William and Jonathan exchanged a glance the mont Maximilian’s words settled into the air, sothing unspoken passing cleanly between them before it turned into the faintest hint of a smile. It wasn’t amusent, not quite, but recognition. Approval, even. Because that instinct, that imdiate, unfiltered response to soone disrespecting the woman you loved... it was one they understood intimately. It was, in many ways, expected.
And yet... There was still a line. A boundary that hadn’t been crossed.
Not yet.
Because what right did a man truly have... before he claid it?
Maximilian turned toward them, fully expecting a reprimand or at the very least, a pointed comnt about overstepping. But neither of them spoke. They simply watched him, their silence asured, waiting—not to correct him, but to hear what he would say next.
He exhaled, slow and controlled, as if grounding himself before stepping forward into sothing more deliberate.
"I left it at a warning," he said, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering, "only because I haven’t proposed yet." There was the faintest shift in his expression then, sothing darker, more certain. "Once she says yes, I’ll—"
"We know," William and Jonathan said at the sa ti.
That did it.
That was the line they had been waiting for, not dominance, not impulse, but intention. Not a man reacting in the mont, but one who understood the weight of what he was claiming, and chose it anyway.
This... This was acceptable.
They had already done their part, of course. Quietly. Thoroughly. Alexander had been asked to look into Maximilian, to uncover anything that might be hidden beneath the surface. It wasn’t distrust, not entirely; it was caution. The kind that ca from loving Catherine enough to ensure that the man beside her was worthy of the place he intended to take.
And once that was cleared... There would be no more barriers.
Maximilian let out a quiet breath, though his thoughts had already drifted sowhere far less strategic and far more... personal. These n, William and Jonathan, were easily his uncle’s age. n he would, under any other circumstance, stand a respectful distance from.
And yet, if he married Catherine... They would be his equals in the Preston family.
The thought was strange enough on its own, but what followed it nearly made him pause.
Would their grandchildren call him Grandpa?
His expression almost shifted before he caught himself.
Because they all called Catherine Gigi.
The image lingered just long enough to feel absurd, and then he forced it aside, refocusing as the conversation shifted once more, this ti returning to sothing far more pressing.
Dorian.
The na alone carried weight now, threaded with a danger none of them were willing to underestimate.
"I’ll protect her with everything I have," Maximilian said, and this ti there was no edge of humor, no lightness—just quiet, unwavering certainty.
William nodded once, accepting the statent for what it was.
Jonathan, however, studied him for a mont longer before asking, "You’re going to propose to Catherine?"
Maximilian didn’t hesitate.
He nodded. "I love her. I want to spend the rest of my life with her."
There was no embellishnt. No attempt to impress.
Just truth.
Jonathan stilled for a brief mont, sothing thoughtful flickering across his face. Conviction like that wasn’t sothing he saw often, not from n Maximilian’s age. Not without hesitation, without doubt woven sowhere beneath it.
He found that he liked it.
But conviction alone wasn’t enough.
"You’re a professor in ridon," Jonathan said after a pause, his tone shifting—not confrontational, but grounded, practical. "And if Cathy decides to settle here, especially once the lab is built..." He let the thought linger before finishing, "Have the two of you talked about it?"
It wasn’t pressure. Not quite. But it was a necessary question, because love, no matter how certain, still had to survive reality.
Maximilian went quiet.
Not because he didn’t have an answer, but because, for the first ti in a long ti, he realized he didn’t.
He had planned for this. For her. For them. For years, longer than he cared to admit. Every version of his future had included Catherine, woven into it so seamlessly that he had never once questioned the foundation it stood on.
In his mind, it had always been simple. They would both settle in ridon. That was the life he had built. The life he had been waiting to share with her.
But now...
That certainty felt... incomplete.
It no longer felt fair, or realistic.
"We need to talk about it," he said finally.
It wasn’t uncertainty. It was acknowledgnt.
Jonathan nodded once, satisfied, not with the answer itself, but with the fact that Maximilian understood the question behind it.
-----
Inside, Catherine watched quietly as Sammy gathered herself piece by fragile piece, the storm of her emotions slowly retreating into sothing more contained, more controlled. The tears hadn’t fully stopped, but they had softened—no longer violent, no longer breaking her apart from the inside. There was a steadiness returning to her posture, a quiet effort to reclaim herself after everything that had just been torn open.
"I understand, Aunt Cathy..." Sammy said at last, her voice hoarse but clear enough. "I wouldn’t have believed my dad even if he told the truth."
Catherine nodded, her gaze gentle, knowing there was nothing to argue there. Love had a way of distorting reality, of wrapping lies in sothing that felt too real to question. It wasn’t foolishness. It was... trust, misplaced in the worst possible way.
