🪶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.

Fangs and Furballs

I was sprinting through the living room like a woman possessed, dodging overturned chairs, spilled juice boxes, and what I hoped was just brown Play-Doh ground into the rug. Somewhere behind me, a lamp crashed. A child screamed. Another one laughed maniacally.

“Alder!” I shrieked, vaulting over a stuffed unicorn. “Do something!”

He stood in the kitchen doorway, holding a mug of tea like we weren’t in the middle of a toddler apocalypse.

“Define ‘something,’” he said, utterly unfazed.

“Stop Draven from biting the dog!” I pointed wildly toward the backyard, where our youngest—barefoot, fanged, and feral—was chasing poor Spunky the mutt with fierce determination, like an Olympic sprinter or tax auditor.

Draven hissed. Spunky barked. I screamed. Margaret giggled.

“Alder!”

And then—

I jolted awake.

The room was quiet. Dim. Peaceful.

Alder lay beside me, reading with his usual calm intensity. He blinked at me, startled. That preternatural shine in his eyes—like moonlight caught in glass—made it hard to believe he wasn’t glowing.

“You okay?”

“What?!” I mumbled, trying to understand why we were suddenly in bed.

“You shouted my name in your sleep like I’d betrayed you in seven ways from Sunday. Startled me.”

I sat up, heart pounding, sweat clinging to my back like betrayal. “Startled YOU? Oh, poor baby. I just dreamed we had a house full of vampire toddlers. It was a big house. And a lot of toddlers.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Draven tried to eat the dog. At least I think so. Maybe he was trying to bite it. Who knows, who cares?”

Alder closed his book slowly. “What dog? We have a dog too in your dream? And Draven? That’s oddly specific. Reminds me—I should start a name list with you. And toddlers, plural? We went from one to several just like that? I have to say, we work fast.” He looked far too amused for my taste.

“You have no idea of the horrors I have seen. So many kids! We had Draven and Margaret and the dog was a mutt named Spunky. There were more kids too—I lost count and don’t think I even learned their names. It was a very big house. Definitely wasn’t this townhome. The living room was… sprawling, cluttered, chock-full of toys and crap and mess. And you were absolutely useless.”

“That tracks.” He grinned.

I groaned and flopped back onto the pillow. “Please tell me we’re not naming our child Draven . If it’s a boy, I mean.”

“I make no promises.” He leaned over and started kissing me.

It was soft at first—just lips brushing, breath mingling—but then his hand slid to my hip and I felt the shift. That slow, deliberate hunger he never voiced but always carried. I kissed him back, gently but matching his intensity, grounding myself in the moment.

Yup, we were definitely a couple now all right.

“You taste like old books and secrets,” I murmured. He leaned back a bit.

“I’ve been reading for hours. You taste like sleep and sarcasm.”

“So, basically us.”

He smiled against my mouth. “Exactly.”

Then he lifted the book, its spine cracked and flaking like dried bark. The cover was black leather, worn smooth by centuries of touch. Gold lettering, faded but still legible: Les Fleurs du Mal.

He turned a page, revealing a pressed violet and a line underlined in faded ink. “You gave me your mud and I turned it to gold,” he read aloud.

I blinked. “Baudelaire?”

“Baudelaire,” he confirmed. “The patron saint of beautiful ruin.”

He closed the book gently and set it on the nightstand—his nightstand, I realized. Somehow, in all this, he’d just… moved in. No conversation. No ceremony. He hadn’t asked, and I hadn’t dissuaded him. It was quiet, inevitable. Like fog rolling in. Like a page turning.

Then he pulled me close into an embrace that felt warm and cool all at once—his body chilled by undeath, mine still humming with sleep and the fading pulse of dreams. I fit against him like punctuation. Like a sentence finally finished.

Yup. Couple.
Just like I never wanted.
Or maybe I did.

Being alone had always been the plan. But solitude, as intended, had turned into loneliness—something I wasn’t used to and didn’t particularly enjoy unless I was working. And even then, it crept in.

We stayed like that for a while—quiet, tangled, warm—despite his coolness. The kind of morning that felt stolen from a better life. But eventually, reality crept back in. The baby. The guardianship. Gavin. Cesare. The fact that I still hadn’t figured out what I wanted to do next.

Alder pulled back slightly, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

“You want breakfast?”

“I want answers.”

He nodded, already knowing. “Then let’s start with coffee. You look like you could use a cup.”

I sat up, stretching. “If by cup you mean bucket, then yes. Maybe a bathtub full after that nightmare. And maybe we can cross Draven off the name list while we’re at it.”

“No promises,” he said, smirking. “But we should probably find out the gender and get serious about naming.”

“Yeah. I just didn’t want to yet. It makes it so real.”

He was halfway out of bed when he paused. Then leaned back, one hand brushing gently over my now impossible-to-ignore bump. His grin softened into something quieter—less teasing, more reverent.

“Oh, my love…” He brushed my bump again, slower this time. “It’s real.”

Coffee, Chaos, and Naming Heists

We made our way to the kitchen, Alder brewing coffee like it was a sacred ritual and me scrolling through baby name sites with the kind of desperation usually reserved for last-minute wedding seating charts.

I had my phone propped up against the sugar jar, one hand on my mug, the other swiping through endless lists.

“Okay, so for girls we’ve got… Elowen, Isolde, Mira, and—oh God—Brayleigh. Who names their child Brayleigh?”

Alder raised an eyebrow. “Someone who also owns a yacht and a golden retriever named Chardonnay.”

I snorted into my coffee. “Okay, boys. Draven is banned. What about Elias? Or maybe Cassian?”

“Cassian sounds like he’d wear velvet and duel people over poetry.”

“So… your type.”

He smirked. “Exactly.”

We kept scrolling, tossing names back and forth, vetoing everything from Basil to Zephyr. I was starting to lose hope.

“This is impossible. We’re making zero progress. Our baby will be called ‘baby’ for the first years of their life at this rate!”

Alder reached across the table and took my phone like he was rescuing it from literary abuse—his fingers brushing mine in that cool, deliberate, annoyingly confident way he always had.

“Hey!” I lunged for it, but he was already scrolling with vampiric speed. Then, to my horror, he put the phone to his ear.

“What are you doing? Who are you calling? And don’t say ‘Ghostbusters’ or I swear …!”

He held up a finger, silencing me. “Hello, yes. This is Alder Davenport. I’d like to schedule a gender determination appointment for my partner, Victoria Sinclair. Preferably today. Yes, she’s available.”

