Chapter 1

Mandy

I was excellent at goodbye—I'd perfected the art when my parents divorced, refined it through college boyfriends, and mastered it in corporate law—but standing at Tara's graveside, I realize I've never learned how to say goodbye to the only person who'd ever loved me unconditionally.

The October wind whips through Riverside Cemetery, and I adjust my grip on the baby in my arms while trying to keep my black dress from flying up. Emma whimpers against my chest, her tiny fist clutching the pearl necklace Nana Grace gave me for law school graduation. Six months old and already she has Tara's stubborn grip, though her eyes are pure Jake—that startling blue that seems to see right through you.

"She needs her bottle," a low voice says from directly across the grave, and my spine stiffens automatically at the familiar timbre. Mason Cole stands there looking like he stepped out of a magazine spread on "Gorgeously Grieving Celebrity Chefs," because apparently even funeral attire bends to his will. His black suit fits him perfectly, of course, emphasizing broad shoulders that I definitely don't notice. His dark hair catches the light despite the overcast sky, and those ridiculous green eyes hold genuine sorrow that makes me want to throw something at him.

"She just ate an hour ago," I inform him coolly, shifting Emma to my other hip with the efficiency of someone who's read exactly three parenting books in the last seventy-two hours. "Babies her age typically feed every three to four hours."

His jaw tightens—a movement I track purely for strategic purposes. "She makes that sound when she's hungry. Jake mentioned it in..." He stops, swallowing hard, and for a moment, the mask of the cocky chef everyone adores slips.

"In what?" The question bubbles up before I can stop it.

"In his letters." Mason's voice drops lower, rougher. "He wrote me about Emma. About how Tara would sing to her, and how she only likes the organic formula from that place on Eighth Street."

My throat closes. Tara never told me about Emma. My sister, who shared everything from her first kiss to her failed attempts at sourdough during lockdown, kept an entire baby secret. The betrayal stings almost as much as the loss.

"Ms. Williams? Mr. Cole?" Gregory Hartman, the estate attorney, approaches with the careful steps of someone navigating a minefield. He's been practicing law for forty years, but something in his expression suggests he's never had to deliver news quite like this. "If we could speak privately for a moment? There are matters regarding Tara and Jake's will that require immediate attention."

Mason and I exchange glances—a mistake, because looking directly at him has always been like staring at the sun. Even through my grief, my body remembers that this is the man who once made me so furious at a charity gala that I dumped an entire glass of champagne over his head. He'd laughed, green eyes sparkling with challenge, and said I'd just wasted a perfectly good vintage.

"Can't this wait?" I ask Gregory, though my legal training already knows the answer. Estate matters move on their own timeline, grief be damned.

"I'm afraid not." He gestures toward the parking lot where a black Town Car idles. "There are custody arrangements that need immediate clarification."

The word 'custody' hits me like ice water. I look down at Emma, who's now contentedly gumming her fist, and my arms tighten instinctively. "What custody arrangements? I'm her aunt. Her only family now that..."

"That's what we need to discuss," Gregory says gently.

Twenty minutes later, I'm sitting in Gregory's office, Emma balanced on my lap while I try to process words that make no legal sense. Mason occupies the chair beside me, his presence taking up too much space, too much air. He's rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing forearms marked with the occupational hazards of his profession—a burn scar here, a faded cut there. Chef's hands, Tara used to say with a laugh. She'd always insisted Mason wasn't as bad as I claimed.

"Joint guardianship," I repeat for the third time, as if saying it again will change the meaning. "You're telling me that my sister, who knew I've been preparing for partnership for three years, who knew my five-year plan down to the month, decided to saddle me with joint custody with him?" I don't look at Mason, but I feel him tense beside me.

Gregory slides a document across his mahogany desk. "Tara and Jake were quite specific in their wishes. They felt that Emma would benefit from having both of you in her life. The will stipulates joint custody, with both guardians required to live in the same residence to maintain custody rights."

The room tilts. "Live together? That's... that's not legal. You can't force cohabitation as a custody requirement."

"Actually," Mason says, "you can. Private guardianship arrangements allow for specific conditions as long as they serve the child's best interests."

I turn to stare at him. "And you know this how?"

"I had my lawyer look into it three days ago when Gregory first called." His eyes meet mine steadily. "Unlike you, I don't assume I know everything."

"I don't assume—" Emma starts to projectile vomit directly onto my silk blouse, and I cut off mid-sentence to deal with the crisis. Without missing a beat, Mason produces a burp cloth from somewhere and starts cleaning Emma's face with practiced movements.

"Here," he says, voice softer. "Let me hold her while you..." He gestures at my ruined blouse.

"I'm fine," I snap, though I'm definitely not fine. Nothing about this is fine. My sister is dead, I'm covered in baby vomit, and now I'm apparently required to live with a man who makes my blood boil just by existing.

"There's more," Gregory says apologetically. "Jake's parents have already filed a petition challenging the guardianship arrangement."

Mason goes completely still. It's the first time I've ever seen him without motion—he's always tapping, stirring, moving. Now he's frozen, and something dark passes through his expression.

"No," he says simply. "They don't get her."

"They're claiming that an unmarried couple with no prior parenting experience—"

"We're not a couple," I interrupt.