And in that mont, Catherine couldn’t help but see the reflection.
A different ti. A different life.
But the sa kind of fall.
There had been a ti when she, too, had loved like that—completely, blindly, without leaving room for doubt. And when it shattered, she hadn’t stayed to question it, hadn’t stayed to listen. She had turned away, choosing pride over pain, silence over confrontation.
She hadn’t realized then that silence could destroy just as thoroughly.
That not knowing could beco a prison.
At least Sammy... Sammy had been caught before she could fall too far.
Billy had dragged her back into the safety of family, into a space where she was watched, grounded, protected. The ranch, her father’s supervision, the constant presence of people who cared—it had kept her from unraveling completely, even if she hadn’t known why at the ti.
Catherine exhaled slowly, her fingers resting lightly against Sammy’s arm.
"Do you want to et him?" she asked, her voice careful, asured.
It wasn’t an easy question.
And it wasn’t a casual one either.
Catherine knew what it ant to walk away without answers. To let anger seal every door before truth had a chance to step through. It preserved dignity and ego, yes, but it left sothing unfinished, sothing that lingered long after the mont had passed.
She didn’t want that for Sammy.
Didn’t want her to carry ghosts she could have laid to rest.
But Sammy didn’t hesitate.
She shook her head almost imdiately, a sharp, almost incredulous sound escaping her.
"Did you see his current picture, Aunt?" she said, her lips curling faintly despite the remnants of tears. "He’s balding and looks... rotten."
Catherine blinked.
"I don’t want to talk to him," Sammy continued, her voice gaining strength now, sothing fiercer threading through it. "I don’t want to give him that. I know it eats him, knowing I’m not visiting him. His narcissistic ass must be boiling inside thinking I don’t care about him."
There was a pause—just long enough for the weight of her words to settle.
"Let him suffer more."
Catherine stared at her for a mont.
And then, she laughed, softly, but genuinely, the sound slipping out before she could stop it.
"Alright," she said, shaking her head slightly, sothing warm easing into her expression. "Fair enough."
Because this... This wasn’t avoidance or denial. This was clarity.
The truth hadn’t broken Sammy. It had freed her.
And for that, Catherine was quietly grateful.
"But, Sammy," she added after a mont, her tone shifting just slightly, sothing more teasing slipping in, "the best way to get back at him... is to find real love."
Sammy snorted, the sound half-amused, half incredulous. "Look who suddenly beca an expert on dating," she shot back, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
For a brief mont, the heaviness lifted.
But then she grew quiet again, her expression turning thoughtful, as if sothing had just occurred to her.
"Does your Professor Moosemilian have any friends?" she asked casually.
Catherine stiffened.
"What?" she said, her brows drawing together. "Why are you saying his na like that?"
There was a distinct edge to her tone now.
Because if there was anyone allowed to butcher Maximilian’s na... It was her.
And her alone.
Sammy rolled her eyes, the last remnants of her earlier grief now tucked away behind sothing lighter, sothing more familiar. "Fine... can I call him Uncle then?" she asked, her tone deliberately innocent, though the glint in her eyes said otherwise.
Catherine stilled.
She knew exactly what that ant.
It wasn’t just teasing. It wasn’t just Sammy being Sammy. There was an implication in it—a quiet acknowledgnt, a step forward, a place being offered to Maximilian within the family in a way that hadn’t been spoken aloud until now.
And despite everything, despite the caution she carried from a life that no longer existed, despite the mories that should have made her hesitate, her heart still betrayed her.
It skipped.
Soft.
Unsteady.
Hopeful.
She should have been more careful. She knew that. She knew better than to let sothing as fragile as happiness settle so easily into her chest. But it ca anyway, uninvited and undeniable.
"At least he’s older than you," Catherine said, masking it with composure, though her voice held the faintest warmth. "It’ll be easier."
Sammy laughed, the sound freer now, less weighed down. "So, does Uncle have any friends?" she pressed, leaning back slightly, mischief fully restored. "Single and ready to mingle?"
Catherine shook her head, already dismissing the idea. "If you like n who are aristocratic, pale, and sll like cigars," she said dryly.
Sammy’s face twisted imdiately. "That sounds like a horror story," she muttered, visibly cringing at the ntal image.
But the humor didn’t linger.
Not this ti.
Because sothing shifted in her expression, subtle but unmistakable. The playfulness faded, replaced by sothing quieter. Sothing more careful.
"Are you happy, Aunt?" she asked.
The question landed softly.
But it didn’t feel soft.
For a mont, Catherine didn’t answer.
Didn’t even move.
Because it wasn’t a simple question, not for her.
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