🪶Disclaimer: 🪶 This is a fictional narrative. All characters, events, and settings are entirely imagined—though loosely inspired by a heavily modded save in The Sims 4, extensively customized to behave and appear as realistically as feasible, with enhanced visuals, nuanced social dynamics, and detailed world-building that mirror real human complexity.

If you’re a Simmer, you might recognize the location names and emotional beats. If you’re not, you’ll still find your way—no prior knowledge required. Everything you need to know lives inside this blog.

This story is for anyone who’s ever rebuilt their life from the ashes and dared to write new chapters. For those who crave storylines that think outside the usual boxes—and for anyone who knows that sometimes, the most powerful myths are the ones we make ourselves.

Main Character Biographies

Victoria Sinclair– Author. Painter. Survivor. Mother-to-be. Fifty, born in Windenburg, lived most of her live in Oasis Springs, now residing in Unit 3B of the Montfort Court Rowhouses in Henfordshire. Formerly Anna V. Thompson—shed her married name and original first name in court, reclaiming her maiden name and middle name as a sovereign rebirth. Curates legacy through oil and ink. Known for emotionally intelligent portraiture and mythic storytelling. Light eyes that shift between blue, gray, and green.

Alder Davenport– Poet. Roommate. Legacy in hiding. Father-to-be. Mysterious. Early forties, Henfordshire-born, sharing Unit 3B with Victoria Sinclair. Gentle, emotionally fluent, and quietly observant. Writes in fragments and silence. The only person Victoria trusts to read her raw entries. Chocolate brown eyes, steady and warm.

Cesare Vannucci – The Master. Keeper. Sovereign of silence. The power behind the Hollow—and above it. Ageless and archaic, with a presence that bends time and memory alike. His voice carries weight; his silences, decree. Known for restraint, precision, and unnerving calm. When he speaks, even truth feels curated. He does not rule with spectacle. He does not need to. His authority is the kind that others feel before they understand.

Riordan Hargrave – Steward. Cipher. The man beside the throne. Handsome and charming but bears the gravity of someone who’s seen too much. Trusted by Cesare to handle delicate matters. Moves like silk through shadow. His loyalty is quiet, his wisdom louder.

Caelan Vannucci – Hunter. Provocateur. Dangerous presence. Longsword in a tailored coat, with a voice like a growl and eyes that never soften. Known for his volatility and flair for violence. Tracks what others can’t find. Leaves fear in his wake and never apologizes. Stillness is his weapon. Most have never seen him smile.

Scarlett Cameron (nee Vannucci) – Daughter of one legend and married to another. Mystery. Grace with a pulse. She straddles two worlds: the quiet rituals of the Hollow her father rules over and the spotlight her husband summons like a storm. Fame doesn’t chase her—it circles, curious. And when she steps into it, she wears it like silk. Appears early thirties, silver-eyed and unreadable. Married to Blaine, mother of many. Known for her elegance and emotional fluency. She speaks softly, but her presence rewrites the room. She is not the echo of Blaine’s legend. She is its counterpoint.

Blaine Cameron – Rockstar. Wild card. Chaos incarnate. Appears late-thirties. Married to Scarlett, father of eight. Charismatic, vulgar, and unapologetically theatrical. Known for his irreverence and magnetic unpredictability. Leaves Victoria stunned, amused, and horrified—often all at once.

Branwen Vannucci – Matriarch. Watcher. Shadow stitched in silk. Ageless beauty. Wife to Cesare, mother of Scarlett and Caelan. Ocean-blue eyes, voice like velvet restraint. Speaks rarely, but when she does, the room listens. Her silence is never empty.

Rhiannon Vannucci (nee O’Cavanaugh) – Caelan’s ex-and-once-again wife. Enigma. Ethereal beauty with a bite. Pale blonde hair, violet-blue eyes. Married to Caelan, creating a yin-yang couple dynamic. Quiet, angelic, poised, and unreadable. Her presence is soft but charged—like a storm held in a teacup. She doesn’t need words to unsettle.

The Shift I Didn’t Expect

Mood: Late summer haze clings to my skin like memory—thick, slow, and golden. My studio smells of strong coffee and herbal tea, a strange but oddly sacred blend. The coffee is mine, of course—dark, deliberate, with just enough milk to hit that perfect caramel shade. It’s my weapon of choice against too much real life. The tea is Alder’s—steeped with reverence, usually chamomile or fennel, depending on the emotional weather.

Waistbands are getting tighter, a gentle reminder of the life blooming inside me. My body is shifting, and so is everything else. Alder’s voice drifts through the room again—low, amused, and always a little too knowing, like he’s reading the footnotes of my soul.

Update: I Know, I Know… I’ve Been Quiet

I owe you an apology. I haven’t blogged in weeks. Or has it been months? Time’s been slippery lately—like trying to hold water in cupped hands. Between commissions piling up, a few surprise interviews, and the small matter of being pregnant at fifty, I’ve barely had time to breathe, let alone write.

I used to write these former journal entries like blog posts—making them half confession, half performance. A way to make sense of things by pretending someone else might read them. A way to make an income. But now? So much has changed and that feels wrong. Too exposed. Too curated. This isn’t something I can shape for an audience. It’s not ink and insight anymore. It’s breath and blood and silence. So I’m writing this for me. Just me. And maybe him. And for anyone who wants to take part on my wild ride.

I spilled gesso on a half-finished canvas and cried for twenty minutes. Alder just watched, then handed me a cookie and said, “You’re gonna be okay. You’re just leaking art.”

My OB called me “a miracle wrapped in stubbornness.” I told her I preferred “feral goddess.” She didn’t laugh. Alder did.

Alder and Me

Alder and I… we’re a thing with no name. It started as a practical arrangement. He needed a quiet place to write, preferably alone. I needed a roof. Our landlady made us roommates. But somewhere between shared groceries and overlapping playlists, we became something else.

Obviously—seeing how I’m carrying his child—even though we haven’t touched each other like that since that night. The one neither of us fully remembers. There’s been an occasional awkward kiss, but we’re both too overwhelmed to explore it further.

He’s not my partner in the traditional sense. But he’s more than a friend. And not even one with benefits, aside from that one drunken night. There’s a rhythm to us now. A pulse. He sleeps beside me sometimes, though I’m not sure he ever truly rests. He hums when I paint. He reads my drafts and scribbles in the margins: “This metaphor bleeds too clean. Let it bruise.”

We haven’t defined it. We don’t need to. He’s present in quiet ways—refilling my cup, adjusting my pillows, whispering things I don’t always understand but somehow feel. He’s watching me change. Not just physically, but creatively. Emotionally. There’s a shift happening, and he’s attuned to it in ways I can’t quite name.

