like, he doesn’t know what to do with an apology this public.
Mr. Reeves reaches him anyway and wraps his arms around him in a hug that looks like it’s been waiting years to happen.
Hunter’s body goes stiff… then, slowly, his shoulders sag.
Aunt Jane rises, tears in her eyes, and joins them, placing her hands on both men as if she’s binding something broken back together.
Hunter is still holding my hand.
Even in the middle of all this, he doesn’t let go.
Aunt Jane turns her head, sees me standing there like I’m outside the circle
“Come here,” she says softly. She reaches out with her free hand and pulls me in.
Suddenly, I’m part of them. Part of something that feels like family.
Someone starts clapping, and an applause crashes through the room, loud and rising and unstoppable. Cheers echo off the old wooden walls. The cool air smells of history and dust and something new, something like relief.
I close my eyes for half a second, pressed between Aunt Jane and Hunter, and let it wash over me. Because for the first time, Rose Hills isn’t looking at Hunter like a monster.
They’re looking at him like the man he is.
And he’s still holding my hand like he’s afraid that if he lets go, it won’t be real.
The mansion feels different when we return.
Not quieter, if anything, louder and fuller, like the walls themselves are breathing easier now that something long-buried has finally been spoken.
After a quick family lunch, everyone changes into something more comfortable. I slip into a light pink dress, soft and easy against my skin, while Hunter trades his suit for worn jeans and a white T-shirt that somehow makes him look even more himself.
Liam has lit the fire pit when we step into the backyard, flames crackling as dusk settles in, the sky painted in soft purples and fading gold.
He is roasting s’mores, which mostly means he’s aggressively setting marshmallows on fire and declaring them “perfect.” Mrs. Lane scolds him half-heartedly while Mr. Reeves laughs, shaking his head like he’s seen this exact chaos before.
Aunt Jane settles into one of the chairs with a blanket tucked around her knees, her eyes bright, her smile unguarded. She looks… lighter.
I can tell Hunter is still catching up to the reality of the day, the way the town looked at him when the truth came out, the applause instead of accusations.
He listens more than he speaks, his gaze drifting from face to face like he’s memorizing this version of the world in case it disappears again.
When he sits down on the porch swing, I follow without thinking.
The wood creaks softly beneath our weight, and he drapes a blanket across both our laps. The air is cool now, fall clinging stubbornly to the evening, and the shared warmth feels instinctive. His thigh presses lightly against mine, solid and reassuring, and I don’t move away.
Neither does he.
His hand finds mine beneath the blanket, tentative at first, then sure. His thumb brushes the side of my hand in a slow, grounding motion, like he needs the reminder that I’m here. The same hand that held me in the storm.
I lean in closer, lowering my voice so only he can hear.
“You know,” I whisper, lips near his ear, “if Mr. Reeves keeps smiling at Aunt Jane like that, they might finally end up together again.”
He lets out a quiet huff of laughter, surprised and real, his shoulder relaxing. Then he looks at me and says quietly, “They have waited long enough.”
He glances at me then, something soft in his eyes, something that feels dangerously close to happiness, and for a moment, I can’t believe I get to sit here beside him. That I get to see this version of Hunter Rexon, not guarded.
Just here.
The stories flow easily around the fire. Mr. Reeves talks about Hunter as a teenager, grudgingly affectionate, proud in the way only someone who regrets the past can be. Aunt Jane chimes in with corrections.
Mrs. Lane rolls her eyes and adds her own commentary, and Liam tries to convince everyone his s’mores are gourmet.
I watch Hunter more than the fire.
I watch the way he smiles when he forgets to hold it back. The way his posture loosens when he realizes no one here is judging him.
Today I wasn’t the one being rescued. I stood beside him when it mattered. I was his anchor.
When everyone eventually heads inside, Aunt Jane first, then Mr. Reeves and Mrs. Lane, and Liam lingering just long enough to steal one last marshmallow, we’re left alone on the patio.
The fire crackles softly. The swing sways just enough to remind me he’s there.
Hunter shifts closer, then gently lifts my hand and rests it on his lap, fingers still threaded with mine. The intimacy of the gesture makes my breath catch, not bold, not rushed, just certain.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“For today?”
“For being there,” he corrects. “When I almost walked out.”
His gaze holds mine. He says, “It meant more than you know.”
I meet his eyes, the fading light painting them silver and soft. “You’ve been there for me every time I needed someone,” I say.
He hesitates, then adds, “There’s something I want to show you. Before the sun goes down.”
Curiosity flickers through me, warm and bright. “Okay.”
We grab our jackets from the foyer and walk toward his truck side by side. The air smells like smoke and autumn and something new, something hopeful.
As he opens the passenger door for me, I realize my chest feels lighter than it has in years, like something I’ve been holding finally loosened.
I get into his truck, remembering the first time we met, how he never told me where we were headed. I took a risk climbing onto his motorcycle then.
This time, I don’t know if what’s waiting at the end of this road will change everything—or ruin it.