Adison's POV
The observatory door yields under my palm with a familiar creak. Darkness swallows me as I slip inside, closing it softly behind me.
I stand still, letting my eyes adjust. The shapes emerge slowly—telescope pointed toward the glass panels overhead, star charts pinned to the walls, textbooks stacked in corners like old friends waiting patiently.
Everything remains exactly as I left it.
My breath catches. I run my finger along the telescope's base, expecting dust, expecting neglect.
Nothing. Not a trace.
Jake has been cleaning it. Maintaining this space through all those silent weeks when I was in Manhattan and he was here, alone, preserving something I'd abandoned without warning.
Waiting for me.
Warmth spreads through my chest, unexpected and overwhelming. I press my palm flat against the cool metal of the telescope, grounding myself against the emotion threatening to crack me open.
"Missed you too," I whisper to the empty room.
The chair by the telescope welcomes me like it remembers the shape of my body. I settle into it, tilting my head back to gaze through the glass panels at the star-scattered sky.
Orion hangs perfectly positioned. Betelgeuse glows red at his shoulder—that dying giant I used to lecture Jake about during our midnight conversations.
The memories surface like old friends: late nights mapping stellar formations, the scratch of pencil on paper as I calculated trajectories, Dr. Blake's voice praising my research models.
I'd been good at this. Brilliant, even. Before Manhattan reclaimed me. Before the CEO position demanded everything else.
"There's Sirius." I trace the constellation with my finger against the glass. "Still the brightest. Still showing off."
The familiar rhythm of stargazing settles over me. My breathing slows. The weight I've been carrying—the pregnancy, Jake's distance, Zachary's suffocating attention, Violet's games—loosens its grip for one blessed moment.
I don't know how long I sit there. Time loses meaning when you're watching light that traveled millions of years just to reach your eyes.
Eventually, drowsiness pulls at the edges of my consciousness. My eyelids grow heavy. The stars blur into soft smears of light.
I force myself to stand before I fall asleep in the chair. Tomorrow will come whether I'm ready or not. Better to face it rested.
The walk back to the house feels dreamlike. Cool night air against my skin. Crickets singing their endless chorus. The ranch settling into its nighttime quiet.
I climb the porch steps carefully, easing open the door to avoid waking anyone. The hallway stretches ahead, dim and peaceful.
Then I pass Jake's door.
And freeze.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Jake's voice cuts through the silence—sharp, furious, barely controlled.
A laugh follows. Violet's laugh. High and certain and completely unrepentant.
"Oh, please." Her voice carries through the door, honey-sweet and poisonous. "You want this. I felt how hard you were. Your body doesn't lie, cowboy."
My hand finds the doorknob before my brain catches up.
I push open the door and flip on the light.
The scene burns itself into my retinas. Violet straddles Jake's hips, her hand hovering near his groin. Jake grips her wrist with white-knuckled fury, holding her away from him with barely restrained violence.
Violet's head snaps toward me. Her amusement doesn't falter—if anything, it deepens.
"Well, well." She tilts her head, studying me with those calculating eyes. "Didn't anyone teach you to knock before entering a man's bedroom?"
"Get off him." My voice comes out flat. Deadly. "Now."
"Or what?" Violet's smile sharpens. "You'll lecture me about appropriate behavior? Write a strongly worded letter?"
"I'll call Victoria." I pull my phone from my pocket, holding it up like a weapon. "Your mother should know exactly what kind of trouble you're causing."
Something flickers behind Violet's expression. The first crack in her armor.
"You wouldn't." But uncertainty bleeds through the words.
"Try me."
Violet doesn't move. Her jaw tightens with defiance I recognize too well—the desperate pride of someone who's been caught and refuses to admit defeat.
"You're supposed to be supervising me." She throws the accusation like a shield. "If anyone's failing here, it's you. My mother trusted you to keep me out of trouble, and instead you've been—what? Moping around? Sneaking off to stare at stars?"
"Your mother works for me." The words slice through her defense with surgical precision. "She sits on my board. She answers to Ward Enterprises. Which means she answers to me." I step closer, letting the full weight of my authority settle into my posture. "We're adults here, Violet. You're the one behaving like a child."
The impact lands exactly where I intended. Violet's face crumples—wounded pride and genuine hurt tangling together in ways she can't hide.
She scrambles off Jake's bed with none of the grace she usually cultivates. Her hands tremble slightly as she adjusts her sleep shirt, trying to salvage some dignity.
"This isn't over," she hisses as she passes me.
"Yes, it is."
She storms into the hallway, wounded pride trailing behind her like a ghost. Her footsteps fade toward the guest quarters, and finally—finally—the door slams in the distance.
Silence settles over Jake's room.
He sits up slowly, running a hand through his disheveled hair. The anger hasn't fully left his features, but exhaustion is winning the battle.
"Adison, I need to explain—"
"Don't." I hold up my hand, stopping him before he can spiral into justifications neither of us needs. "I know you don't want her. I know what I saw."
His shoulders drop with relief. "She snuck in while I was sleeping. I woke up to her hands—" He stops, jaw clenching. "I was about to throw her across the room when you walked in."
"I believe you."
The simple statement hangs between us. Three words carrying more weight than entire speeches could manage.
Jake's eyes find mine. Something vulnerable moves behind his expression—gratitude, maybe, or hope he's afraid to name.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "For not assuming the worst."
"I know you, Jake." My voice softens despite my best efforts. "I've always known you."
The admission costs more than I expected. I'm suddenly aware of how tired I am—bone-deep exhausted from carrying secrets that grow heavier by the day.
"I should go." I take a step back toward the door. "It's late. We both need sleep."
"Yeah." He doesn't argue, though something in his tone suggests he wants to. "Yeah, you're right."
I pause at the threshold, looking back at him one last time. The lamplight catches the angles of his face, softening the worry lines I've put there.
"Sweet dreams, Jake."
The words slip out tender and honest, stripped of all the defenses I usually maintain.
His quiet response follows me into the hallway: "Sweet dreams, Adison."
Something fragile melts inside my chest. A wall I didn't know I was still building, crumbling brick by brick.
I walk to my room on unsteady legs, carrying his voice like a gift I'm not sure I deserve.
Tomorrow will bring new complications. New conversations we're both avoiding. But tonight, for one small moment, we wished each other peace. And that has to be enough.