Chapter 3 - The Gathering in the Great Hall
A stifled gasp rippled through the gathered guests. Tristan flinched as if Liam had physically struck him across the face. For a man whose entire identity was built on commanding respect, iron authority, and unblemished honor, being mocked by an eight-year-old child wearing an identical jawline was a lethal strike.
""Everyone inside,"" Evelyn commanded abruptly, her social armor snapping back into place through sheer sheer willpower, though her knuckles remained bone-white against her fur wrap. ""Now. Move to the Great Hall.""
The guests, recognizing a catastrophic family reckoning when they saw one, moved quickly inside, murmuring in breathless whispers that sounded like the rustling of dry leaves. Sabrina walked in alone, keeping a five-foot distance between herself and Tristan, her face flushed with humiliation.
I took Caleb and Liam by the hand, while Mason and Asher walked calmly alongside, completely unfazed by the opulence around them. Having spent their childhoods in the bustling hangars of search-and-rescue units, surrounded by rough-hewn smokejumpers and battle-tested flight medics, the gilded chandeliers, stone fireplaces, and polished mahogany of the Holloway estate did not intimidate them in the slightest.
As we stepped into the cathedral-ceilinged great room, the warmth of a massive hearth washed over us. The long banquet table was set with fine bone china, silver candelabras, and crystal glasses, designed for an intimate holiday celebration of Tristan's glorious future. Now, it felt like an echoing courtroom.
Tristan walked toward me, his movements jerky and disjointed. His superior military bearing had completely evaporated.
""Grace,"" he muttered under his breath, leaning in so the remaining guests scattered by the bar couldn't hear. ""What are you doing? What is this circus? Renting a helicopter? Dragging four random boys here to stage some deranged revenge fantasy?""
I couldn't help the small, genuine laugh that escaped my lips. Even now, staring into four mirror images of his own genetics, his pathological denial was clawing for survival.
""Random boys, Tristan?"" I asked, looking him dead in the eye. ""Look at their ears. Look at the bridge of their noses. Look at Mason’s left eyebrow, where you have that exact same slight arch. You think I spent eight years scouring the Pacific Northwest for four identical clones of you just to interrupt your Christmas dinner?""
Mason stepped forward, pulling his gloves off with deliberate care, revealing small, steady hands. He looked up at the towering officer with an analytical calmness that had unsettled schoolteachers and flight mechanics alike.
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""My name is Mason Holloway,"" my oldest son said clearly, his voice echoing against the high wooden beams. ""This is Caleb, Asher, and Liam. We were born on September 14th at Saint Luke’s Regional Medical Center in Boise. Our birth certificates list Tristan Holloway as our father. If you need a swab for your DNA kit, Mom brought sterile cotton tips in her purse.""
A collective murmur exploded across the room. Several older officers in the corner shook their heads in utter disbelief. Tristan staggered backward against an ornate side table, a silver punch bowl rattling behind him.
