9. Rhett
RHETT
The rotors wind down behind us, and the noise fades into something almost peaceful. I step off the chopper last, boots hitting the tarmac, and the sun's bright enough to make me squint.
Jude's laughing at something Cade said—something about the pilot's face when we boarded three days ago versus now. I missed the setup, but the punchline lands because Nora doubles over, hand pressed to her stomach, shoulders shaking.
She's wearing the same sundress from the first time I saw her. Mint green. The color makes her freckles stand out even more, scattered across her nose and cheeks like someone flicked paint. Her hair's loose, curling at the ends from island humidity that hasn't left yet.
Three days. That's all it took for the four of us to become something I can't name and don't need to.
I reach for her as she straightens, still grinning, still catching her breath. My hand finds her jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, and I kiss her. No hesitation. No checking over my shoulder.
The island stripped that reflex clean, left us with this—daylight, open air, her lips parting under mine like it's the most natural thing in the world.
She tastes like the coffee we had at breakfast. Her hand comes up, fingers curling into my shirt, holding on.
When I pull back, Jude's already there. He grins at her, all teeth, and dips his head to kiss her next. Casual. Easy. Like we've been doing this for years instead of days. She laughs into his mouth, and the sound does something to my chest that I've stopped trying to analyze.
Cade's a few feet away, watching us with that steady, unreadable expression he wears when he's satisfied but won't say it out loud.
His hand brushes her back as she steps toward him, fingers splaying wide over her spine.
He doesn't kiss her—not yet—but the intent's there in the way he looks at her. Patient. Inevitable.
We're happy. That's the only word that fits. The island was a bubble, and we're still inside it, still floating, still untouchable.
The gasp cuts through.
Sharp. High. A single inhale that shouldn't carry this far but does.
I turn.
Vivienne stands near the edge of the helipad, one hand pressed to her chest, the other frozen mid-reach for David beside her. Her mouth is open. Not wide—Vivienne doesn't gape—but enough. Enough for me to see the shock before her face hardens into something colder, sharper, polished and precise.
David's behind her. His hands hang loose at his sides. His face doesn't do what Vivienne's does—doesn't crack open, doesn't shift into fury. He just stands there, still, jaw tight, eyes on Nora. Only Nora.
I look at her.
The laughter's gone. Drained out of her like someone pulled a plug. Her shoulders pull in, spine stiffening, and the color drains from her face so fast I think she might actually sway.
She doesn't. She locks her knees and stares at her father, and I watch the exact second the joy leaves her body, replaced by something that looks like panic and guilt wrapped so tight I can't tell where one ends and the other starts.
Vivienne moves first.
She crosses the distance in measured strides, heels clicking against the pavement, spine straight, chin up. Her composure cracks for half a heartbeat—I see it in the way her mouth twitches—but then it's back, locked into place, and when she speaks, her voice could freeze water.
"How dare you?"
Not loud. Vivienne doesn't yell. She doesn't need to. Every syllable lands with the weight of a gavel.
Cade steps forward. Not aggressive. Not defensive. Just... there. Between her and Nora. His hands stay loose at his sides, his voice calm.
"Mom."
"Don't." She holds up one hand, fingers splayed. "Don't you dare stand there and act like this is—" She stops. Collects herself. Her chest rises and falls once, slow and deliberate, before she continues. "In front of everyone. In broad daylight. Kissing your stepsister."
"She's not our sister."
"She is David's daughter." Vivienne's gaze flicks to Nora, then back to Cade. "She is part of this family. And you—all three of you—have?—"
"This is your fifth marriage, Mom."
The words land quiet. Matter-of-fact. Cade doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't need to.
Vivienne's mouth thins. "Excuse me?"
"Your fifth marriage," Cade repeats, steady as stone. "You're not in a position to tell us about relationships."
Silence stretches between them. Not awkward—heavy.
Vivienne's hands curl into fists at her sides, knuckles going white, and for a second I think she might actually yell.
But she doesn't. She breathes through her nose, lifts her chin another fraction, and when she speaks again, her voice is ice over steel.
"This is not about me. This is about propriety. About respect. About—" She gestures sharply toward the terminal building behind her, where staff are probably watching through tinted windows. "What will everyone think?"
"They've always thought we were a weird family because you married men with children." Cade's expression doesn't shift. "What's one more?"
Jude shifts beside me. I glance at him, catch the tension in his jaw, the way his hands flex and release. He's not as calm as Cade. He never is. But when he speaks, his voice is measured, almost gentle.
"Mom. We're not trying to hurt you."