“Alder! Goddamn you!”

I tried to grab the phone again, but he pulled it just out of reach. I lunged. He dodged. I stood. He vanished.

Suddenly, he was across the room, leaning against the living room wall like he hadn’t just blurred out of my grasp at vampire speed.

I narrowed my eyes. “You smug little cryptid.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I prefer ‘elegantly elusive.’”

“Yeah, and I prefer my phone back.”

He walked back over, handed me the phone with a little flourish and a wink. “We have an appointment this afternoon at three, Mylady.”

I snatched the phone from his hand like it had spilled coffee on my last nerve. “You just… called the clinic. Without asking me. Seriously?!”

He didn’t flinch. Just tilted his head, voice low and deliberate. “Yes. You said it didn’t feel real. I say we make it real—and do so with grace. Besides, knowing the gender narrows the name list. Fifty percent less chaos. I thought you’d appreciate the efficiency.”

I stared at him, torn between exasperation and something softer. “You’re lucky I tolerate you.”

I had almost said love. But that still felt too weird. I did, though. I just hadn’t figured out how to admit it—to him, or to myself.

“I know.” He kissed my forehead, cool and reverent. “Now finish your coffee,” he murmured. “We’ve got a future to name.”

Ultrasounds and Other Existential Crises

“Remind me again why I agreed to this?” I muttered, shifting as the paper beneath me made a sound like a chip bag being murdered.

“Because you love me,” Alder said with the kind of confidence that made me want to throw something—like maybe the water bottle he was sipping from like this was a spa day. He offered it to me first, of course. I declined with a grimace and a headshake.

“I’m reconsidering.”

He didn’t react. Just kept sipping, unbothered. He said love like it was settled. Like it was obvious. Like it was air.

I hadn’t even said it yet. Not out loud. Not to him. I did love him—annoyingly, deeply, in ways that made me feel like I was losing and winning at the same time. But admitting it? That was harder. To myself. To him. To the sterile ceiling tiles above me.

And yet here I was. Belly out. Baby his. If this wasn’t the time to love someone, when was?

I glanced at him, lounging like a vampire on vacation, not an expecting father of a child that probably shouldn’t exist in the first place. God, I envied his certainty.

The door opened and in walked Dr. Robinson—smiles, khakis, and that practiced tone of gentle condescension reserved for nervous parents and people who Google their symptoms.

“Good afternoon, Victoria. Alder. How are we feeling today?”

Like a bloated science experiment, thanks for asking. I didn’t say it. I smiled instead. Barely.

“Excited,” Alder offered, because of course he did.

Dr. Robinson chatted while prepping the ultrasound machine, asking questions I barely registered. Something about cravings, sleep, hydration. I answered in monosyllables while Alder nodded like he was the one growing organs.

Then the gel hit my stomach—cold, wet, and deeply offensive.

“Oh, good. Let’s make this worse,” I muttered.

“Sorry about the temperature,” the doctor said, not sounding sorry at all.

And then the wand moved, and the screen lit up.

Everything stopped.

There it was. A flickering blur. A shape. A heartbeat.

The room went quiet except for the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of something impossibly small and impossibly alive.

Alder leaned forward, eyes locked on the monitor. His hand found mine, warm and steady.

“That’s your baby,” Dr. Robinson said softly. “Healthy. Strong heartbeat. Measuring right on track.”

I blinked, suddenly aware of the tears threatening to betray me. “That’s… real.”

Alder didn’t speak. He just squeezed my hand and kept staring, like he was trying to memorize every pixel of that tiny life.

“Would you like to know the gender?” the doctor asked.

I shook my head, unable to form words. Alder kissed my cheek and said, “Of course we do. That’s why we scheduled this appointment. She’s just nervous.”

Dr. Robinson wasn’t convinced. He glanced at me with a mildly worried gaze. “Are we sure? I can just tell the father and leave it a surprise for the mother.”

“No, that’s fine. Just tell us,” I said, ending the awkward standoff.

Dr. Robinson adjusted the angle, tapped a few keys, and smiled. “It’s a girl. Congratulations, mum and dad.”

Alder exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. “I knew it.”

I looked at him, at the screen, at the blur of our future. “She doesn’t have fangs, right?” I blurted out.

Dr. Robinson blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

Alder grinned. “Sorry, doctor. She’s exhausted, mildly delirious, and recovering from a wild dream involving vampire toddlers.”

I had no comeback. The sarcasm quieted. The world narrowed to one small heartbeat and the two people who would do anything to protect it.

After that day, the weeks blurred. Then the months.

We buried ourselves in work—half out of necessity, half out of fear. Planning for a future we weren’t ready for, pretending preparation was the same as acceptance.

He nested in baby books and nursery paint samples like he was preparing for an exam as an interior designer. I clung to commission deadlines and prenatal vitamins like they were talismans—all part of a series of rituals to keep the chaos at bay.

We talked about names, strollers, sleep schedules. We did not talk about the deeper questions. Like: How the hell was this supposed to work long term? A vampire and a mortal, raising a child in a charming-but-cramped rowhouse that came pre-furnished with someone else’s taste and zero basement.

Alder’s room—his quiet, shadowed sanctuary—had been rearranged to make space for nursery items that didn’t quite fit and didn’t quite belong. Neither of us said it, but the crib looked like an apology.

He nested in baby books and nursery paint samples like he was preparing for a coronation. I clung to commission deadlines and prenatal vitamins like they were talismans—rituals to keep the chaos at bay.

We talked about names, strollers, sleep schedules. We did not talk about the deeper questions. Like: How the hell was this supposed to work long term? A vampire and a mortal, raising a child in a charming-but-cramped rowhouse that came pre-furnished with someone else’s taste and zero basement.

Alder’s room—his quiet, shadowed sanctuary—had been rearranged to make space for nursery items that didn’t quite fit and didn’t quite belong. Neither of us said it, but the crib looked like an apology.

We were building a future on top of a life that hadn’t been designed to hold one. And yet, somehow, we kept going. He with his nesting instincts. Me with my deadlines and vitamins and a stubborn refusal to acknowledge that I was becoming someone’s mother. And the quiet hope that if I ignored the facts of impending parenthood long enough, maybe they’d stop growing—unlike my belly, which had started to eclipse my laptop.

I tried to treat it like a subplot. A side quest. Something I could compartmentalize between edits and evasions. But Alder kept saying our child like it was a settled fact. And I kept pretending I wasn’t already in love with both of them.