On the case of Gavin …

My initial crush on Gavin fizzled out. He’s still visually delicious—like a painting you admire but wouldn’t hang in your home. But the way he handled everything? Cringe.

Gavin tried to “check in” after ghosting me for two almost months. I told him I was pregnant—mostly out of courtesy, as if it weren’t obvious in the tight-fitting top I was wearing. He asked if it was his. I laughed so hard I nearly choked on my coffee. He wasn’t amused. Possibly insulted. When I said it’s Alder’s child, he bolted. I called my thoughts after him in an admittedly very unladylike fashion; he called back, “You should talk to Alder about that.” Then, quieter: “I can’t be part of this. Not anymore. Ask him why. There are solid reasons.” Yeah. Right. Classic.

I did ask Alder. He blinked, looked away, and said, “Gavin’s dramatic. You know that.” But he wouldn’t meet my eyes. Wouldn’t explain. And now I can’t stop wondering what Gavin knows that I don’t.

We’re done. Officially. I didn’t even cry. Just deleted his contact and painted over the last canvas with a sketch of him. Not a commission—just something I’d made for myself. I don’t want it anymore.

Alder watched me do it and said, “Closure is a myth. But destruction? That’s honest.”

Reality Check

Something’s coming. Not in a dramatic, thunderclap way—but in the subtle rearrangement of my days. My body feels like it’s preparing for something more than birth. I couldn’t name it then. Still can’t. But I now know my gut feeling was onto something. I’ll tell you everything. Just not yet.

Anyhow, pregnant or not, life didn’t pause. Bills didn’t vanish. Debt didn’t dissolve. So I kept working.

Most commissions were low-key, but once Baroness Clara sent me to paint her daughter—the queen consort of Windenburg—big names started trickling in. Pressure mounted. I don’t have a fallback. No trust fund. No partner, not really. Alder is here because he chooses to be, but there’s a certain aloofness. No safety net. Just this work—this art, this writing, this fragile little empire I built from ink and stubbornness. And now, more than ever, I need it to hold.

I need my clients happy. My commissions booked. My blog relevant. Because while I haven’t dared look too far past delivery, I know raising a child won’t be cheap. This baby will be my responsibility until I’m nearly seventy. Oh dear Lord. Heaven help.

Alder says I’m doing too much. He’s probably right. But I don’t know how to stop. Not yet.

Taken

We’d just left the hospital. Another check-up. When you get yourself knocked up at my biblical age, they schedule a lot of those—and you keep every single one. They do a fine job scaring you straight with all the things that can go wrong. Everything was fine—just a bit anemic and a lot exhausted. I could’ve diagnosed that myself.

Alder went ahead to grab something from the pharmacy—iron supplements, the prescription kind, not the over-the-counter stuff I’d already been choking down. “Borderline anemic,” they said, like it was a cliff I hadn’t quite fallen off. Alder told me to go on home and rest, he’d get the supplement and then join me. I didn’t argue. I needed the air. And the rest. And to get off my feet. They hurt. And I wasn’t even that pregnant yet. I dreaded what this would feel like once I was hauling around a full-sized bump in the home stretch.

It was cold. Mist clung to the pavement like breath held too long. The kind of damp that seeps into your sleeves and makes your bones feel older than they are. The street was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that feels watched.

Even my footsteps sounded wrong—too loud, too alone. I caught the scent of something sweet, faint and misplaced. Like flowers left out of season. Like rot dressed up as perfume.

Then it happened.

A blur. A rush. A sound like wind being sucked through a tunnel. Hands—cold, hard, inhumanly strong—clamped around me. One arm around my waist. The other pinning my arms. I screamed.

Alder turned just in time. His eyes went wide—shock, horror, something primal. He bolted toward us, shouting my name. But his voice fractured in the air, echoing strangely, as if pulled apart by the same force unraveling the world around me.

The world twisted. My vision blurred. The air felt like it had been pulled inside out. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t scream again.

And then—stone.

The Castle

I stepped into a grand receiving hall. Vaulted ceilings arched overhead, frescoes softened by time but lovingly preserved. Iron sconces lined the walls, their flames flickering in polished holders, casting shadows that danced with quiet reverence.

The floor beneath me was pale limestone, worn smooth by generations of footsteps. It held a muted sheen—not from neglect, but from care. The chill in the stone wasn’t decay. It was legacy.

I took it all in quickly—the architecture, the furniture, the air itself. It felt impossibly old, impossibly intact. A Renaissance castle, maybe. Florence? Somewhere like it. But how? All those books and movies with protagonists falling back in time came to mind and my heart skipped a beat.

Then my smartwatch beeped—a calendar reminder. The screen lit up, bright and familiar. Full bars. I blinked. Glanced around. There, tucked discreetly near the base of a column, was an outlet. Modern. Functional. Real.

I was still in 2025. Still here. Just somewhere ancient that refused to die.

Even the paintings—massive, oil-rich portraits in gilded frames—didn’t merely hang. They watched. Their eyes followed me not with menace, but with memory. Like they’d seen this moment before. Like they’d been waiting.

I turned. The man who brought me here stood a few steps behind like a statue—towering, broad-shouldered, carved from shadow. His black leather coat caught the light like armor, and his braided hair fell over one shoulder like a war banner. A long scar sliced across his cheek, stark against pale skin. His eyes—silver, sharp, and unblinking—held no warmth, only calculation, only a preternatural glow. They didn’t just look at me. They measured me. Looked through me into my soul.

“Who are you? Why am I here? What is all this? How did you do that? What just happened? Where is Alder? What do you want from me?”

He grunted.

I backed away until I hit a wall.

“I want to go home!”

Another grunt. Like I’d said the dumbest thing he’d ever heard.

Then he turned and left.

I was alone. In a strange place. It felt like I’d fallen through time—backwards, into the Middle Ages. Everything here whispered it.

The Welcome

I went straight for the front door—of course I did. It was massive, carved with intricate patterns that looked older than memory itself. The kind of door that didn’t open so much as yield, reluctantly, like it remembered every soul that had tried to escape through it.
I put my hands on it and pushed. It didn’t budge. Not at first. I had to lean into it—shoulder, spine, everything I had left. It groaned open like it resented me.
Cold air rushed in. Mist curled around the threshold like it had been waiting. And there they were.
Two men stood just beyond the doorway, flanking the entrance like statues come to life. I hadn’t seen them before—hadn’t known they were there. But they had known me. Their eyes locked onto mine the moment the door opened.
They wore armor—blackened steel with high collars and layered plates, etched with symbols that shimmered faintly in the torchlight. Their gauntlets looked like they could crush bone. Their cloaks hung heavy, blood-red and trimmed in something that might’ve once been fur.
They didn’t move. Just stared. Not a blink. Not a breath. Their silence was louder than any warning.
They didn’t stop me. Not yet. But it was blatantly obvious that they wouldn’t just let me leave, either.

