Emerson returns a moment later, the light from the hallway finding him first before it spills over the rest of his frame. He pauses in the doorway, taking it all in—the hush of the room, Kimber’sdoor closed down the hall, and Berk tucked comfortably between us like she belongs exactly there. She’s curled into me, Ronan’s arm draped over her hips and legs, the three of us fitted together in a way that feels instinctive and earned.
He moves into the room with that careful step he always takes when he’s trying not to let the house hear him, and the calm he brings feels fragile but necessary. He drops into the chair across from us, his face drawn and grim, and for a moment none of us speaks. “Kimber’s asleep,” he says, voice low, and I can tell he’s been checking her room like she’s something he needs to account for. He looks at Berk for a heartbeat longer than necessary, like he’s memorizing the fact that she’s here with us, safe and stubborn as ever.
Berk’s voice breaks the quiet first. “How’s Kimber doing?”
It’s such a careful question. Like she’s afraid the answer might splinter something fragile.
Emerson exhales and rubs the back of his neck. “Better than last night,” he says. “She finally slept. Not well—but enough.” His mouth tightens. “She’s still struggling. Holding it in because she thinks she has to be strong for us.”
Berk nods slowly. Ronan shifts closer to her and starts rubbing her feet, his thumbs pressing steady, grounding circles like it’s instinct instead of choice. She lets herself sink into it.
Then Ronan asks what all of us have been circling since the call. “So,” he says quietly, eyes flicking between us. “We’re done lying to ourselves, right?”
I feel the weight of it settle into my chest—not sharp grief, not shock. Something colder. Older. “Yeah,” I say. “We’re done.”
Emerson lifts his head. “Bryce didn’t just kill my mom,” he says, voice flat but dangerous. “He executed her. Deliberately. And he wanted us to see it.”
Berk’s fingers curl into my sleeve. A way of support in silence.
“And now,” Emerson continues, “we know that wasn’t the first time.”
Ronan’s hand stills. “The car accident,” he says. Not a question.
I nod once. “It wasn’t an accident. Bryce and Dean planned it.” My jaw tightens. “They murdered our moms. Berk’s and ours. On purpose.”
The words hang there—ugly, undeniable.
Berk swallows hard, breath catching before she forces the words out. “I knew they killed my dad,” she says quietly. “I’ve always known that.” Her gaze lifts, steady but burning. “But our moms—Evelyn and Daphne—I thought that was an accident. They let us believe it was fate, not a choice they made.”
Fury burns low and steady in my gut. Not grief—we already survived that. We buried our mother’s years ago. We learned how to live with the empty chairs and unanswered questions.
“We already mourned them,” I say. “We did that when we were kids. When we were told it was an accident and forced to accept it.” I look at Emerson. “This doesn’t reopen the wound. It tells us who put the knife there.”
Ronan exhales slowly, the sound measured, contained. “They didn’t lose control,” he says. “They decided.”
Berk nods, her voice quiet but razor-sharp. “They chose it,” she says. “Every step. And then they chose not to stop.”
Emerson nods. “They killed your entire family,” he says to Berk. “They took our mothers. And now they’re coming for us.”
The room feels tighter, charged.
I lean forward, arms tightening around Berk. “Then we finish what we started,” I say. “Not just for revenge—for truth. For every life they treated like collateral.”
Berk lifts her chin. “They’ve added it to their sins,” she says. “And they’re already going to burn.”
Emerson’s mouth curves into a sharp smile. “Good. Because we’re not scrambling anymore. We’re dismantling.”
I look at all of them—Berk steady and blazing, Ronan coiled with lethal focus, Emerson carved hollow by loss but standing anyway—and I know this isn’t grief talking.
This is resolve.
“They planned our mothers’ deaths,” I say. “Lied for years. They built empires on blood and silence. Now, we make them answer for every single one.”
Emerson leans forward and meets my eyes, and whatever steadiness he’s found hardens into a sharp blade. “So… what now?” he asks, and the question hangs between us like a demand rather than a plea.
Berk practically springs to life, a burst of energy flashing through her as she claps her hands and pops up from our laps in onefluid motion. The shift is instant—like a flipped switch. “I’m really glad you asked,” she says, grinning, excitement lighting her eyes as she rocks on her toes. “I was in the war room earlier, and I think you’re all going to want to see what kind of progress we’ve made.”
Before any of us can respond, she’s already in motion, a whirlwind of color and confidence. As she passes, her fingers graze across each of us in some small, careless way—her hand brushing my shoulder, trailing over Ronan’s arm, gliding down the back of Emerson’s neck. It’s enough to make the air in the room shift, the tension from earlier replaced with something brighter, almost electric. When she reaches the doorway, she glances back with a grin that dares us not to follow.