As Vera and I approach the colossal giant that has been in the Hughes family for five generations, she goes utterly silent, her mouth gaping and her nose pressed to the passenger-side window. I don’t make excuses or downplay the scene, but merely appreciate the sight through her eyes as I navigate up the long driveway.

Ethereal in the fading day, evergreens dot the mostly skeletal forest bordering the property. What leaves remain on the other trees shimmer orange and gold in the hazy light. The mansion itself is a beacon of warmth, lit up within and without. On the front veranda, luscious, fall-inspired garlands decorate the many columns, each of them illumined by carefully placed ground lights.

It’s a postcard-perfect tableau.

“Holy effing Rockefeller,” breathes Vera.

I bite my tongue on a trite rebuttal, like I’d give it all away if I could. Instead, I’m overcome by the sudden realization of how long I’ve felt… ashamed.

Ashamed of what my ancestors built. Ashamed that I’ve never known hunger, or been unable to make rent. And I’m ashamed, too, that a part of me has always believed the derogatory labels of strangers.

Spoiled heiress.

Rich bitch.

Socialite.

Airhead.

Party-girl.

Pulling to a stop behind an old, dented SUV that has Deacon written all over it, I put the car in park. Then I turn to Vera, still staring out the window like she’s waiting for the house to disappear.

“I know this is kind of out of the blue,” I begin hesitantly, “but how’s the Malibu house?”

She finally gives me her attention. “Amazing, as you well know. I can’t believe I turned down being your roommate all those years.” Her brow creases. “Why? Are you selling it?”

My palms, suddenly damp, curl around the steering wheel. “I’m not selling it. I’m donating it.”

Disappointment flashes on her face before she smiles. “Oh, well, that’s good then.” Another frown. “I doubt the neighbors will allow a halfway house or something. Who are you donating it to?”

Here goes nothing.

“You. And I’m giving the farm to Jonah and his wife. That’s what I was working out with the lawyer yesterday.”

Surprise, horror, and elation dance in Vera’s expressive eyes. She grabs my shoulder, fingernails digging through my bulky sweater.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” Tears glisten in her eyes, and her free hand covers her mouth. “Are you dying?”

I laugh. Loudly. “Stop being dramatic. Why would you ask that?”

“Because you’re giving away your worldly possessions!”

I scowl. “Can we go back to where you say, Ohmygosh, Candace, I love you, thank you! Et cetera.”

“I don’t want your house!”

“Too bad! It’s already been transferred into your name, and the property taxes are covered until you sell or die!”

Now we’re both yelling.

A knock on the driver’s window makes us both scream. I jerk around, my heart thundering, to see a dim figure standing outside. I almost don’t recognize Charles until he bends forward and I see his grin. The short, sharp haircut he’s maintained for years is gone, replaced by longish, messy brown locks. He’s also rocking a badass beard.

I roll down my window. “Hey there, cowboy.”

He chuckles, running a palm over his chin. “Yeah, trying a new look.”

I grin. “It suits you.”

“Thanks, sis.” He glances between Vera and me. “You two might as well come inside if you want to yell at each other. Deacon and Dad are going at it in the study, but the drawing room is free.”

I sigh. “Off to a good start this holiday, are we?”

He snickers. “All we’re missing is you throwing a wreath at Sebastian’s head. Just don’t take the one on the front door. Nona made it.”

I cut a look at Vera, whose expression is twisted between mirth and horror.

“Yes,” I answer her unspoken question, “it’s always like this. Vera, Charles. Charles, Vera.”

Charles nods. “Nice to meet you, Vera.” He tugs a lock of my hair. “Welcome home, sis. Open the trunk, I’ll get your bags.”

I turn off the car.

“Welcome home,” I whisper.

* * *

After we freshen up in our rooms upstairs, I deposit Vera in the kitchen with Nona, who’s all too happy to welcome another female into the testosterone overloaded house. Swiping a cooling cookie from a rack, I tell them I’ll be back in a bit, then head down the hallway toward my father’s study.

