The heavy rain outside tapped a frantic rhythm against the frosted glass of the faded blue door, but inside Solana Rivera’s kitchen, the silence was thick enough to suffocate.

The rain had stopped by late afternoon, leaving the Seattle streets gleaming under a pale, watery sun. Colton left Maris in the car with strict instructions not to return to Vale Spire without him, while he stayed behind in the apartment to help Solana and Junie settle.

He watched as Solana coaxed Junie into taking a nap in the small back bedroom, her movements slow and deliberate, masking the exhaustion that clung to her bones.

When Solana walked back into the living room, Colton was standing by the window, staring out at the grey skyline.

“Talk to me, Solana,” Colton said without turning around. “What secret did my mother bury?”

Solana sighed, sinking into the armchair and pulling a knitted blanket over her lap. “Sit down, Colton. It’s a long story, and it’s going to hurt.”

Colton pulled up a wooden chair and sat directly opposite her, his hands clasped between his knees.

“Twenty years ago,” Solana began, her voice steadying as she gathered her memories, “your father, Richard Vale, didn't die of a sudden heart attack like the public and the press were told. He died because he discovered your mother was systematically embezzling from the family trust to fund her political ambitions and high-society standing.”

Colton’s breath hitched. “My mother... embezzled?”

“She was drowning in debt, Colton. High-society life is an expensive illusion,” Solana explained bitterly. “Your father found the offshore account statements in his study safe. He threatened to divorce her, strip her of her status, and leave her with nothing. That very night, he suffered a fatal ‘heart attack’ while working late in his private study. And I was the one who walked in two minutes after it happened.”

The room seemed to spin. Colton stared at Solana, the immaculate image of his late mother—the philanthropist, the grieving widow, the pillar of Seattle society—shattering into a million jagged pieces.

“You were there?” Colton whispered.

“I walked in to drop off his evening tea,” Solana said, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I saw your mother standing over his desk. I saw the empty glass of medicine on the tray. And I saw her face when she realized I had witnessed it.”

Colton felt a cold sweat break out across his neck. “Why didn't you go to the police?”

“Because,” Solana said, her voice breaking, “before I could run, your mother pulled a pistol from her desk drawer. She didn't point it at me. She pointed a framed photograph of you—you were eight years old, playing in the courtyard—and she told me that if I whispered a single word to the authorities, to a doctor, or to anyone else, she would ensure you were sent away to a brutal boarding school in the Swiss Alps, completely isolated, until the day you turned eighteen.”

Colton gripped the edges of his chair so hard his knuckles turned white.

“She used me,” he breathed, his voice trembling with a terrifying, suppressed rage. “She used me as a hostage to keep you quiet.”

“She did,” Solana nodded. “She gave me twenty-four hours to pack my bags, threatened to ruin my family if I ever tried to contact you, and threw me out onto the street with nothing. I had to change my name, hide in plain sight, and start over from scratch.”

“And Junie?” Colton asked, his voice barely audible. “Where does Junie fit into all of this?”