I took a step back, heart thudding, and glanced down the road beyond the castle gates. Fog curled around the path like smoke from an unseen fire. The air was damp, the light dim, the wind restless—like it knew something I didn’t.

Freedom shimmered somewhere out there, just barely visible. A flicker. A promise. A lie?

Could I outrun them? Should I try?

They wore armor built for war, not pursuit—blackened steel, layered and heavy. It was made to protect, not to chase. Maybe I could be faster. Maybe I could slip through the mist before they even moved.

But they hadn’t moved yet, no reaction whatsoever. And that was the worst part. It was haunting. And like a warning, daring me to try and deal with the consequences.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a voice behind me.

I turned.

The door slammed shut behind me with a finality that made my spine stiffen.

He was beautiful. Regency-era beautiful. Long, warm brown hair pulled into a low ponytail. Italian features sculpted with precision—high cheekbones, a well-groomed beard, and lips that looked like they’d been drawn by a romantic with a steady hand. His eyes—large, dreamy, dark as coal—held something else. Something unreadable. . Yet, the same preternatural sheen as the others. His voice was velvet: soft, warm, rehearsed.

And he smelled good. Not modern cologne, but something older—ambergris and bergamot, a whisper of tobacco leaf, and the faintest trace of parchment and rosewater. The kind of scent that clung to letters sealed with wax. The kind that made you think of candlelit salons and secrets traded in whispers.

“My apologies for startling you,” he said. “Welcome to Castello di Vannucci. Vannucci Castle.”

He extended his hand with the grace of a dancer. I reached to shake it, but instead he brushed an implied kiss across my knuckles. I watched him—scared, spellbound.

“Who are you? Why am I here? I don’t know you.”

He smiled—polished, practiced, but not quite warm.

“How rude of me. I am Riordan Hargrave. I was born a Vannucci, but I chose my wife’s name instead. A quiet rebellion. Or perhaps a restoration.”

There was something in the way he said it—like Hargrave was a vow, not a label.

“I serve as steward of this house, its curator of memory and silence. I am Lord Cesare’s secretary, though he prefers to call me his right hand. I once jested I was both hands and often his head for him, and he threatened to have all of that removed.”

He said it lightly, but the air around him didn’t laugh.

“Please, do not fear. I jest—and so did Cesare. You are safe here.”

He placed my hand gently on his arm, guiding me down a corridor that smelled of cold stone and secrets. The air was cool, the walls cooler. Even Riordan, who radiated warmth on the surface, felt grave-cold beneath the skin. The kind of chill that doesn’t come from weather—but from history.

“Patience,” he murmured. “You will get the answers you seek soon… and perhaps answers to questions you didn’t yet know to ask.”

His voice was soothing, his arm icy, his words a riddle.

The hallway stretched ahead, lined with paintings that seemed frozen in time. Their eyes followed us—not with curiosity, but with memory. As if they’d seen this moment before. As if they were waiting for it.

We passed a tall mirror framed in tarnished gold. I caught my reflection—pale, wide-eyed, visibly shaken—and the empty space beside me where Riordan should have been. He didn’t glance at it. I wondered if he ever did.

We reached a set of double doors carved with symbols I didn’t recognize. The hinges groaned like they hadn’t moved in years. Inside was a study—dimly lit, impossibly vast, and lined with books that looked like they’d been bound in secrets. The air smelled of old parchment, dried herbs, and something faintly metallic.

Riordan gestured me toward a chair upholstered in wine-colored velvet. I hesitated, then sat. He remained standing, one hand resting lightly on the back of a nearby armchair, posture perfect, gaze steady.

“This room is older than most of the castle,” he said softly. “It was once a chapel. Now it’s where Lord Cesare receives his more… delicate guests.”

“Delicate?” I echoed.

“Rare. Unusual. Worth watching.”

I didn’t like the sound of that.

The door opened behind him with a hush, not a creak. A man entered—tall, elegant, and terrifying in his stillness. His presence shifted the room. He didn’t walk so much as arrive.

He wore a white shirt with puffed sleeves beneath a black vest, paired with tailored black trousers. His hair—dark, lustrous, and pulled into a low Renaissance-style bun—was the kind you’d expect to see in a painting, not a hallway. His face was striking—older than Riordan’s, but not aged. Refined. Italian. His eyes were silver. Not pale, not gray—silver. Reflective, unreadable, and unnervingly clear with the same preternatural shimmer as the others. It seemed to be a common denominator here. Either that or I was seeing things now.

Riordan bowed and stepped aside, his posture shifting from host to something quieter. “Uncle,” he said—not for me, but for him. The word held weight. Not reverence, exactly. Not fear. Just history.

The newly arrived man looked at me and bowed slightly.

“Forgive me, my dear Victoria,” he said, voice smooth as silk over stone. “The manner of your arrival was… rather abrupt, but urgent matters I needed to tend to kept me from visiting you in person.”

He stepped forward, the air seeming to bend around him.

“I am Conte Cesare Cosimo Carlo Graziano Vannucci, Grand Master Elder of the Hollow. But you may simply call me Cesare.”

It wasn’t just an introduction. It was a legacy. A name etched into centuries, spoken like a promise and a warning.

It wasn’t just an introduction. It was a legacy. A name carved into centuries.

“I brought you here to get to know you,” he said. “And… the child.”

His gaze drifted to my midsection. Most people hadn’t noticed yet—I was still slender enough to hide it unless I mentioned it. But he knew. I instinctively shielded myself with my arms.

“I frighten you,” he said gently. “Rest assured, I have no ill intent. This is merely a meeting. Curiosity, if you will.”

“Why would you be curious about me—or my bump? Because I’m older? Are you a scientist? I mean, sure, I’m past the usual childbearing age, but it’s not that rare anymore.”

“I am many things,” he said. “Among them, a scientist—at least I like to think so. But no. I brought you here for reasons much closer to the heart. Please, have a seat. I assure you, I mean you no harm.”

I glanced at the door. No escape. Not from him. So I sat in the chair he gallantly pulled out. As I settled, my belly became more obvious. Cesare smiled at it.

“It’s rude to stare at a lady like that. A man as refined as you should know better.”

With a knowing smile, he stepped around the desk and rang a small bell. Almost instantly, a maid arrived with a tray of hot beverages. She hesitated at the threshold, eyes lowered, hands trembling just slightly as she approached.