As I approach, I hear Deacon and my father’s low tones. Whatever the argument was, it’s over. Stopping outside, I finish my cookie and wipe my palms on my jeans.

“I wouldn’t, Candy.”

Adrenaline floods my body as I spin toward the familiar, much-dreamed-of voice. Standing at the fork in the hallway leading to the garage and game rooms is Sebastian, one hip propped on the wall, arms crossed as he watches me.

Much to my disappointment, the visceral impact of his presence is undiluted by our time apart. My belly flutters alarmingly, my heart pounds, and my breathing goes shallow. In dark jeans and an olive-green sweater, he looks perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect. His hair has grown out to its usual, tousled length, and he’s put back on the weight he lost for his role.

I want to run into his arms.

I want to run away screaming.

Flustered, I take comfort in old, combative patterns. “Why are you lurking?”

He doesn’t smile, his dark eyes narrowed as they dissect me. “What’s so important that you’re braving the lion’s den before dinner?”

My internal panic alarm starts wailing. “What? Nothing. I just wanted to say hello. I didn’t, uh, leave on great terms.”

“You’re a horrible actor,” he says, pushing off the wall and striding toward me. “You look good. Healthy. How’ve you been?”

I glance behind him, like any second his super-hot girlfriend is going to slink around the corner in a designer cocktail dress. Alex gave me the heads-up that Sebastian was bringing her, presumably so I wouldn’t embarrass myself. I told him I didn’t give a shit, then hung up on him.

“I’m great, thanks. You?”

Sebastian frowns. “I’m fine.” He glances at the office door. “Really, why are you going in there? We all know it’s their ritual to yell about politics and their investment portfolios the night before Thanksgiving.”

He’s right. But there’s no way I’ll admit my reason for seeking them out. “It’s nothing—not important. So, where’s the girlfriend?”

A smile twitches his mouth. “There is no girlfriend.”

“What?” I shake my muddled head. He’s standing too close to me. It’s overwhelming. Too much heat and muscle and enticing scent and smooth olive skin. Flustered, I take a step back.

He takes another step forward.

“Bast, what the hell?”

“We need to talk. Your room or mine?”

* * *

Never in my adult life have I run away from someone out of cowardice. As in physically turned around and booked it in the middle of a conversation. Albeit, the exchange between Sebastian and me hadn’t felt like a conversation. More like an interrogation. Intimidation. Impending conflagration.

Whatever Sebastian wanted to talk about, the look in his eyes instantly regressed me twenty years, to when fight or flight were perfectly logical responses to adolescent discomfort.

My feet fly over wood and carpet. I don’t stop running until I’m back in the kitchen. Vera and Nona turn from the stove, both of them gaping at me like I’m seconds from a meltdown. Maybe I am. At the very least, I look the part, my face flushed and breath rasping.

“Tesoro mio, what on earth is wrong?”

My wide eyes swing to Nona, then to Charles, who sits on a stool at the island munching on carrot sticks. His brows lift, hazel eyes widening.

I abruptly change my plans.

“Charles, I need to talk to you right now.” When he doesn’t move, I repeat, “Right now. Please.”

“Okay, sure.” He tosses a half-eaten carrot to the counter and slips off his stool, walking quickly to me.

I offer Nona and Vera a quick and false, “Everything’s fine,” before grabbing my brother’s arm and pulling him from the room.

As we walk upstairs and down a hallway, I’m not certain of my destination until the destination appears before us—our mother’s art studio. Yanking open the door, I flip the light switch, pull Charles inside, and close and lock the door behind us.

“You’re making me nervous, Candace.”

As soon as I look at him, I know this is the right decision, if a completely selfish one. Charles may have a reputation as the most even-tempered of us, but it’s because his inner strength is fathoms deep. In many ways, he held our family together after Mom died. Whether he was playing the role of court jester, mediator, or simply being his strong, silent, and dependable self, he was never given due credit for putting his own grief on the back burner to keep us afloat.

“You know you’re the rock of this family, right?” I ask softly.

His brow pinches. “What’s going on?”

So I give him my burden—the burden of truth.

“I might have breast cancer.”