"Not trying?" Vivienne's gaze snaps to him. "Do you have any idea what this looks like? What this will do to this family? To your reputations? To hers?" She gestures toward Nora, who flinches like the words are physical. "She is twenty-one years old. She is David's daughter. And you?—"
"We know who she is," Cade interrupts. Still calm. Still steady. "We know exactly who she is."
I should say something. Step in. Add my voice to theirs. But I can't stop watching Nora.
She's standing a few feet behind Cade, arms wrapped around herself, shoulders hunched inward like she's trying to disappear.
Her face is pale. Too pale. The freckles stand out stark against her skin, and her hands are shaking where they grip her elbows. She's not crying—not yet—but she looks like she's holding herself together with duct tape and prayer.
David hasn't moved.
He's still standing where he was when we landed, hands loose, posture still, eyes locked on Nora.
He hasn't said a word. Hasn't reacted beyond that first tightening of his jaw.
But the silence coming off him is louder than Vivienne's anger, heavier, and I can see Nora feeling it from here—the weight of her father's gaze, the quiet that says more than shouting ever could.
Vivienne's still talking. Something about decorum, about what people will say, about how this reflects on the family.
Cade responds—facts, not emotion, reminders that none of us are blood-related, that the family has always been unconventional, that loving someone isn't something to apologize for.
He's not cruel. He's not dismissive. He's just... firm. Honest.
Jude adds something—I don't catch the words—but it's softer than Cade's approach, an attempt to bridge the gap between what Vivienne wants and what we're not willing to give up.
I stay quiet.
Because none of this matters.
Not the argument. Not Vivienne's fury or Cade's calm or Jude's diplomacy.
None of it matters if Nora's father looks at her like he doesn't recognize her anymore.
If David decides this is too much, too wrong, too far—if he pulls away from her because of us—then everything we built on that island collapses.
David speaks.
"Can we talk?"
Three words. Quiet. Directed at Nora. Only Nora.
The confrontation doesn't stop—Vivienne's mid-sentence, something about expectations—but David doesn't acknowledge her. He steps forward, past Vivienne, past us, and stops in front of his daughter. His hand comes up, fingers wrapping gently around her upper arm.
"Kiddo," he says, softer now. "Can we talk?"
Nora nods. Doesn't speak. Just nods, and David leads her away—five steps, ten, enough distance that they're out of immediate earshot but still visible.
I watch her go.
Watch the way her shoulders stay hunched, the way her hands twist together in front of her stomach. Watch David's hand stay on her arm, steady and careful, the grip of a man who's spent twenty-one years being the only thing between his daughter and the world.
Vivienne's still talking behind me. Cade's still responding. Jude shifts closer to me, shoulder brushing mine, and I feel the tension radiating off him even though his face stays neutral.
But I can't focus on them.
I'm watching Nora.
She's standing with her back to us now, head bowed, and I can see the slight tremble in her spine.
David's talking—I can see his mouth move, see the way his free hand gestures once, twice, small movements that don't carry the anger Vivienne's do.
But I can't hear him. Can't tell if he's angry or disappointed or hurt or all three.
I want to go to her.
Step in. Stand beside her. Tell David that whatever he thinks of us, whatever he thinks of this, we're not going anywhere. That we'll take care of her. That we already have been.
I can't.
This is between a father and a daughter. My presence would make it worse, not better. I know this. I stay.
But the dread sits heavy in my chest, low and dark and spreading, because I know—God, I know—that what David says to her in the next five minutes could change everything.
Vivienne we can handle. Vivienne's fury is about appearances, about propriety, about the image she's built over decades.
We can push back against that. We can hold the line.
David is different.
David is the man who raised Nora alone after her mother died.
The man who worked a teacher's salary and gave her everything he had.
The man she talks about with a softness in her voice that doesn't exist for anyone else.
Losing him—or even the idea of losing him—would break her in ways Vivienne's disapproval never could.
And I can't fix it.
I can't step between them. Can't argue on her behalf. Can't promise David that we'll be good to her, that we'll keep her safe, that we love her—because I do, I'm falling and I know it and it scares me—because he doesn't want to hear it from me.
All I can do is stand here and watch.
David's hand drops from her arm. He says something—I see his lips move, see the way his expression shifts, softens maybe, or maybe I'm imagining it because I need it to be true.
Nora's head lifts. Just slightly. Her hands untwist, fingers flexing at her sides, but she doesn't step closer to him. Doesn't move at all.
Jude exhales beside me, slow and controlled, and I realize he's been holding his breath.
"She okay?" he murmurs.
"I don't know."