There was a strange stillness to it all. Like the quiet before a storm you don’t believe will come.

And then— the storm came and nothing happened as we planned.

Castle and Cradle

I woke to stone. Walls, floors … stone.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Just… stone. Cold walls, high ceiling, flickering sconces. The air smelled like dust and grandma’s attic and something older than memory.

I blinked. Once. Twice. My body felt wrong—heavy, hollow, like I’d been scooped out and stitched back together. My mouth was dry. My limbs ached. My brain was fogged, like I’d been drugged or dreaming or both.

I tried to sit up. My arms trembled. The sheets rustled beneath me—soft, expensive, unfamiliar. I felt .. strange. Unlike myself. Definitely drugged. The good stuff.

Okay. So what was wrong with me? Flu? Fever? Weird dream?

I looked around. The room was too symmetrical, too curated. The kind of place designed for reverence, not comfort. The walls were carved. The windows were tall. The sconces burned actual flame.

Not home.
Not a hospital.

The castle.
Why am I at the castle?

I rubbed my face, trying to force clarity. My fingers brushed my lips, my cheek, my neck. No bruises. No bandages. Just skin. Just me.

What was the last thing I remember?

The appointment. The ultrasound. Her heartbeat. Planning. Preparing. Or at least the illusion of all that. I tried to back track from the latest point I recalled.

Appointments, after which we went home. Alder wouldn’t let me drink—“not good for the baby,” he said, stealing the glass from my hand like I was a rebellious teenager. I snapped at him. He kissed my forehead. I cried. He held me. It ended with us curled up on the couch, tossing ideas back and forth like we were trying to summon someone by syllables alone.

I remembered a name list. We narrowed it down to seven. Seven names that felt like maybe, just maybe, they could belong to her.

I remembered how my entire life was fully uprooted AGAIN, yet felt like nothing had changed. Commissions were due. New ones arrived. I was called to modest homes and elaborate manors, exposed to things and secrets few were privy to. I kept my head down, quietly sketched and painted, took notes for biographies in corners of estates while people forgot I was there.

Then the party.

One of the neighbors got engaged. Alder insisted we go. I wore something black and forgiving of my now enormous bump. I am not joking. I was huge. He wore something tailored and smug. We danced. We laughed. We left early.

We were still in the hallway when he kissed me—coat still on, hands warm, mouth hungry. I kissed him back. Passion arose. And then—

Pain.
Sharp. Sudden. Wrong.

I remember someone screaming, realizing it was me. I remembered flashing lights. Voices. Alder shouting. Someone lifting me. The hallway spinning. My body folding in on itself.

And then— darkness.
Nothing but darkness.

And now I was here.
Here.

Why?

Listen, I liked history as much as the next girl, but I never liked this place too much. So why was I here?

I sat up, slowly, carefully, like I was made of glass and bad decisions. My hand drifted to my stomach.

Flat.
I froze.

No bump. No weight. No life.

I pressed harder, desperate, searching for something—anything.
Nothing.

My breath caught. My throat closed. I opened my mouth and screamed. The wail echoed off the walls as if they were joining into my pain.

Footsteps thundered down the hall. A door burst open.

A man I didn’t recognize stood there, wide-eyed, breathless.

“She rose!” he shouted, turning back into the corridor. “She rose!”

That was the last thing I remember before things went black again.

The Study

I don’t remember being moved, but I was no longer in the bed.

A chaise lounge. Velvet. Deep red. My feet were propped up, legs covered in a soft throw. My body felt like it had been borrowed—weak, foreign, stitched together with exhaustion and something else I couldn’t name.

I tried to sit up.

“Easy,” someone said, and a firm hand pressed against my shoulder.

Riordan. That beautiful man, but even this sight for sore eyes did nothing to comfort me now.

I blinked at him. His face was familiar in the way a recurring dream is—soft, strange, too vivid. He looked worried. Not panicked or performative, just quietly undone. The kind of worry that wraps around you like a blanket you didn’t know you needed.

His eyes searched mine like he was trying to coax me back into my own body.

I felt like a vase someone had dropped and glued back together—mostly intact, but the cracks were humming. Thinking was hard. Why. Did I have a medical emergency?

This felt like what I imagined surviving an overdose might feel like. But I didn’t overdose. Did I?

“Let me up,” I said, voice hoarse.

“You shouldn’t,” he said, not unkindly.

“I wasn’t asking.”

Cesare appeared beside him, calm as ever, like he’d been summoned by the tension in the room. I swore I saw worry in his eyes.

“You need to stay like this,” he said gently. “You’re still recovering. You are weak right now.”

Recovering from what?

I opened my mouth to ask, but the words tangled. My throat tightened. My hand drifted to my stomach again, and this time I pressed harder, searching for the bump, the weight, the anchor.

Still nothing.

I looked up, heart pounding. “The baby?”

Riordan glanced at Cesare, then stepped back.

“There was an emergency,” Cesare said, voice smooth as silk. “You gave birth. Your daughter is safe. Please calm down.”

I stared at him. His words settled something in me, but tears still rose. “I don’t remember.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said. “It was sudden. Complicated.”

“Complicated?” My voice cracked. “Is she—”

“She’s here,” Cesare said, cutting through the panic. “Whole. Breathing. Waiting.”

A sound escaped me—half sob, half laugh. Relief hit like a wave, but it didn’t last. Something was wrong. Something was still wrong.

“I want to see her.” I whimpered.

“You will. But first things first. Someone else has been more than eager to see you. Bring him in!”

Alder entered the room like gravity had shifted. His eyes found mine instantly, and he crossed the space in seconds, dropping to his knees beside the chaise.

He took my hands, kissed them, held them like they were sacred.

“Our baby,” I whispered.

He nodded, voice thick. “We named her Catriona. After my mother. Like you suggested. I didn’t want to at first, but now it felt more than… right.”

I blinked. “You did?”

Alder tried to speak but emotion stole the words.

Cesare stepped in gently. “It felt fitting. She, too, died in childbirth.”

The words didn’t make sense. Not yet. I blinked at him, then at Alder, then down at my body—no bump, no anchor, just absence.

Had I died? Had I given birth?
Was this real? Or some dream stitched together by grief and adrenaline?

I stared at Cesare. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “But I thought it best you know right away.”

I looked at Alder. He didn’t meet my eyes.

“No,” I said. “No, no, no. This is another dream. Another nightmare. I am not dead. I am right here.”