“Forgive the delay, Signore Conte,” she murmured, barely above a whisper.

Cesare inclined his head, the gesture both gracious and commanding. “You’ve done well, Isabetta.”

Relief flickered across her face, and she placed the tray before us with practiced care. Before I could protest, she vanished—silent as a shadow, the scent of roasted beans lingering in her wake.

Cesare poured the coffee himself. It smelled rich and dark, the kind that could wake the dead or charm the living. My stomach growled when he offered me some type of cookies I didn’t recognize—small, golden, and dusted with something fragrant.

“Biscotti di Prato,” he said, almost fondly. “An old Florentine recipe. Almonds, sugar, a touch of citrus. They’ve been made this way for centuries.”

Reflexively, I took one—then glared at it, suspicious.

“Please don’t worry,” he said smoothly. “A woman of your discernment must know—if I wished you harm, I wouldn’t need to resort to food and drink. As I said, I only wish to speak with you. To know you.”

I hesitated, then bit into the cookie. It was crisp, delicate, and unexpectedly fragrant. The citrus hit first—bright and clean—then the almond, earthy and warm. I chewed slowly, surprised by how much it grounded me.

“It tastes like something I should remember,” I said quietly. “Like a memory I never had.”

Cesare smiled, slow and knowing. “That’s the nature of old things, my dear. They linger.”

I stuck the rest of the cookie in my mouth and savored it, then reached for the coffee. It was stronger than I expected—velvety, bitter, almost smoky. I took a sip, let it settle, then went back for a second, trying to steady myself.

“Why am I here? What’s so special about me?”

“You’re carrying Alder’s child, aren’t you?”

The second sip of the delicious brew turned to fire in my throat. I choked, coughing hard into my sleeve as the cup clattered against the saucer. My eyes watered. My heart thudded.

“You know Alder?” I rasped, stunned.

His smile answered before his words did—quiet, ancient, and far too certain.

“Yes, you could say that. Though not as well as I’d like. Caelan knows him better than I do, don’t you, my boy?”

His eyes shifted behind me.

I turned—and there he was. The scarred man who’d abducted me. Still and silent. Everything about him screamed warrior. His braided hair hung like a flag of war, his leather jacket creaked with quiet menace. The long scar carved across his cheek like a signature he never consented to. His silver eyes—sharp, unblinking, still glowing—held no warmth, only disdain.

“No, I don’t know that little freak at all—I know of him and that’s already too much for my taste.”

“Oh, it speaks,” I snapped, unable to let him insult Alder. I regretted it instantly when his glare chilled the room. But Cesare’s chuckle behind me felt like a pearl cracking open.

Caelan turned his glare on me.

“I speak when there’s something worth saying. I hate idle banter.”

“Oh, good to know. I guess being talkative would interfere with your apparent hobby of abducting women off public streets.”

It was reckless. He could end me without effort. One look told me that. Yet here I was, mouthing off in enemy territory.

Caelan’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t move. His silence was louder than most men’s shouting.

Cesare, still behind me, let out a low, amused hum. “She has spirit, doesn’t she?”

“She has a death wish,” Caelan muttered.

I didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. But my pulse betrayed me, thudding in my throat like a warning drum.

Cesare stepped forward, his presence like gravity. “Enough, Caelan. She’s under my protection. You know better.”

Caelan’s eyes wandered between us, then lingered on me. “I do what I’m told. Complain to him if you dare.”

“Please, do try to restrain your barbarism,” Cesare interjected, voice velvet over steel. “Might we speak in a civilized fashion?”

“Talk about what? This is clearly a case of mistaken identity. I want to go home.”

“What a bimbo,” Caelan muttered. “They say the dumbest broads make the best lays—guess that checks out. Her standards are low. Alder’s are even lower. Both are bloody idiots.”

As terrifying as he was—and trust me, he was nightmare fuel—I wanted nothing more than to slap the taste out of his mouth.

“Caelan, do show restraint. We do not dishonor those under our roof—nor those bound to us by blood.”

My head snapped from him to Cesare. My eyes widened.

“Huh!? What now?”

Cesare didn’t answer. He simply sipped his coffee, silver eyes unreadable.

Enough. I’d had enough. I cursed—loudly—and bolted for the door.

You guessed it. I didn’t get far.

Caelan’s iron grip turned me into a human burrito. One arm locked around my waist, the other clamped my wrist like a vice. He walked me back to the chair like I weighed nothing. I kicked, twisted, elbowed—but it was laughable. He shoved me hard—I barely caught myself on the desk’s edge.

Cesare’s arms steadied me. His touch was cool, precise, and strangely gentle.

“Caelan!” Cesare’s voice cracked like ice. Cold. Sharp. Final.

Caelan froze mid-motion, then recoiled like a reprimanded dog. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

“Are you alright, my dear? Apologies. He’s prone to… spirited reactions when blood is involved, aren’t you, my boy?”

I pulled away from Cesare’s hands, breath ragged, heart pounding.

“Wait—what do you mean, blood? And why do you keep calling him boy? Don’t tell me that monster is your son!”

Blame exhaustion. It wasn’t smart, calling Caelan a monster—especially not with him in the same room, let alone an arm’s length away.

Luckily, Cesare was amused. And with him present, I knew Caelan wouldn’t dare touch me.

“Father,” Caelan muttered.

“She has every right to call you that, if you insist on behaving like one,” Cesare replied, his tone dry as aged wine.

Caelan grimaced and looked away.

“As for your very valid questions, my dear Victoria…”

He paused—right as it was about to get good—because the door opened.

And my jaw dropped. Again.

Entertainment Gods

Three women entered. One more gorgeous than the next. I’m not even exaggerating—drop-dead stunning. You couldn’t paint them more perfectly. What was this place? Was I awake or trapped in some fever dream?

Two had long, straight black hair. The third’s was so pale it was nearly white—still technically blonde, but barely. Her eyes were the most unusual: blue, of such an intense and unusual shade they flirted with violet. One of the black-haired women had silver eyes, like Cesare’s. The one in the middle had deep ocean blue eyes and smiled at me. Somehow, I smiled back, still trying to figure out if their arrival made my situation better or worse.

The silver-eyed woman spoke. I swear she could’ve been a model. Should’ve been. Probably was, considering she moved like a song. But she sounded… normal.

“You must be freaked out. I’m so sorry. Caelan just can’t help the theatrics,” she said, sounding compassionate, genuine—and modern.

My face must’ve betrayed me, because she giggled and held out her hand.

“I’m Scarlett. This is Rhiannon, and this is my mom, Branwen. And you are?”

