Page 82 of Silence and Surrender

Cooper was quiet for a moment, studying me with uncomfortable intensity. The scotch he poured was the good stuff, an eighteen-year-old Macallan he saved for serious conversations. The crystal glasses caught afternoon light from his study windows, casting amber shadows on the antique desk between us.

“How do I help?” The question felt inadequate. “How do I make this right?”

“You don’t.” Cooper moved to pour us both scotch. “You just love her. Support her. Wait.”

“I’m not good at waiting.”

“No.” His smile was wry. “Neither of us are. But some things are worth waiting for.”

The scotch burned, but not enough to ease the ache in my chest. The need to fix this. To protect her. To make everything right.

I wanted to voice my fear to Cooper, but putting it into words seemed like a bad omen. But internally, my head swam. Did she pull away because she no longer wanted me? Was she mad that I hadn’t saved her? That I wasn’t quick enough, or smart enough when it truly mattered? Did she look at me and just see the evidence of my shortcomings?

Through the study’s open windows, I could hear Clara in the garden, her voice carrying clearly in the warm afternoon air. My niece was singing in French, a lullaby Allegra had taught her. The sound wrapped around us like another kind of memory, a reminder of what family meant. Of what healing could look like.

The vineyard stretched beyond her, neat rows of vines marching towards distant hills. Everything growing according to plan. But even here, wildflowers sprouted between the rows, bright splashes of color against the vines. Like Isabella’s strength. Like love itself.

“She thinks she has to be strong all the time,” I said, watching the light play through aged scotch. “Has to be perfect.”

“Like someone else I know?” Cooper’s voice carried that knowing tone that had irritated and comforted me since childhood. He settled deeper into his leather chair—the one that had been our father’s, worn smooth by generations of difficult conversations. “Sometimes the hardest thing is letting someone see you break.”

“I’ve seen her break.” The memory of finding her in that cell still haunted me. “Seen her put herself back together.”

“No.” He leaned forward, serious now. “You’ve seen her survive. Break is different. Break is letting someone catch you when you fall. Really fall.”

I thought of her in the night, when nightmares came. How she’d let me hold her then, let me see past the strong front she tried to put on.

“She’s trying so hard,” I said softly. “To be strong. To be whole.”

“Then let her try.” Cooper’s voice held wisdom. “But be there when she can’t anymore. When she’s ready to trust that falling doesn’t mean breaking.”

“You’re right.”

We were both quiet, finishing our scotch.

“You’re extra broody today,” Cooper observed after a moment, refilling our glasses. The scotch caught sunlight like liquid gold. “Even more than usual. I can practically hear you thinking.”

“Just remembering,” I said, though it was only partly true. “Before I knew about what was happening at the bank. Before Isabella. I actually thought my life was perfect.”

“Perfect isn’t real, Colton.” He gestured toward the vineyard. “Look out there. Every vine, every grape—they all have flaws. Little imperfections that give them character. That make them worth something.”

“Like us?”

“Like all of us.” He smiled slightly. “The trick isn’t being perfect. It’s finding someone who loves your particular kind of flawed.”

The study had grown darker, the afternoon light fading to evening. Soon Allegra would call us for dinner. Soon Isabella would come down, composed again. Soon we’d all pretend nothing was wrong while watching her push food around her plate.

But right now, we were just brothers sharing scotch and wisdom in a room full of memories. Just the sound of Clara’s laughter floating up from the garden. Just love, imperfect and real and worth every moment of waiting.

“I love her,” I said simply. “All of her. Even the broken parts.”

“Then tell her.” Cooper squeezed my shoulder. “When she’s ready to hear it.”

I nodded, understanding finally. Some things couldn’t be fixed. Couldn’t be protected.

Some things just had to be loved.

Chapter Thirty-Three

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