Chapter 41 - Stella
Stella
The paper is still warm from my hands, the edges creased where I’ve gripped it too tightly.
Papa’s voice echoes in my head—not the one from our wedding day, when his words trembled like the crystal in our champagne flutes, not the one from our last Sunday dinner, slow and measured like the clink of silverware, but younger, fiercer, unyielding, each syllable cutting clean as glass.
My chest tightens, and it’s as if the air has thickened around me.
I curl forward, pressing the letter to my sternum, willing the ink to anchor me, but instead it feels like it’s pulling me under, each word a tide I can’t outswim.
The fire in the hearth has gone out. My tea’s gone cold on the table beside me. I can’t move. I can’t stop reading his handwriting, as if staring at it long enough might pull him back.
Fiori di Cenere. The beauty and the blood. The truth and the lies.
I press the letter to my chest and close my eyes. All I smell is him—cedar, leather, faint traces of tobacco—and for a moment, I’m seven again, standing on his toes while he sways to music only he can hear.
The stairs creak. I jolt, tucking the letter under the blanket as if it’s a secret I need to guard.
“Stel?” Donovan’s voice is low, cautious. Barefoot, hair mussed, wearing only the boxers he fell asleep in. He takes in the untouched tea, the way I’m curled into Papa’s chair, the wetness on my cheeks I didn’t realize was still there.
Something in his face softens. He comes closer, kneels in front of me.
“What happened?”
And just like that—the dam inside me cracks.
I fall into him, sobs shaking me apart from the inside out.
“Hey, baby…” His arms wrap around me, solid and warm, one hand cradling the back of my head like he can hold me together if he just doesn’t let go. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
“No.” The word rips out of me, jagged, my voice shaking with something far hotter than grief. “I’m not okay. None of this is okay.” My fingers knot in his shoulders, clutching hard enough that he flinches. “My whole life—everything I ever knew—it was all a lie.”
His brow furrows, confusion and worry flickering in his eyes, but I don’t give him the chance to speak.
The words are molten now, spilling too fast to stop.
“My family. My father. Who I am? All of it was built on something I didn’t even know existed.
That envelope held the truth for years, and I only have it because someone killed him. ”
The last word cracks, sharp as glass. My chest heaves. Heat flushes my face even as my hands go cold. Donovan’s arms tighten like he can shield me from the truth itself, but it’s too late—it’s in me now, poison I can’t spit out.
His gaze drops to my lap, to where the edge of the letter peeks out from under the blanket. Without asking, he eases it from my grip. I don’t fight him. I can’t. My fingers feel numb as the paper leaves them.
He unfolds it slowly, like it might tear if he breathes too hard. His eyes track each line, his brow knitting tighter the further he reads. When he finally looks up, there’s shock there—but something else too. Something softer.
“Stel…” His voice is quiet, almost reverent. “I don’t… I don’t think this letter is about lies.”
I blink at him, raw and furious. “Did you not read the same damn letter?”
“I did.” He shifts closer, holding the paper between us like it’s proof of something I can’t see yet. “And yeah—it’s heavy. It’s dark. There’s stuff in here that would crush anyone. But do you see what else it says? Do you see what your parents did for you?”
I shake my head, gripping the blanket tighter, unwilling to let go of the rage just yet.
“They carried all of it,” he says, his thumb brushing the edge of the page.
“Your father took on the weight so you wouldn’t have to.
Your mother stood beside him. They took every ugly, dangerous thing and kept it out of your hands.
This isn’t just a confession—it’s love. The kind you give when you’re willing to break yourself to keep your kid safe. ”
The words land heavier than I want them to. I turn my face away, staring at the dying glow in the hearth. “It doesn’t change what’s true.”
“No,” he says softly. “But it changes why it’s true.”
The next couple of months feel heavier than anything we’ve carried before. Inheriting not one family legacy but two has been a whirlwind—part grief, part obligation, part fear of what it all means.
We spend more hours than I want to admit picking apart our future, mapping what it might look like now that everything has changed. Moving back to Agave Hills would mean Donovan walking away from everything he’s worked for. Collegiate coaching isn’t just a job for him—it’s the dream.
I could sell the companies. Take my parents’ legacy and turn it into something entirely my own.
More than one man—suits too slick for funerals—has made offers no grieving daughter should have to hear.
Too many zeros to count. Enough to build the kind of art gallery I’ve always imagined—not the modest, curated space I could open tomorrow, but something sprawling and showstopping. The kind of place people fly in for.