Branwen stood slightly apart, her long black hair cascading like velvet, her dark blue eyes—deep as the ocean—watching me with quiet intensity. She didn’t speak, but the room seemed to hush around her.

“Caelan.” Branwen’s voice cut through the room like a knife through silk. He recoiled at the sound, like a child bracing for a scolding—almost funny, if the air weren’t so thick with tension.

Then came Cesare’s voice. Low. Precise. Icy. “I suggest you reconsider your words.”

That was all. No elaboration. No raised voice. Just a warning—quiet and final.
Scarlett didn’t flinch. Caelan did.

“Can you just not?” Scarlett snapped, her eyes narrowing as she shot a glare at Caelan.

He grunted in response—low, dismissive, and clearly unbothered.

Scarlett turned to me with a sigh. “Sorry about that, Victoria. This idiot is my little brother. If you’ve got siblings, you know there’s nothing more exhausting. I don’t know why he keeps trying to pick fights with me, considering he has never once won one.”

A new voice chimed in, right on cue—loud, teasing, and unmistakably modern.

“And yeah, the limp excuse is here too. You kidding, bruh? I wouldn’t miss seeing your creepy ass. You know I just luv-luv-luv me some Creepy-Caelan. Now where’s that baby momma we’ve been hearing… well, almost nothing about?”

A man strolled in—lanky frame, shaggy black hair, and a face that wasn’t conventionally handsome but somehow impossible to look away from. He radiated charisma like it was a birthright. Black shirt layered over a white undershirt, sunglasses dangling from the collar, and a grin that could start a riot or end one, depending on his mood.

He joined the women with zero hesitation, eyes locking onto my midsection like it owed him answers. He poked it—actually poked it—until Scarlett swatted his hand away and gripped it tightly, like she’d done this dance before.

“Sorry, Victoria,” she said, exasperated but affectionate. “This is my husband, Blaine. Blaine, please try to behave. Be nice.”

“What the rubberduck, Letty? I’m always nice. Well… mostly. Occasionally. Fine—selectively,” Blaine smirked, clearly daring her to disagree.

From behind, Caelan grumbled, “Yeah, you’ll get along great with her, Scarlett,” jerking his chin toward me. “You both have garbage taste in men.”

Blaine didn’t miss a beat. He winked at Rhiannon, then turned to Caelan with a grin that could slice glass.

“No, the one with the bad taste is this goddess right here. She picked you. Not once, but twice. Rhi—we need to get you glasses, girl. You could do a million times better blindfolded.”

Blaine grinned—and that’s when I saw them. Fangs. Long, gleaming, unapologetically sharp. The others had smiled carefully, too carefully, I realized now. They’d been hiding theirs. Blaine didn’t bother. He wore his like a dare.

And suddenly, everything clicked. The strange things happening. The unnatural stillness. The absence of Riordan’s reflection when we passed the mirror. The way their eyes seemed to glow without light. The tension that hung in the air like static. They all had them. Of course they did.

My stomach dropped. I felt hot and cold all at once, like my body couldn’t decide whether to panic or shut down. My skin prickled. My breath caught.

He was only an arm’s length away. Too close. Far too close.

I staggered back, spine hitting a bookshelf. My eyes locked on his mouth, my pulse thundering in my ears.

“Blaine, you idiot!” Scarlett hissed, shoving him by the sleeve of his leather jacket. “You scared her! Go away!”

Rhiannon stepped up to Caelan and kissed his cheek.

Ew was all I could think. That, and what the hell is happening.

“This is precisely why I asked for discretion,” Cesare said, each word deliberate, his tone cool and composed. “I had intended to grant Victoria the courtesy of understanding—gently.”

“I don’t care!” I snapped. “I want to leave. Someone take me home. Now.”

I knew damn well nobody would. But I had to say it. Had to try.

Branwen stepped forward, her voice like velvet laced with steel. “Cesare is right. Out. All of you. Now.”

She didn’t wait for protest. With quiet authority, she ushered Caelan and Rhiannon toward the door. When she reached for Blaine, he recoiled dramatically, voice pitching into a whine.

“Nooo, Mommy-in-law, I wanna stay and play! I’m not even tired yet!”

Branwen closed her eyes briefly, as if summoning divine patience. “Scarlett… please handle your husband.”

Scarlett sighed, already grabbing Blaine by the wrist. “Come on, drama king. Let’s go before you break into show tunes.”

Instead of budging, he yanked her against him with theatrical flair.

“Nope. I’m making a friend,” he said, then kissed her like he was auditioning for the next Fifty Shades sequel—full tilt, no shame.

“Please, please let me go…” I was desperate. Under different circumstances, this might’ve been entertaining. Right now, it felt like a fever dream I couldn’t wake up from.

Blaine finally released Scarlett—who somehow still had her lips attached—and kept her tucked close.

“Yeah, well, spoiler alert: that ain’t gonna happen until the big guy over there gives the green light,” Blaine said, jerking his thumb toward Cesare. “Trust me, I’ve tested that theory. Gotta keep Big Daddy happy. Between you and me, if you play nice and follow his rules, he’s actually pretty chill.”

Cesare didn’t blink. “Thank you, Blaine, for that… spirited endorsement. Now, if you would be so kind.”

“I thought you’d never ask!” Blaine grinned, promptly ignoring the request. He snatched my untouched coffee cup, sniffed it like a sommelier, then downed it in one dramatic gulp.

“Blaine. That is atrocious,” Cesare said, his voice slicing through the room like a silk ribbon drawn taut.

Blaine wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gasped theatrically.

“Atrocious? Bro, I know! Cold coffee? In a castle? Yuckers! What kind of savage hospitality is this? You tryna embarrass the whole vampire race serving stale broth to your guest? You know we’re all coffee addicts in my family and you serve piss-cold sludge? Seriously, man—weak AF.”

Cesare’s jaw tightened. For a moment, the centuries behind his eyes flared—not rage, but something colder. He moved with deliberate grace, plucked the porcelain cup from Blaine’s hand, and placed it back on the tray like he was restoring order to a desecrated altar.

Blaine just shrugged, flopped onto a settee, legs sprawled wide, phone already in hand.

Cesare regarded him with the kind of patience reserved for unruly nobility and incorrigible sons-in-law. “Blaine, you are many things—most of them loud. But I do believe you mean well. Now, kindly remove yourself from this conversation.”

“Don’t mind me, Big Daddy. Just continue.”

“No, Blaine,” Cesare said, with the calm finality of a man accustomed to being obeyed. “This is a private matter. Your presence is neither required nor desired.”

Blaine lifted a hand, signaling for patience, then turned his phone toward us with a smirk—no fangs this time—and played a video reel compilation of dogs driving their owners mad.