Alder squeezed my hands. “You are. I couldn’t lose you.”

“What are you talking about?” Nothing, absolutely nothing, made sense to me right now.

“I knew the repercussions,” he said, voice breaking. “But it wasn’t right. I know what it’s like to grow up without a mother. Our daughter needs you. Not the broken father I’d become.”

“Alder, what the fuck are you talking about? I don’t understand.”

He looked away. Closed his eyes as if he was in great pain. What was going on here?!
Cesare stepped forward, voice low, deliberate.

“You were turned.”

The world tilted.

I didn’t notice the darkness coming. It didn’t ask. It just took me.

Just the cold. Just the silence. Just—

Nothing.

The Turning Point

Consciousness slammed back like a door kicked open.

I screamed.

Not a gasp. Not a cinematic wail. A full-bodied, throat-shredding scream that tore through the room like a banshee had taken up residence in my lungs. It echoed off the stone walls, sharp and feral, as if my body had remembered terror before my mind caught up.

“No,” I said, shaking my head violently. “No, no, no, no, no—this isn’t real. This is a nightmare. I need to wake up. Alder, please wake me up. Please …”

I tried to stand slapping away Riordan’s and Cesare’s hands. My legs buckled. I collapsed back onto the chaise, breath ragged, heart pounding like it was trying to escape.

“Come on, Victoria,” I whispered to myself, clutching my temples. “Wake up. Wake up. You’ve had worse dreams. You’ve survived worse things. This is just another hallucination. Just another—”

I started hitting my head with the heel of my palm. Not hard. Just enough to jolt something loose. Something real.

“Wake up,” I hissed. “Wake up, wake up, wake up—”

Alder was suddenly there, kneeling in front of me, grabbing my wrists, holding them down with a strength that was gentle but immovable.

“Victoria, my love,” he said, voice urgent, eyes wide. “Can’t you feel the fangs?”

I froze.

My tongue moved, slow and searching, like it was afraid of what it might find.

And then—

I gasped. Loud. Sharp. The sound bounced off the walls like it didn’t belong to me.

My eyes widened. My breath caught.

“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no—”

“I am so sorry,” Alder said, voice cracking. “I just couldn’t let you go. I couldn’t do this to Catriona. I—”

He broke. His voice collapsed in on itself, and he looked away.

Riordan stepped in, voice crisp and clinical.

“Victoria, there is another caveat. It is strictly forbidden among our peers to turn anyone without proper authorization from the Grand Master Elder. Obviously, that hasn’t happened here. Therefore, Alder has been incarcerated awaiting judgement. He’s here now as a kindness extended by Cesare.”

“What?” My voice shot up an octave. “What?!”

I felt everything at once—shock, fear, rage, grief, confusion. It was like every emotion I’d ever had decided to throw a reunion party in my chest.

“I’m a vampire?” I said, voice shaking. “But I’m not dead. I’m not—how is this even—Alder’s in jail?! What the actual— You turned me? Why jail? What?”

The words tumbled out, jagged and breathless, tripping over each other like they were trying to escape faster than I could think them. I knew I wasn’t making sense. But sense felt irrelevant. Reality was unraveling and I was just trying to keep up.

Cesare moved forward, replacing Alder at my side. He sat on the edge of the chaise and took my hands. His touch wasn’t cold anymore.

Maybe mine weren’t either. Or maybe both were cold now. Oh God.

His eyes met mine—steady, unreadable, ancient.

“I am not a monster,” he said calmly. “I understand the situation was dire, and Alder did what felt right. But I must observe the decorum and laws I’ve imposed on all, or I lose credibility. You understand that?”

“Yes,” I said, barely breathing. “But you can’t take Alder from me. I’d be all alone. With a newborn. At fifty.”

He sighed. “Well, age is now meaningless, my dear. However, I understand the complicated circumstances. Riordan was kind enough to seek out loopholes, and he found them. In this very special case, there will be a court held—comprised of several Elders of our creed, with me as the presiding judge. It will be public. We will hear everyone who wishes to make their voice heard on this topic, including you and Alder. Obviously, you are the key witness and the the needle on the scale. Your decision ultimately will decide Alder’s fate.”

I stared at him, numb.

Cesare’s gaze didn’t waver. “If you publicly swear that you condone this action and will embrace your new life, I have the option to grant mercy and release Alder. Unless too many of your peers veto it, which I don’t foresee, since nobody really knows you or Alder.”

I swallowed. “And if I don’t?”

He paused. “Then Alder’s fate will be left to the council. And while it is technically undecided… the precedent is death. You see, turning someone without proper consent and authorization is a serious offense.”

The word landed like a blade.

I turned to Alder. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t plead. Just looked at me like he’d already accepted it.

“You knew that,” I whispered.

He nodded, eyes shining. “I knew. I just couldn’t let you go.”

I stared at him. At Cesare. At Riordan, who was now pretending to study the tapestry like it had suddenly become fascinating. My heart was a riot. My thoughts were a war.

I didn’t want this. I hadn’t asked for this.

But I had a daughter now. A tiny heartbeat that had become a blur on a screen, then a name, and now—now she was real. And I couldn’t leave her. Not to be raised by grief and guilt and a man who’d already broken the law to keep her mother alive.

Alive?
Wait. No. I wasn’t breathing anymore. I wasn’t alive, but I also was. Oh God. I was not breathing.

And Alder— I hadn’t been sure what I felt for him. Not really. Not until now.

Because the moment I imagined him raising her alone—his hands trembling as he tried to braid her hair, his voice cracking as he explained why her mother couldn’t come back— I knew.

I loved him. Against all odds and my best efforts. I did.

I looked down at my hands. They didn’t feel cold anymore. I felt temperature changes, but they no longer affected me now. My hands were shaking. As was my voice.

I nodded once. Then again, slower, at Cesare.

“Okay.”

View From Above

Forgotten Hollow looked like it was holding its breath.

From the tower room, the mist curled around rooftops like secrets. The trees swayed in slow motion. The sky was the color of old parchment. I pressed my fingers to the glass, watching the world below move without me.

It had been weeks since the court.

Weeks since I stood in front of a sea of vampires—actual vampires—and swore that I accepted what had been done to me. That I would embrace this new life. That I would not seek retribution. That I would not ask for Alder’s death.