But Donovan refuses to let me give up what my father built. And I refuse to let him give up what he’s fought for.
Ansel and Theo check in but mostly keep to themselves. The tension in the apartment has been thick enough to cut with a knife.
I’m cooking dinner; five place settings are already on the table. Blythe will be here any minute. I am tired of crying. I am tired of grieving. I just need life to feel normal again.
I pop open a bottle of wine to let it breathe. A light tapping comes from the door, and Ansel practically hurdles the couch to open it.
Blythe walks in holding a birthday cake. Ansel takes it and sets it on the counter. Theo and Donovan greet her with hugs.
“Hey Blythe, how’d you know it was my birthday?” Theo teases.
Ansel freezes mid-step, whipping toward him. “Theodore Alvin Lightheart, you never told me when your birthday was.”
Theo throws up his hands in playful surrender. “First off, you know my name isn’t Theodore Alvin. Second—yes, I did tell you.”
Ansel kisses his nose. “It’s February fifth. Not today. He was just being funny,” she explains, shaking her head.
“Wait, Blythe—why the birthday cake?” Ansel asks.
Blythe hesitates, fingers twisting together. “Because… with the curveball thrown in, we didn’t get to celebrate Stella’s birthday.”
Every head turns toward me. I glance down at my feet. It’s strange, realizing I didn’t even notice my birthday had passed.
We eat the pasta I made, the wine flowing easily. The laughter is a relief, a sharp contrast to the weeks before. I realize now how lucky I am to have these people—my friends, my family.
We swap funny childhood stories. Donovan talks about the day we met, adding details I never knew.
Maybe it’s the wine, but I tell them about the time Elaine and her friends ran my underwear up the flagpole during P.E. I try not to laugh through my embarrassment, while Theo looks at me like I’ve just confessed to murder.
“Why the fuck did she hate you so much?” Blythe asks, completely serious.
“Honestly? I’m not even sure. She and her friends have been assholes since I started in public schools.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Donovan shifting in his chair. The mention of Elaine makes him uncomfortable.
After dinner, we help clean up before cutting the cake—everyone singing happy birthday like it’s a competition in volume.
I notice the way Ansel looks at Theo, like he’s the only person in the room.
Something mischievous takes over, and—thwap—I shove a piece of cake in her face.
The next thing I know, we’re in a full-blown food fight.
The laughter is still ringing when an angry pounding rattles the door. A man’s voice is muffled but furious.
Donovan peers through the peephole, then turns to Blythe. “Sinclair’s out there. He’s… fucking fuming. I’m so sorry, that’s—”
But Blythe is already grabbing her bag.
I catch her wrist. “Sunshine, you don’t have to go with him when he’s like this. You can stay here.”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s okay. Things will be worse if I don’t.”
We hear their argument all the way down the hall. The rest of the night, we sit on the couch with the TV playing low, the mood cracked wide open.
Me: Blythe, babe. Please know if you need anything. Ansel and I are here. Just say the word.
Blythe: I know.
The next morning, Donovan and I finally sit down for the conversation we’ve been avoiding.
“So… you’ll stay here? In the apartment with Theo and Ansel?” My eyes are on my hands as I fidget. “And I’ll move back to Agave Hills. Into my parents’ house?”
Donovan reaches across the table, stilling my restless fingers. “Yes, Stell. We’ll see each other two weekends a month. Take turns flying. It may feel like forever, but it’s only two years. We have the rest of our lives.”
His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
I try to sound lighter than I feel. “We’ll video chat, text, and call. I’ll get Carrington Caskets to a place where I don’t need to be there every day.”
He leans in, kissing me. My head finds his shoulder like it’s home.
Two years. Long distance. We are strong enough to make this work.
We spend the next week naked in bed, leaving only for food and drinks. Every moment feels borrowed. The following Friday, I’m on a plane—three and a half hours to Agave Hills, to an empty house.
The air smells faintly of dust and the roses my mother planted years ago. I drop my bags in the foyer, the silence stretching out like an unfamiliar shadow.
I’ve barely made it up the stairs when my phone buzzes.
Blythe: I know you just left a few hours ago, but… Can I borrow that accounting textbook you were telling me about?
I stop cold, thumb hovering over the screen. The code we came up with months ago. She’s leaving.
Me: Of course, Sinshine. You know where it is. Xoxo. Talk soon.
I set the phone down and close my eyes. In this house that doesn’t feel like mine, with my husband three states away, I picture her walking out the door and not looking back.
I stare at the text until the words blur. You can love someone and still know you can’t stay.