“Are you insane or something?!” I blurted out.

Was this guy serious? I was trapped in a gothic fever dream—ancient castle, vampire royalty, cryptic stares—and he wanted to watch funny reels like we were having a pajama party? A group huddle? What was next, popcorn and matching robes?

“Me? Why?” Blaine said, grinning. “This isn’t my video. Could be, but SOMEONE won’t let me have another dog…” His glance landed on Scarlett.

“We don’t need another dog. Not now,” she said, exasperated. “We’ve got our hands plenty full with Gavin’s divorce. He’s a mess, and Bianca’s an even bigger mess. I swear, if she calls me sobbing one more time…”

I blinked. Gavin? Bianca?

My stomach flipped.

Wait—Gavin and Bianca Cameron?

I stared at them, suddenly unsure if I’d heard right. “Hold on. You know Gavin? Gavin Cameron?”

Scarlett looked at me, brows lifting. “Of course we do. He’s our son. Second youngest, to be exact.”

I felt the world tilt. My breath caught. No. No way.

Gavin. My Gavin. The man who’d wrecked me. The man I hadn’t seen in weeks—the one who bolted the moment he found out Alder was the father. And these two chaos goblins were his parents?

I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or throw myself out the nearest stained-glass window.

Before I could process, Blaine turned to me, eyes twinkling. “Oh, you look like you know our sweet baby number seven. Do tell, girlfriend.”

“Maybe someone should introduce you to birth control…” I said, shocking myself.

Scarlett snorted. Blaine shot up, eyes locked on me, stepping closer. I backed away until my spine hit a shelf. He stopped just short, taller than his lanky build suggested.

“Well now, that’s a bit ironic, don’t you think?” he said, voice low and amused. “Coming from a woman who’s pregnant, no baby daddy in sight, and pushing fifty with the kind of glow that screams surprise!”

I narrowed my eyes. “You know what else is ironic? A man with eight kids and zero boundaries trying to give me life advice. I don’t even know you—and you sure as hell don’t know me or my circumstances.”

Scarlett choked on a laugh. Blaine grinned wider.

“Looky here, she’s got a sense of humor. And balls. I admire that. No worries, sweetheart—we do use birth control. My swimmers are just too strong sometimes. I like you. Even though you insulted me deeply.”

“Huh?”

“You said you don’t know any of us. Well, those bros and hoes I can see—they like lurking in the shadows. But my Letty and me? Seriously, chica? Dafuq? You live with the Amish or something?”

“What!?”

“Blaine Cameron mean anything to you? The Blaine Cameron. Ring any bells?”

I stared. Then it clicked.

“Oh. You’re that… ummm… rock musician guy. The one with the wardrobe malfunction at the SAAs,” I mumbled, doubting my own mind.

Was this a nightmare with a celebrity cameo? Under normal circumstances, I might’ve been a little starstruck—this guy was high-caliber VIP in the music scene—but right now? I had no bandwidth for it.

“Now she’s getting the pic. But naw, that wasn’t a malfunction. That was a statement. I yanked my breeches down on purpose—live, on camera—to show that stalkerazzi clown exactly what I thought of his 99 dumbass questions. Hope my bare ass gave him all the answers he needed. Hell, I should’ve signed it.”

“Okay,” I said flatly. I give up. What the heck was all this?

Scarlett laughed, tugging at Blaine’s arm. Clearly, she was callused over by his antics and barely fazed.

“Come on, babe. Let’s let Dad have his talk with poor Victoria in peace. I’m so sorry about all this, but hey—at least you’re getting the right impression from the start.”

“I said I don’t wanna!” Blaine dug in his heels.

She leaned in and whispered something in his ear. His eyes widened, his smirk grew, and he grabbed her hand and bolted toward the door.

“You guys enjoy that talk. Come on, Letty!”

The door shut behind them with a thud and a laugh. Silence returned like a tide pulling back.

Cesare stood by the desk, hands folded, gaze steady. The porcelain cup he’d reclaimed sat untouched on the tray, restored to its rightful place like a relic. He didn’t speak right away. He let the silence settle, like dust on velvet.

I was still standing, heart thudding, unsure whether to sit or sprint.

“They are… a lot,” I muttered.

Cesare’s lips curved—barely.

“They are family. And family, as you might know, is rarely simple.”

He gestured to the chair again. I sat, slower this time. My hands trembled slightly, but I folded them in my lap, trying to look composed.

“Now, Victoria,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “Let us begin.”

The Quiet Before the Storm

Cesare sank into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sound that landed somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

Something about that was just too funny, and I couldn’t help but giggle. He looked up at me. I tried my best to keep a straight face.

“Apologies for all of that,” he said. “This was not how I imagined this conversation going. Decidedly not.”

“I’m sorry too. I probably should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

“Please don’t apologize. Now you’ve seen the best and worst of this community. Some days, it’s a toss-up which is which. Please, have a seat. More coffee? I can ring for a fresh cup. I wouldn’t want you to use one that touched Blaine’s lips. I don’t even want to think about where that mouth of his has been—and probably currently is again—but most likely on my daughter.”

I giggled again. He seemed so incredibly human in that moment. Just a father, mildly exasperated by his son-in-law’s antics.

“Truth be told, Blaine might not be anyone’s cup of tea—especially not Caelan’s—but he and Scarlett knew they were meant for each other when they were fifteen. They tried to live apart, and I’ll tell you—it was as rough on the rest of us as it was on them. They need to be together. Even if it’s the one thing that will always bring Caelan to his knees. He and Blaine have never, and will never, see eye to eye.”

“I don’t think there are many people Caelan sees eye to eye with, as you put it. Is he really your son?”

“He is. He’s a good kid, but he comes with challenges. Scarlett is my firstborn. She’s been a delight since the moment I held her—smart, classy, gentle, kind. After a few years of raising her, Branwen and I knew we wanted more children. The problem is… with our affliction, conceiving and fathering is not easy. It rarely happens. At first, we worried we might want many more. But after raising Caelan for a while, we decided two was plenty.”

“So you and Branwen are… you’re…”

I couldn’t say it.

He nodded.

“Yes. We are afflicted by the spark of the vampyr. Both born mortal, though that now lies far behind us. Scarlett and Caelan were born into this life.”

There it was. Straight from the horse’s mouth. Confirmation of something that had felt impossible just hours ago. Now, there was no room for doubt. Vampires were real—and I was stuck in a castle full of them.

Which circled me back to my original question.

“Why am I here, Cesare?”

He inhaled deeply—but didn’t exhale. I knew why. But as long as I didn’t put a word to it, it wasn’t that real. Or maybe it was, but not something I had to face yet. Too bad Cesare took that from me.