"—can't provide the stable environment Emma needs," Gregory continues. "They've hired Wickham & Associates."

Even I recognize that name. Wickham & Associates are the sharks you call when you want to destroy someone in family court. My mind races through possibilities, strategies, legal precedents.

"How long do we have?" Mason asks.

"The initial hearing is in six weeks. They're requesting an emergency evaluation of your living situation." Gregory hesitates. "There's one more thing. Tara and Jake left video messages for both of you, to be viewed only after you'd agreed to the guardianship terms."

"And if we don't agree?" I ask.

"Then Emma goes to the next named guardians." Gregory's pause is heavy with meaning. "Richard and Helen Cole."

Mason's sharp intake of breath tells me everything I need to know about that option.

Emma reaches out suddenly, her chubby hand patting Mason's cheek before turning to grab at my ruined pearls again. For a moment, suspended between us, she laughs—a perfect, delighted sound that breaks my heart because it sounds exactly like Tara.

"I need a minute," I say, standing abruptly. "Where's your bathroom?"

Gregory directs me down the hall, and I escape with Emma still in my arms. In the pristine bathroom, I look at myself in the mirror—designer dress stained with baby vomit, makeup smudged from tears I won't admit to shedding, holding a baby I don't really know how to raise with a man I've spent a decade avoiding.

"What were you thinking, Tara?" I whisper to Emma, who responds by blowing a spit bubble. "You know I can't do this. I don't do messy. I don't do complicated. And I definitely don't do Mason Cole."

Emma's response is to reach for my face with her little hands hands, patting my cheeks with the determination of someone with something important to say. Her blue eyes are serious, focused.

"Mama," she says clearly, her first word according to the letter from Tara I haven't been able to finish reading. "Mama."

My knees nearly buckle. I sink onto the closed toilet seat, holding this tiny person who's just called me the one thing I never thought I'd be. Through the door, I hear Mason's voice, low and intense, arguing with Gregory about something. Even muffled, the sound does things to my pulse I refuse to acknowledge.

I close my eyes, trying to find the calm that's served me through hundred-million-dollar mergers and hostile takeovers. But all I can see is Tara's face the last time we talked, two weeks ago over FaceTime. She'd seemed so happy, talking about a surprise she was planning. Now I know what it was—or part of it, anyway.

A knock on the door interrupts my spiral. "Mandy?" Mason's voice is uncharacteristically gentle. "Gregory says there's something else. Something about the will that..." He pauses. "You need to hear this."

I stand, squaring my shoulders like I'm preparing for court. Emma babbles against my chest, and I pretend she's giving me strength instead of drool. When I crack open the door, Mason's standing too close, and I catch the scent of his cologne—something expensive and subtle that absolutely doesn't make my stomach flip.

"What now?" I ask, proud of how steady my voice sounds.

His green eyes search mine for a moment before he speaks. "There's a clause. If we want to keep Emma, we don't just have to live together." He rakes a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that should look ridiculous but doesn't. "We have to get married."

The words hang suspended between us like a challenge, and I hear myself laugh—a sharp, disbelieving sound. "Married. To you."

"Within six months," he confirms. "Or custody automatically transfers to my parents."

I look down at Emma, who's now contentedly playing with my ruined pearls, then back at Mason. His jaw is tight, his hands clenched at his sides, and for the entire time since I've known him, he looks genuinely afraid.

"Your parents," I repeat slowly. "The ones Jake specifically didn't want raising his daughter."

"The ones who made his life hell," Mason confirms grimly. "The ones who—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter. What matters is keeping Emma safe."

Gregory appears behind Mason, holding a tablet. "Perhaps you should watch Tara's message now," he suggests gently. "It might help clarify their reasoning."

But I'm still processing the marriage requirement, my legal mind spinning through the implications. "This is insane. We can't just get married because a will says so. We can barely stand to be in the same room together."

Mason's eyes flash with something I can't identify. "Can't we?"

Before I can respond, Emma reaches out both arms, one toward Mason and one toward me, bringing us closer together. Her message is clear—she wants both of us.

"Mama," she says again, then looks at Mason. "Dada."

Mason's sharp exhale matches mine.

"Well," he says roughly, "I guess that settles it."

I look at him—really look at him. Past the magazine-cover good looks and the cocky exterior to the man underneath who's just lost his brother and is fighting to honor his wishes. The man who produced a burp cloth like magic and knew exactly which formula Emma prefers.

"I guess it does," I hear myself say, even as my rational mind screams in protest.

Gregory clears his throat. "Shall we review the full terms then? There's quite a bit more to discuss, including the financial provisions and the requirements for the marriage itself."

As we follow him back to the office, Mason's hand brushes the small of my back—a gesture so brief I might have imagined it if not for the heat that lingers.

"For what it's worth," he says quietly, "I know this isn't what either of us wanted. But for Emma..."

"For Emma," I agree, holding the baby tighter.

Behind us, the October wind rattles the windows, and I swear I hear Tara's laughter in it—delighted and slightly wicked, like she's pulled off the ultimate prank.

Trust my sister to manage my life from beyond the grave. And trust her to do it by tying me to the one man I've sworn I'd never need.

Gregory's office door closes behind us with a decisive click, sealing our fate.