The court had been more elaborate than I ever imagined. Columns carved with runes. Velvet drapes that whispered when you passed. A ceiling so high it felt like the stars were listening. I had expected a few dozen solemn faces. What I got was hundreds. Some looked like they’d stepped out of oil paintings. Others wore suits sharper than any mortal tailor could manage. And some… some were famous. People I’d seen in magazines. People I thought were long dead. Or never real.

Cesare had presided like a monarch sculpted from restraint. Graceful, stern, deliberate. His voice had carried like it had been trained in cathedrals. Riordan, for once, had been all professionalism—his usual irreverence tucked away beneath layers of decorum. And Lavinia… I had finally seen her. Riordan’s wife. The opera singer. She was luminous. And the way he looked at her—like she was the only thing that mattered in this world—had given me hope. Maybe being this didn’t mean I’d turn into a female version of Caelan. Maybe there was still softness. Still love. Maybe Alder would look at me like Riordan looked at Lavinia.

I hadn’t spoken to Alder since the trial. Not once.

I had refused to see him. Refused to let him in. I had been so angry at him. Yes, I understood—without his actions I would be gone. But maybe that was what I wanted. No more pain, no more worries, no more hurt. He had taken that from me, forever.

Cesare had said I needed time, and I had taken it. I’d had exactly two options: give up or get cracking. I had never been one to fold my cards easily, so I fought. If I had to be a vampire, I would be the best damn vampire imaginable. So I did what I had done since I was a schoolgirl. I learned all I could learn. I buried myself in lessons—survival, mostly. How to feed without frenzy. How to move without being seen. How to listen to the world with new senses that still felt like borrowed tools. My mind was still too mortal to grasp it all. I still thought in human terms. Still flinched at my own reflection. Still woke up expecting sunlight. Cesare had said it would take a while for me to change gears.

But when I held Catriona…

Everything changed.

There were feelings I didn’t have words for. Not maternal instinct. Not love. Something older. Something deeper. Like she was the tether keeping me from unraveling. Like she was the reason the transformation hadn’t shattered me completely.

I remembered the moment I stood to speak in court. Alder had been tense the entire time—shoulders tight, jaw clenched, eyes never leaving me. But when I said the words, when I swore my vow, he exhaled. Like he’d been holding that tension since the day I died.

If you’re wondering—as I’m sure you are—yes, that still felt weird. And probably always would.

But it was what it was now. I was, technically, dead. No heartbeat. No circulation. No pulse. Clinically, I was gone. Dead. Or better—undead.

Yet here I was, still writing this in the same voice as ever. If you have a better term for that, share it. Because it escapes me.

Alder had been pronounced innocent, released. Yet he hadn’t been let off scot-free. That would’ve been impossible. Cesare had sentenced him to full integration into the vampire community. No more rogue missions. No more selective attendance. He’d have to assist during all-hands-on-deck situations, attend every meeting, fulfill every task. He had accepted without hesitation.

Everything still felt surreal.

A knock came at the door.

Branwen entered, cradling Catriona in her arms. My body reacted before my mind did—I smiled, reached out, took her gently. She was warm. Real. Mine.

Branwen sat beside me, her eyes kind and knowing.

“I remember exactly how you feel,” she said softly.

I looked at her, unsure.

“I was turned by a rogue,” she continued. “A man I rejected. He didn’t take it well. Left me for dead. Same happened to Lavinia. She was stalked by a crazed fan. When she turned him down, he revealed what he was. Turned her. Abandoned her.”

I held Catriona tighter.

“Riordan had lost the love of his life—a mortal woman—to natural death. He went mad for a long time, worrying Cesare greatly as he was a loose cannon. When fate brought Lavinia to his doorstep, Cesare saw potential. Saw a match. He tasked Riordan with training Lavinia. You see, my husband is a very smart man. He went to Riordan, knowing his nephew still held a lot of gratefulness and respect for him, for all he had done for him, and he used that. Told him he didn’t have time to take on a new ward himself. Needed help. It was a chess move. And it worked. They fell fast. Hard. Riordan became himself again.”

Branwen smiled, eyes distant.

“I was turned in a time when women were pawns, only useful for keeping house, marriage and heirs. Just chess pieces. I landed on Cesare’s doorstep. He was pining after a mortal who’d never been his. Her name was Victoria, incidentally. You favor her, you know. Maybe that’s why he takes so kindly to you. I was bitter, much like you are now, resenting this life and everyone in it. But Cesare changed my mind, one tender gesture at a time. We can’t undo what has been done, but maybe we can find a way to make it work.”

I blinked.

“Vampires were hated back when I was turned. Monsters. Myths. Night frights. I was lucky to survive long enough to be found by one of Cesare’s patrols. He was already centuries old by the time we met. Unlikely to procreate. But with me being young and newly turned… we both found love, and it created Scarlett and Caelan. Most don’t see that side of Cesare, but I know he loves his family more than life itself. I see the same in your Alder.”

She looked at me, full of quiet strength.

“This life isn’t easy to understand. You’ve heard of the Great Unturning by now, I’m sure. Cesare and others found a cure—briefly. It worked for some, killed others. And it spread too fast. Too many unturned, too quickly. It weakened our community.
There were side effects. Some immediate. Some long-term. We lost control. We lost people. So many losses.
And it didn’t end there. Now, over two decades later, we’re losing family—grandchildren—to mortality they chose freely. It’s unbearable, watching them fade by choice. That’s why we’ve begun to distance ourselves from our mortal kin— while drawing the immortals closer than ever.
So, the council ended the Unturning, not long after it began. Vampirism was made final again. Not as a punishment. As a path. For good.
I know you hoped to return to heartbeat and breath. But I don’t want you chasing an impossible dream. I want you to thrive. And I know Cesare does too.
I understand why some wished to return to mortality. Many of my kin did. We’ve already lost some to time, and we’ll lose more yet. But I never fancied going back.
There’s merit to this life, if you let yourself see it. Take it in, Victoria. All of it. And then choose—whether to embrace it, or resent it for all eternity. Resentment will turn you bitter and cold.
We may feel cold to the touch, But I think you’ve already discovered— Many of us carry warmth in our voice, and in our actions.
You’re confused now. We’ve all been there.
Even those born into it feel the shift. One day they’re just children, teenagers— The next, they have fangs. And everything changes.
Change is never easy—even when it leads somewhere better. Maybe this change feels unbearable now. But maybe, in time, you’ll see it was a gift. It can be. If you let it.”

I felt something loosen in my chest. Like a knot that had been there since the turning.

Branwen stood, kissed my forehead, and took Catriona back into her arms.