“Your daughter is by Alder, correct?”

I nodded.

“It would appear that Alder is Caelan’s illegitimate son. From a time when he and Rhiannon were divorced. Alder’s creation wasn’t a union of love—just lust and frustration—and my boy wasn’t careful. His mother died in childbirth, leaving very unprepared nuns to raise him. It went… decent, all things considered. Until puberty hit. That’s when everything changed. You see, Miss Sinclair—Victoria, if I may?”

I waved it off. Who cared what he called me at this point. I was still chewing on the fact that my sweet Alder was the son of that Caelan creep. What now?

“Do you know what that means, Victoria?”

“What—puberty? Yeah, I’m wildly familiar.”

“No doubt. But I meant how it affects my kind differently than yours.”

Kind? What was he talking about now? My glare must’ve said it all, because he leaned back with a sigh.

“Right. You wouldn’t know. How could you? See, when someone born with the spark—a vampire—reaches the age where hormonal changes begin, it also triggers a transformation of a different kind. Fangs begin to grow. Things inside the body change. Certain tastes… shift.”

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!” I screeched, jumping up.

“From the sounds of it Alder is like us. Which means you need to be prepared that your child with him might be as well. That is why you are here. If your child is Alder’s and Alder is Caelan’s son, the child you carry is my relation.”

“What!? No. NO! Absolutely not! NO!”

What was that crazy talk about my baby now? I would know if I was carrying a… well, no. I couldn’t even think the word. Not yet. Not with fangs involved.

And then—another shoe dropped. No, scratch that. A whole damn closet collapsed.

If Gavin was Scarlett’s son with Blaine… and Alder was Caelan’s son with whoever… and Scarlett and Caelan were siblings…

Then Alder and Gavin would be—

COUSINS.

What?!

I blinked, trying to breathe through the mental avalanche. Cousins. My ex-lover and Caelan’s son. Which meant my baby—if it was Caelan’s—would be Gavin’s nephew or niece.

I needed a flowchart. Or a sedative. Or both.

“Victoria, this is not a choice. Not anymore. Alder is news to all of us, but from what little research we were able to conduct, it seems to be true. He knew better. He shouldn’t have engaged with you in such a manner. He hasn’t been through any sort of proper training and therefore isn’t prepared to raise someone of our kind into adulthood. As infants and children, they are much like all the others—indistinguishable. But once puberty comes, it will change. There is nothing anyone can do about it. Their organs will wither away. They won’t eat anymore. They won’t have a heartbeat. They will feel cold.”

“That is nonsense! Alder is not a vampire! You made a mistake. Alder can’t be Caelan’s son, and most definitely can’t be a vampire. Alder eats! He does not have fangs! We eat together. Almost every meal. We live together. I would have noticed if he were… if he… were… like… Caelan. I mean, he’s a little odd, I give you that, but nothing like Caelan! No, sir!”

“Victoria, I understand this comes as a shock and you are in denial, but there is no question on Alder’s paternity, it has all been confirmed to the best abilities and Caelan has admitted to … seeing the young lady who was his mother in a manner that could produce a child. We may be vampires, some of us from eras long past, but we are all individuals. Some blend in better than others. Urges can be controlled. The ability to eat can be regained. Daywalking can be achieved. We are not monsters. We could be—but then again, the same can be said for your kind. Regular mortals created us. I would know better than most.”

He paused, then gestured to the chair.

“Please sit. I will tell you a story that may help you understand better.”

Resigned, I lowered myself into the seat as he returned to his own. His gaze drifted toward the fire, though it barely flickered. The room felt suspended—like time itself had paused to listen.

Cesare leaned back, fingers steepled, voice low and steady.

“There was once,” he began, “a young nobleman born into a house of great wealth and influence. The calendar read the year of our Lord 1505. His family were financiers—patrons of the arts, scholars, men of letters. He was the eldest son, groomed to inherit the legacy. His sister, just a year younger, was his closest companion. They were raised in luxury, but not arrogance. Their world was structured, refined, and deeply loyal. While their parents’ marriage had been arranged—as was common among certain classes—they had grown to truly love each other. Their children were born of devotion, not just duty.”

He paused, eyes distant.

“One evening, the siblings slipped away from their estate. Youthful mischief. Curiosity. They wanted to witness something—an event their family had forbidden them to attend. A masquerade ball. Not meant for young, innocent eyes. And what they saw explained why.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“It was an orgy. Masked bodies, writhing in candlelight. Power and pleasure tangled in ways they couldn’t yet understand. It doesn’t matter now. What matters is that they returned home immediately, startled by what they’d seen, riddled with guilt for disobeying their parents. But instead of seeking forgiveness, they found only worse trauma at the place that had always been their sanctuary.”

I didn’t move.

“The estate was surrounded. Their family—parents, all their younger siblings, even the youngest—dragged from their beds and taken to the city square. The siblings hid, helpless, and watched the public hearing. Their entire family was sentenced for treason. Even the youngest, only five years old. All of them executed on the spot.”

He looked down at his hands.

“The siblings fled, knowing that not even family would help them now. The risk was too great. No place to go, nowhere to turn. Their home was gone, claimed by those who had claimed their family’s lives. Alone. Starving. Hunted. What little they had was stolen by highwaymen. They were sheltered children, raised with servants and silk. Now they were nothing.”

My breath caught.

“And then… they were found. Not by saviors. By something else. A rogue. A creature who saw opportunity in desperation. He turned them. Left them. No guidance. No protection. Just hunger and pain and the certainty of death.”

He looked at me now. Directly.

“But they survived. Somehow. The boy was clever. A scholar. He learned to adapt. To lead. To protect his sister. She, once sweet and lovely, took it all very hard. Turned bitter. So once they managed, the boy bought them passage to a new world. Anglicized names. A fresh start. And eventually, he built something new—a code. A structure. A sanctuary for others like them. Those abandoned, betrayed, or born into this life without choice.”

He paused. I looked at him. Really looked.

“That story,” I said slowly. “It’s not just a story. That boy… it was you.”

Cesare’s eyes met mine. He smiled—not smugly, not proudly. Just softly.

“Clever girl,” he said. “I admire that. Yes, that was indeed my origin story. It shaped me into the man I am today. It’s also why I won’t allow vampires to be left to their own devices—recent turns or those born into this life. Without proper training, we may be deadly. Monstrous. But with guidance, we are in control. No one need ever know—unless you choose to let them. Like Alder. Clearly, he wasn’t ready. And I find that neglectful, knowing you are carrying his child. Not to mention that it strongly displeases me knowing I have family I never knew of.”

