I catch Violet in the hallway before anyone else stirs. She's dressed for riding—boots, jeans, her dark hair pulled back—looking like nothing happened last night.
"We need to talk." I block her path to the kitchen. "Now."
Her expression flattens into practiced boredom. "I have a lesson to get to."
"The lesson can wait." I don't move. "What happened in Jake's room isn't something we're going to pretend didn't occur."
"Nothing happened." Violet crosses her arms, chin lifting. "I got confused in the dark. Found the wrong bedroom."
"Stop." The word comes out sharper than I intend. "Stop lying. Stop performing. Just stop."
She holds my gaze without flinching. The defiance radiates off her like heat.
"Your behavior has crossed a line, Violet." I keep my voice steady, but the exhaustion underneath bleeds through. "This isn't spoiled princess territory anymore. This is something worse."
"Worse how?" Her laugh carries an edge. "I didn't commit a crime."
"You snuck into a man's bed while he was sleeping." I step closer, forcing her to acknowledge what she's done. "You touched him without consent. Do you understand how that looks? What it means?"
"He wanted it." The words come out defiant, but something wavers behind her eyes.
"He didn't." I shake my head slowly. "And somewhere inside that calculating brain of yours, you know that. You're humiliating your family, Violet. Your mother trusted me to watch over you, and this is what you do? This is how you repay that trust?"
Her jaw tightens. "My mother doesn't care what I do."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" The crack appears without warning—her voice breaking on the question. "Walter's the success story. Walter's the one who works for Dad's company. Walter's the responsible one who moved out at twenty and built his own life."
The confession tumbles out faster now, momentum building.
"And what am I?" Violet's eyes shine with something that might be tears. "The disappointment. The problem child. The one they send away to ranches hoping manual labor will fix whatever's broken inside me."
I stay quiet. Let her speak.
"Attention is all I know how to get." She laughs, but it sounds hollow. Painful. "Good attention, bad attention—doesn't matter. At least they notice me. At least someone sees me."
The rawness catches me off guard. Underneath all that calculation and cruelty, there's a nineteen-year-old girl drowning in her brother's shadow.
My voice softens despite myself. "That kind of damage doesn't fix itself, Violet. You need to talk to someone. A professional who can help you untangle what's driving this."
"Therapy?" She spits the word like poison. "That's your solution? Pay someone to pretend they care about my feelings?"
"It's not pretending." I hold her gaze. "It's getting help. There's no shame in that."
Violet studies me for a long moment. The tears haven't fallen, but they're close. Something shifts in her expression—the defiance returning, but different now. Sharper.
"That's rich advice coming from you." Her voice drops to something dangerous. "Have you worked through your own issues, Adison?"
"This isn't about me."
"Isn't it?" She tilts her head, watching me with predatory attention. "Because I'm not the one in love with a man old enough to be my father."
The words land like a blade between my ribs.
I should deny it. Should laugh it off. Should remind her she doesn't know what she's talking about.
But my mouth won't form the lie. Because it's true.
Jake isn't just my father's friend. He's the man I love. The man whose child I'm carrying. The man who somehow became everything I never knew I needed.
The silence stretches. Violet's smile sharpens with victory.
"Thought so." She adjusts her ponytail with deliberate casualness. "Maybe we both need therapy."
Footsteps interrupt before I can respond.
Jake appears around the corner, already dressed for the day. His expression is carefully neutral, but his eyes find mine immediately—searching, concerned.
"Morning." He looks between us, reading the tension. "We ready to ride?"
"Go ahead without me." The lie comes easier than it should. "I have work obligations. Documents that won't review themselves."
Jake's brow furrows. "You sure? The ride would do you good."
"Another day." I force a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "I promise."
He studies me for a moment longer, clearly unconvinced. But he doesn't push. Just nods and gestures for Violet to follow him toward the stables.
Violet brushes past me without another word. Her parting glance carries something complicated—triumph mixed with understanding. Two women who've just exposed each other's wounds.
I watch them go until they disappear around the house.
Then I retreat to my room and close the door.
The truth is simpler than the excuse I gave. I didn't sleep last night. After the confrontation in Jake's room, I lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling while my thoughts spiraled into darker and darker territory.
Seven weeks pregnant already.
The number presses against my ribs like something with weight. Seven weeks of cells dividing and multiplying. Seven weeks of decisions I keep postponing. Seven weeks of carrying a secret that grows heavier with every passing day.
Jake deserves the truth. I know that. I've known it since the moment I saw those two lines in my Manhattan bathroom.
But every time I imagine telling him, the words dissolve before they reach my tongue. What if he doesn't want this? What if the pregnancy becomes another complication he can't handle? What if I've finally found the breaking point of everything we've built?
I sink onto the bed, pressing my palms against my eyes.
The exhaustion pulls at me—bone-deep and relentless. My body demands rest while my mind refuses to stop racing.
Something feels wrong.
I reach for my phone, scrolling through messages. Work emails I've been ignoring. A text from Maria checking in. Nothing from Zachary.
Nothing from Zachary.
The realization settles into my stomach like ice. He calls constantly. Multiple times a day. Checking on me, offering help, inserting himself into every corner of my life.
And now—silence.
I dial his number. Listen to it ring once, twice. Three times.
"The number you are calling is out of range or temporarily unavailable."
Out of range.
Zachary is never out of range. The man has three phones and a satellite backup for emergencies. He built his entire identity around being available whenever I need him.
I stare at the screen, my heart beginning to pound.
His threat echoes through my memory: If you won't tell me what's happening, I'll come to the ranch myself and find out.
I told him not to come. Told him it was a line he didn't want to cross.
But Zachary has never been good at hearing the word no.
The unease coils tighter in my stomach, twisting into something that feels dangerously like dread.
He wouldn't. Not really. Not after I explicitly told him to stay away.
But even as I think it, I know I'm lying to myself.