Chapter 11 #3
“Ralph got scared,” Asher said.
“Yeah. He realized he’d invited a monster into his house. That Draven wasn’t there to reconcile. He was there to destroy. To take everything Dad had built.”
“Did Draven kill Ralph?” Destiny asked quietly.
Roger flinched. “The cartel murder was real. But—”
“But Draven set it up,” Asher said, voice hard. “Cartel did the hit. Ralph survived long enough to land in the ICU. Draven finished it with poison there. Forensic pathologist ruled it complications. Got his revenge and made it look like business.”
Roger nodded.
“And you knew,” Destiny said. Voice dead. Empty. “You knew, and you didn’t tell me. You let me believe—” She stopped. “Are you in this with him, Roger?”
His mouth opened. “No. I’ve been working with him for three years, trying to—” Roger stopped. “Trying to find proof. Trying to get evidence. Trying to stop him without getting us both killed.”
Daphne stood. Looked at Asher.
His eyes had narrowed. “Draven isn’t the head of the syndicate.”
Roger frowned at him. “What makes you say that?”
“The syndicate has been around a lot longer than Draven.”
“My dad was in charge.”
“No, he wasn’t.” Asher stepped forward. “I read your dad’s arrest report. He was definitely acting under the orders of someone else.”
Roger’s mouth tightened.
“You knew that,” Daphne said.
Roger shook his head. “I don’t know. Dad never told me. Said it was safer if I didn’t know. That way I couldn’t be forced to tell.”
Daphne looked at Destiny. The woman stood frozen.
“Come on,” Daphne said gently. “Let’s get you out of here. Get you some space.”
Destiny didn’t resist. Just let Daphne guide her out of the room. Down the hall. Away from Roger and the shattered glass and the lies.
They made it three doors down before Destiny’s knees buckled.
Daphne caught her. Supported her weight. Helped her into her own bedroom. Guided her to the bed.
Destiny sat. The mattress dipped under her weight. She stared at the floor. At nothing.
“Destiny, why did you think Roger was the mole?”
The woman looked up at her, and something—it looked like fear—crossed her face. “Because I found this in his things.”
She reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a burner phone. “It was next to him in the car when he got out tonight.”
Daphne took it. Opened it. A text displayed on the screen.
Unknown number
Time’s up.
“What does this mean?”
“I don’t know,” Destiny whispered. “So many lies.” She lay down on the bed, pulled her knees up. “I just want it to be over.”
“I know.”
Daphne moved to the window. Pulled back the curtain slightly. Night pressed against the glass, stars scattered across the sky. The ranch was quiet below—just the sound of wind through pine trees and the creek rushing over rocks.
“Tell me everything,” Daphne said. “Everything you know about Draven. About Ralph. About who else might be involved.”
And Destiny did.
Told her about Ralph’s confession three years ago about his affair. About Draven’s arrival. About the growing fear as Draven became more dangerous. More uncontrollable. “Maybe I was wrong about Roger,” she said, her face wan. “Do you think he’ll forgive me?”
Daphne didn’t have an answer for that.
So Destiny continued. She told her about Ralph’s death. About her certainty that Draven had orchestrated it, even though she couldn’t prove it.
Told her about the decision to testify. About saving Roger by choosing his life over his freedom.
And Daphne listened. But one thing kept nagging at her. One question that didn’t have an answer.
“Destiny—who handles the finances now? After Ralph died? Who actually controls the money?”
“I don’t know.” Destiny’s voice was small. “I assumed Draven.”
“But you don’t know for sure.”
“No.”
Daphne filed that away. Something to investigate. Something that might explain why the syndicate was so desperate to eliminate witnesses.
Maybe Draven wasn’t the real threat. Maybe there was someone else. Someone who needed Roger and Destiny dead to protect their own position.
She needed to tell Asher. Needed to figure out what this meant for the case.
“Will you stay?” Destiny asked suddenly, voice breaking. “Just—for a little while? I don’t want to be alone. I’m afraid if I’m alone, I’ll fall apart completely.”
Daphne looked at her. Polished, poised Destiny, society widow who had learned to pass pies at a community potluck.
She didn’t deserve the trail of deceit in her family.
“Yes,” Daphne said. “I’ll stay. As long as you need.”
Destiny nodded. Lay back on the bed. Curled on her side. Pulled the blanket over herself.
Daphne settled into the chair by the window. Keeping watch. The clock on the nightstand glowed: 3:36 a.m. Hours until dawn.
Destiny’s breathing eventually evened out. And watching her—this woman who’d spent years protecting her son, who’d built her life around keeping Roger safe, who’d waited and hoped and sacrificed—Daphne saw her mother.
Saw the woman who’d waited at windows. Who’d trusted her husband to come home. Who’d built a life around someone she couldn’t control, someone who’d made dangerous, albeit heroic, choices.
Saw the woman who’d shattered when that trust had been broken.
And Daphne understood why she’d spent fifteen years building walls.
But sitting here, thinking about Asher down the hall and the kiss and his rough voice saying “I care about you more than anything”—Daphne faced the truth she’d been avoiding.
She was clearly in love with Asher Morrison.
And that terrified her.
But as she stared out into the darkness, she considered that maybe her mother’s mistake hadn’t been loving her father. Maybe the mistake had been not forgiving him. Not making peace with the choices he’d made.
Maybe loving someone who made dangerous choices was still better than not loving at all.
She didn’t know.
Just knew that sitting here, watching Destiny and thinking about Asher and remembering the way his lips had felt against hers, Daphne was done fighting it.
True love like that only happens once.
Don’t waste it.
Hold on to it.
Yes.
But for now—for these dark hours before dawn—Destiny needed her more.
So Daphne stayed. Kept watch. And let herself hope.
Hope that caring didn’t have to end in destruction.
Hope that Asher Morrison was worth the risk.
Even if the risk was everything.
For now—she’d hope.
And that was enough.