“I agree with you there. He should’ve told me. Preferably before knocking me up—though it obviously wasn’t intentional. So… what happens now? What’s the grand plan? You’re not planning to keep me here until my child hits puberty, are you?”

“Of course not. As I told you, I am a family man. I wanted to meet the parent of my future great-grandchild. And I felt you deserved to know the truth. Alder appears to hold deep grudges. I suppose he wouldn’t have explained these circumstances unless forced. Presumably not until after the birth—and only if your child displayed certain traits.”

“I want to speak to Alder. Take me back home. Please.”

“Certainly. But know that I will call on you again. If you prefer, I’ll come to your home next time. I couldn’t gauge your reaction, and felt this would be the safer option. I will also admit—you handled yourself very well in light of these revelations.”

“When will I know for sure if my child is… like you?”

“Unfortunately, not for a while. I wish to meet Alder myself. It’s not uncommon for those who didn’t wish for this life to resent it. My sister and I certainly took a long time to embrace it as a gift rather than a curse. Considering my son passed strong genes to his other children, it’s impossible—even for me—to make an educated guess about your baby.”

Cesare rose, smiling at me. The conversation was over. With an elegant gesture, he directed me to follow him. I did, pausing at the door.

“Cesare…”

He turned to me with a questioning smile. And while he exuded mystery and danger, it was still mind-boggling that this handsome, eloquent, and polite man could become a ferocious, bloodsucking monster.

“Could someone other than Caelan take me home? Please.”

His smile widened, reaching his eyes. He gave a small nod.

The Letter and the Leaving

As he opened the door, Riordan was standing in the grand lobby. Cesare waved him over.

“Riordan, my boy, would you kindly see Miss Sinclair back home?”

Riordan smiled knowingly, winking at me.

“Of course.”

He extended his hand, and I took it. Before I could process the gesture, his arms were around me and the familiar hum began—buzzing, rushing, a sound like air being pulled through silk. Then came the cold. The damp. The sudden stillness of the alley behind the rowhouses, facing the canal.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

Riordan offered his arm, and I looped mine through his. We walked in silence to the front door. He waited patiently as I unlocked it, but when I turned to thank him again, he was already gone—vanished into the night like mist.

With a sigh, I stepped inside. Keys dropped into the bowl by the door. Shoes slipped off. Lights flicked on—just the soft glow of the kitchen nightlight.

Upstairs, I knocked on Alder’s door. No answer. I pushed it open to find the room dark, untouched. Figures.

I crossed to his office, didn’t bother knocking. Also empty.

Back in the hallway, I looked up toward the stairs leading to my studio. Was he waiting for me there? Or was he out in the quiet streets of Henford-on-Bagley, searching for me? Then again, knowing what I knew now… who’s to say he hadn’t done that before—for other reasons. Thirst. Hunger. Secrets.

I ran upstairs. My studio was empty too. But the moment I flicked on the lights, I saw it.

The envelope. Resting on the bed.

A chill ran through me—hot and cold all at once. I didn’t need to open it to know: this wasn’t going to be good.

I reached for it. My name was written across the front in Alder’s unmistakable handwriting—precise, slanted, quiet.

I pulled out the letter. The paper felt heavy. Like it had weight beyond ink. Like it carried something final.

Like doom.

Victoria,
I don’t know how to begin, so I’ll start with the truth: I knew. Not everything. Not the full scope. But enough. Enough to know I should have told you. Enough to know I failed you.

I never meant for this to happen—not the silence, not the child, not the way you were pulled into a world I’ve spent my life trying to keep at bay. I’ve lived in the margins for a reason. I write stories because they’re safer than living them. You were never meant to be part of mine.

But then you moved in.
And you brewed coffee strong enough to wake the dead, with just the right amount of milk to make me enjoy it too.
And you made me tea—Earl Grey, despite your lack of enthusiasm for it—and somehow, it was the best I’ve ever had. Not just for a foreigner. For anyone.
And you painted like your soul was leaking through your fingers. And you laughed at my notes in your drafts. And you stayed.
I was reluctant at first. You know that. I’ve always been a man of quiet corners and closed doors. But you walked in like you belonged—and somehow, you did.

You accepted me with all my oddness, all my inherited shadows, all the things I never dared name aloud but which prevent me from being like everybody else.
You accepted me, like no other person ever has. But you did. Just like that.

I don’t know what our child will be.
I don’t know if they’ll inherit the spark or be spared. I wish I could promise you something—clarity, safety, even normalcy—but I can’t. And that’s why I’m gone.
You deserve someone who can stand in the light without flinching. Someone who doesn’t second-guess every instinct. Someone who doesn’t carry the kind of darkness I’ve spent years trying to outrun. I thought I could be that person. I wanted to be.
But wanting doesn’t make it true.
So, I left. Not forever. Just for now. I am not abandoning you, please believe that.
I need to figure out who I am outside of fear. Outside of silence. Outside of the legacy I never asked for but can’t escape.
I tucked a sachet of lavender-lemon balm in with this letter. You always said it helped you sleep. I hope it still does.
Also—your iron supplements are on the bed. I picked them up on my way out. Take one with food, once a day. Preferably not with coffee (I know, I know). Just… don’t forget. Please.

I’ll come back when I’m someone worth coming back as. —
~Alder

I stared at the final line, my eyes tracing the shape of his name like it might change if I looked long enough.

I’ll come back when I’m someone worth coming back as.

The words echoed in my chest, hollow and heavy.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, the letter still trembling in my hands. The silence in the studio was deafening—no hum from Alder as he read through my edits, no soft shuffle of his papers, no scent of his tea steeping in the corner. Just me. And the truth.

He was gone.

Not just physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. He’d unraveled himself from our tangled rhythm and left me with the thread.

I wanted to be angry. I wanted to scream, to curse him for running when things got hard, for leaving me to carry the weight of this impossible future alone. But I couldn’t. Because I knew him. This wasn’t ill intent. He meant every word he wrote. I knew the way discomfort lived in his bones. I knew how deeply he felt things he never said. I knew how much it must’ve taken for him to write that letter at all.

And damn it, I missed him already.

I folded the letter carefully, like it might bruise if I wasn’t gentle, and placed it back in the envelope. Then I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe through the ache in my chest.

The studio smelled like coffee and Earl Grey. Like us.

Beside me, on the duvet, sat the bottle of iron supplements. Of course he’d remembered. Classic Alder—quietly thoughtful, quietly worried. He’d even scribbled the dosage on the label in his handwriting. One with food. Not with coffee. I could hear him saying it, gently, like it mattered.

I didn’t cry. Not yet. I just let the silence settle around me, like a blanket stitched from memory and regret.