"You want them here? Fine—then ask the man who raised you, not me." Riley said it flat, and when Lucas moved to take the phone from the table she slapped his hand away like it was a fly. He blinked as if slapped, not with pain but with the stunned outrage of a man who thought he owned everyone in the room. "Riley—" "Don't do that," she said. "Don't do that look where you act like I'm the problem because you forgot to grow a spine." Evan sat on the couch between them, knees pulled up, a teenager who'd learned early that loud was safest. "Dad, they want to sell the house in Riverside. Grandma's doctor said she can't be alone. They can stay for a while—just until the recovery. Please?" Lucas curled his fingers like he was smoothing an invisible tie. "It's about duty. You of all people should understand duty—our parents—" Riley laughed. Short. Dangerous. "You want them here to save face, Lucas. To prove to your neighbors you didn't abandon them when Sterling crashed the dinner at Mariner Heights? This isn't charity. This is optics. You want an audience." Silence fell three beats. In that space Evan's pleading got small. Lucas's jaw worked. "They're old," Lucas said finally. "They need help." "Then ask the man who raised you." Her voice was a blade wrapped in silk. "Ask him to book a flight