“Alder’s downstairs,” she said with a wink. “Helping Cesare and Riordan archive old writs. She needs a nap.”

I nodded.

We understood each other without more words. She left. I stood.

The stairs felt longer than usual. My body moved differently now—quieter, smoother. I reached the study door and didn’t knock. Just entered.

Cesare was behind the desk, sorting scrolls and parchment with surgical precision. Riordan and Alder were bent over a credenza, flipping through brittle pages and leather-bound tomes. The room smelled like ink and old secrets.

They all looked up.

I didn’t speak. I walked straight to Alder.

He stood, uncertain. I slapped him. Hard.

He took it. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

Then I pulled him into a tight hug, buried my face in his shoulder, and kissed him like I was trying to rewrite the past, present and future.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was forgiveness. It was grief. It was love, finally spoken, without words.

He held me like he’d never let go again.

Dressing Room Talk

“I hate everything,” I groaned, arms flailing as I flopped backward onto the velvet chaise.

Branwen’s chambers were a swirl of silk and laughter—stunning evening gowns in taffeta, velvet, and lace strewn across every surface. Rhiannon adjusted her bodice in the mirror. Scarlett perched on the edge of the bed, brushing out her silky black hair like she was preparing for a coronation. Branwen herself sorted through a rack of gowns with the precision of a general preparing for war.

“You just had a baby,” Rhiannon said, amused. “You’re allowed to hate everything. We’ve all been there.”

“I don’t hate everything,” I muttered, sitting back up. “Just my wardrobe. And my boobs. And my hips. And this corset-thing that’s trying to assassinate me. I know I averted the worst birthing a human has to offer by getting myself turned right after passing out at the verge of death. I do know all this would be much worse if my body didn’t self-heal so fast now and all. I feel like I cheated my way into motherhood. But some things still take time.”

Scarlett giggled. “You look fine. We can loosen it a bit…”

I turned to her with a deadpan stare. “I look like a sausage in couture casing. And I’m one sneeze away from a full-scale tit eruption. My tatas are now classified as weapons of mass distraction.”

All four of us burst into laughter.

“Oh, something tells me our Alder isn’t complaining,” Rhiannon teased.

“Of course not,” Scarlett said, flipping her hair. “Poor guy can’t form a single coherent thought around Victoria anymore. Just you wait—in a few years, you’ll have caught up with Blaine and me in the kid count. Maybe even passed us, unless we have more accidents. Since we got unturned in between and accidentally made Blaine Jr, anything’s possible. We might’ve reset the vampire baby clock. In case nobody mentioned it, Victoria—vampires only have a limited fertility window. For natural-borns, it usually fades around the century mark. For turns, it varies.”

“Oh dear God,” Branwen groaned, clutching her proverbial pearls—or maybe just her sanity. “No more grandchildren out of you two, Scarlett! Take pity on the rest of us! One Blaine was hard enough, now we already have two. No more. Mercy us!”

Scarlett smirked. “You say that, but you were uber-grandma for all of our kids and still are to our little Blainey. You were front row at Blaine Jr.’s school talent show last week, filming like a stage mom and crying when he hit the high note.”

Branwen sniffed. “He was pitch-perfect and performed like a pro! And the lighting was excellent.”

Rhiannon laughed. “She’s already planning his Grammy campaign. And has a secret name list for your next batch, Letty!”

Branwen tried to hide a smile when she rose a warning finger at her daughter-in-law.

I raised a hand dramatically. “Guys, I didn’t even want to have one kid. I love my baby, but I’m not keen to add on. I just hope my boobage returns to normal—because if I had another, my boobs would arrive half an hour before the rest of me caught up.”

Scarlett snorted. “Mine never got that big. Six births, one of them twins, and I still had to pad my nursing bras. Blaine would probably love me sizing up like that.”

“Same,” Rhiannon said. “I kept waiting for the magical boob bloom. It never came. I wouldn’t mind giving Cae-Cae a little more to come home to after his hunts.”

Branwen, ever the maternal general, poured herself a glass of wine, took a sip, then came over to me. She began adjusting the corset this way and that, eventually calling Rhiannon over to assist.

I can honestly say, I do not recall a single moment in my life where I had one—let alone two—women pulling and shifting my boobs around while I clung to a dresser for dear life. Guess this is one of those “never say never” situations.

Scarlett cackled. “You’re officially one of us now. You’re a cool chick—you fit right in. I’ll admit, I was a little worried—knowing Alder—but he chose well. You’re great. Say what you will about my husband, but Blaine’s got a damn good radar for people. He called it right after we met you. Said you were the real deal and a keeper. And he was right.”

Then came the knock. Cesare’s voice followed, muffled but unmistakable as he entered—or tried to. “Branwen, my love… might I quickly—?”

“Nope!” Scarlett called, springing up like a cat in heels. “Sorry, Daddy. We’re corralling titties in here.”

“I beg your pardon?!”

She kissed his cheek, spun him like a ballroom dancer, gave him a nudge, and shut the door behind him with a dramatic flourish. The lock clicked.

“That was… harrowing,” I said, still breathless. “Yikes. The oldest, toughest, most powerful vampire alive—and now my… ‘king,’ I guess—just walked in on me with the boobies of doom spilling over a neckline designed by Satan’s seamstress with an evil grin.”

Branwen waved it off. “When he comes in here, he’s not the mighty Grand Master Elder. He’s just my husband. Trust me, he feels worse than you do now.”

Scarlett snorted. “You should’ve seen his face. Poor man looked like he’d walked into a battlefield made of lace and cleavage.”

Rhiannon doubled over, laughing. “I swear I saw his soul leave his body.”

Branwen smirked. “He’s faced rogue nests, border wars, and political coups. But four women halfway in and out of formalwear, trying to wrangle 34DD cleavage into a gown designed for a modest 36B?” She shook her head, eyes gleaming. “That’s his final boss battle. Poor sweet darling hubby—he never stood a chance.”

Her giggle was pure velvet and zero pity.

More laughter from all of us.

Eventually, Branwen guided me toward the mirror with gentle insistence, Rhiannon trailing behind to adjust the hem. I shuffled like a reluctant debutante, corset half-laced, boobs still semi-wrangled, and dignity hanging by a thread.

The bodice was doing that thing bras do when they’re too small in the cup—cutting in just enough to create a double-boob effect, like my cleavage had cleavage. It was less “elegant décolletage” and more “escaped pastry trying to re-enter the tin.” I groaned and grimaced.

Scarlett winced in sympathy. “That neckline’s fighting for its life. Honestly, this might be the most unflattering thing I’ve ever seen.”

Rhiannon nodded. “It’s giving ‘final round of a baking competition.’ Cake’s solid, but the pan was way too small.”

Branwen, ever the diplomat, adjusted the laces again and murmured, “We’ll smooth it out. You’re not a pastry. You’re a goddess in transition. A goddess who just gave life. And changed hers completely. Where there’s a will, there is a way.”

“I wish men had the babies. They never care about big body parts. Why us? Why me? At fifty.” I whined, then paused—realizing I actually looked younger.

Younger. Not just preserved. Better.

I don’t have a reflection anymore, so it’s not like I can randomly admire myself. It takes specialty mirrors now. Cell phone cameras work too, oddly enough. So do bodies of still water. Nobody’s ever explained why. Centuries of vamps have tried.

I was never the grandma type before, but now? I looked mid-thirties, maybe. Ha. How about that. Definitely a bonus.

“Well, what do you think?” Rhiannon asked, gesturing to my current ensemble with the kind of optimism reserved for lost causes.

I looked down. “Horrible. I look like a Victorian milkmaid who lost a duel with a curtain and then got dressed by a blindfolded ghost for her shift at the local whorehouse.”

Scarlett dropped her brush, snorting with laughter. Rhiannon doubled over, shoulders shaking. Branwen blinked twice, reached for the wine, and failed to sip—too busy laughing. In her defense, she did try to remain composed.

“You’re not wrong,” Scarlett said, trying to recover. “But you are vivid.”

Branwen muttered, “I need a stronger vintage.”

“And I need smaller boobs,” I deadpanned.

Scarlett tilted her head, trying to be diplomatic and failing. “I hate to say it, but… yeah. You look like someone’s first attempt at cosplay after binge-watching a period drama and misreading the assignment.”

I groaned. “Great. So I’m a Regency-era disaster with anime proportions. Like one of those manga girls with giant eyes, tiny waists, and boobs that defy gravity, logic and basic physics.”

Rhiannon wheezed. “You do have the ‘boobs drawn by a teenage boy’ thing going on.”

Scarlett nodded solemnly. “Yeah, your upstairs is what Blaine would draw if he could make a wish. He doesn’t know how to do subtle.”

I sighed. “Fantastic. I’m a fashion fever dream with comically oversized boobs and a neckline that’s losing the will to live.”

That sent us into another round of laughter—sharp, shameless, and absolutely necessary.

Scarlett tilted her head, assessing me like I was a fashion crime scene. “Ladies, we cannot send poor Victoria to her first real coven meeting looking like she’s one sneeze away from a catastrophic wardrobe malfunction. I think I might have something in my old room—a special occasions dress I left here years ago. It’s dramatic, forgiving, and less likely to burst into scandal.”

“Great,” I said dryly. “Then I just need something for the other leg.”

That did it. All four of us collapsed into laughter again.

“I know I’m not fat,” I added after some wheezing, “but I was never as waif-thin as you, Scarlett. No way I would fit in any of your clothes. How in the world did you pop out eight kids with a figure like that?”

“It was only seven,” she corrected, smirking. “I just helped raise the eighth, Blaine’s late first wife did the production on Blake.”

“Oh well, then,” I said, waving a hand. “That explains everything.”

Laughter erupted again while Scarlett disappeared and returned minutes later with a garment bag. She unzipped it with a flourish.

Inside was a gown that looked like moonlight had been spun into fabric. Soft silver silk, layered with translucent panels that shimmered like mist. The bodice was structured but forgiving, with delicate embroidery that traced the neckline like ivy. A matching shawl hung beside it—light, sheer, and edged in starlight.

I stepped into it slowly, carefully. It fit as it was adjustable in all the right places. Branwen helped with the laces. Rhiannon adjusted the hem. Scarlett draped the shawl over my shoulders.

There was no more breath to catch. No pulse to race. But something shifted in me.

Branwen turned the mirror toward me—one of the special ones, the kind that reflected vampires properly. Regular mirrors didn’t show us. Not anymore. Not since the turning.

I was never vain, but that part would take time. Us girls know—shop windows, bathroom mirrors, elevator panels—they’re not just glass. They’re outfit checks. Sanity checks. Little moments of reassurance. Not for me. Not anymore.

I see everything but me now.

I stared.

The dress matched my eyes.

They had always been a strange mix—grey, green, blue—but now they shimmered with the preternatural sheen all vampires carried. It made mine look silver, like moonlight on water. Like memory. Like myth. I definitely didn’t hate what I saw. Not one bit.

The gown didn’t hide me. It revealed me. Not the woman I had been, but the one I had become.

“You look beautiful,” Branwen said softly.

“Like a queen,” Rhiannon added.

“Stunning. Like a vampire who’s about to make history,” Scarlett said, winking.

I smiled.

And for the first time since the turning, I saw myself clearly.

A Future Proposed

The hollows of the Castello di Vannucci were carved from shadow and silence.

Ancient stone arched overhead like the ribs of a sleeping beast. Candles flickered in iron sconces. The air smelled of parchment, moss, and memory. This was where the Convocation of the Veil met—an ancestral gathering of vampire kind, held only when legacy demanded it.

I stepped into the chamber like moonlight incarnate.

Heads turned. Conversations faltered. Even the oldest among them—those who hadn’t blinked in centuries—seemed to pause.

The gown shimmered with every movement, silver silk catching the candlelight like water catching stars. The shawl floated behind me like mist. I didn’t walk. I arrived.

Scarlett swept past me, her own gown trailing like firelight, and found Blaine with a wink and a kiss. Rhiannon peeled off toward Caelan, who was already watching her like she was the only thing in the room. Branwen moved with quiet grace, joining Cesare at the far end of the hall, their hands meeting like a ritual.

And I remained.

Alone in the center. Staring at Alder. Who was staring at me. Mesmerized.

Alder’s chin nearly hit his knees.

His eyes widened, then narrowed, then widened again—like his brain was trying to reboot in real time. He looked devastating himself: dressed in elegant black, tailored to perfection, with a high collar and subtle embroidery that hinted at old blood and quiet power. Not a trace of his usual bookish awkwardness. He looked like a vampire prince. My vampire prince.

But the way he looked at me—like I’d just rewritten gravity—was the real transformation.

He rose as I approached, silent, stunned, reverent.

“Victoria,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

I took his arm. “You clean up well.”

He blinked. “You… you look…”

“Like someone who’s about to make history?” I offered, echoing Scarlett.

He nodded slowly. “Like someone who already did.”
And then, softly—like the words had been waiting centuries for her—he spoke again.
“You look like a secret the stars kept,” he murmured. “Like dusk woven into silk. Like every poem I never finished because I hadn’t met you yet. You are absolutely positively ravishing.”

Then, without thinking, he lifted my hand to his lips.

It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t ceremonial. It was instinct—like his soul needed to anchor itself to mine before the room swallowed us whole.

His lips brushed my knuckles with the kind of reverence reserved for relics, vows, and women who’d survived fire.

I didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink.

And then we sat—side by side, myth-bound and moonlit—as the Convocation began. I sat beside Alder near the front of the grand hall, surrounded by newer vampires dressed in modern fashion and those immortals whose names were older than empires, clad in elaborate fashions of times long past. I will admit this was fascinating. Alder had avoided these gatherings for decades. But part of his redemption was attendance. Mine was curiosity. I came to learn faster. To understand what I’d become.

Cesare stood at the center dais, flanked by Riordan and Caelan. His voice echoed through the chamber like a verdict.

I glanced toward Caelan.

He wasn’t ancient—not like some of the others. Just over a century old. Young, by immortal standards. But he carried himself like someone who’d lived through fire and come out forged.

It still baffled me—how he had fathered Alder.

Caelan stood like a blade—tall, severe, all sharp lines and silent judgment. His posture was perfect, his gaze unflinching. He looked like he’d never laughed in his life. Like he’d never needed to.

And yet… there it was.

The tilt of the chin. The way he scanned the room—not just for threat, but for meaning. The quiet calculation behind the eyes. Alder had that too. Softer, gentler, buried under layers of awkward charm and academic rambling—but it was there. The same instinct. The same spine.

I wondered what Caelan saw when he looked at Alder now. A disappointment? A miracle? Or just the echo of a son who’d chosen a different kind of power.

Alder’s hand was still in mine. He hadn’t let go.
And I didn’t want him to.

“Recent events have tested our laws, our loyalties, and our legacy,” he said. “Remedial actions have been taken. Rogue turnings addressed. Borders reinforced. The veil remains intact.”

Alder squeezed my hand. Smiled.

I smiled back. And for a moment, it felt like this was always how it was meant to be—like fate had been quietly threading me toward this moment all along.

Riordan spoke next—gentle, eloquent, his voice like a lullaby for the damned. He welcomed new initiates, honored the fallen, and reminded us that love was still possible, even in the dark.

Then Caelan stepped forward. His report was brief, clinical.

“Four rogue nests eliminated. Two border breaches repelled. One internal threat neutralized. We remain secure.”

I listened.

His voice was cool, even, edged like steel. But there was something in it—something low and deliberate—that tugged at me. The timbre. The cadence. The way he clipped his sentences like they were too sharp to soften.

It was Alder’s voice, stripped of warmth.

Not the tone. Caelan’s was colder, honed by command and consequence. But the structure was the same. The rhythm. The restraint. The way both men spoke when they didn’t want their emotions to show.

I glanced between them.

The posture—straight-backed, chin slightly lifted, eyes scanning not just for threat but for nuance. Alder did that too. Less like a soldier, more like a scholar trying to read a room before it read him.

Even the silence after speaking. That pause. That stillness. It was in both of them.

I wondered if Caelan saw it. If he recognized the echo. Or if he’d spent so long expecting Alder to be someone else that he’d missed the ways his son had always been his.

Cesare returned to the center. “If anyone has questions, concerns, or declarations to make before the Convocation, speak now.”

Alder squeezed my hand again. Then raised the other.

“I do.”

Cesare sighed, already weary. “Mr. Alder Davenport… of course you do. Please, my boy. Speak.”

“May we come up?” Alder asked. “What I have to say is for everyone present to acknowledge.”

Cesare waved a hand. “Proceed.”

Alder stood, pulling me gently to my feet. I felt every eye in the room burn into me as we ascended the stairs. The dais was slightly elevated, but it felt like a mountain.

He bowed to Cesare, murmured thanks, then turned to the sea of faces with a confidence I had never seen in him before.

“I have been absent,” he began. “Bitter. Detached. For decades, I let grief and resentment rot me from the inside. I chose solitude. Isolation. I watched the world change and refused to change with it. I wasted time. I wasted love. I wasted myself.”

The room held its breath.

“But sometimes,” he continued, “a single event rewrites everything. A heartbeat. A name. A woman who walks into your life and doesn’t ask for anything—but gives you everything.”

He turned to me. Took my hands.

“I couldn’t feel anything anymore, Victoria. Not truly. Not deeply. Just emotional static. I thought you were a distraction. Then you became an addiction. An affliction. And now… you are my future. My focus. My fire. The axis my eternity turns on.”

He knelt.

And from his coat pocket, he drew a ring.

It wasn’t ostentatious. It was ancient. A band of platinum etched with runes so fine they shimmered like whispers. At its center sat a single moonstone—pale, opalescent, like a frozen tear.

“I no longer ask humbly for forgiveness—you’ve already gifted me that grace. Now I ask boldly for forever. Will you marry me, Victoria—and make me the luckiest man to ever walk beneath the stars?”

I couldn’t think, act, move. Total eclipse of the brain.

I looked at Cesare with wild doe eyes. He gave a slow, regal shrug—permission, not approval. A gesture that said, This is your choice. And it will echo.

Riordan smiled, eyes warm, and nodded once. The kind of nod that carried centuries. The kind that said, Yes. Let it be.

Then I looked at Caelan.

He hadn’t moved. His expression was unreadable, carved from restraint. But his gaze was locked on Alder—not with judgment, not with pride. Just… stillness. A pause. Like he was recalibrating the shape of his son in real time.

And maybe—just maybe—there was something in his eyes. Not warmth. Not softness. But recognition. The quiet kind. The kind that doesn’t ask for forgiveness, only understanding.

I turned to the front row.

Branwen sat like a queen, lips parted, eyes shining. She didn’t speak, but her hand pressed to her heart like she was holding something sacred.

Rhiannon was already crying—silent tears, proud and unashamed.

Scarlett grinned like she’d orchestrated the whole thing. She gave me a wink so sharp it could’ve sliced through fate itself.

And beside her, Blaine leaned in and whispered something that made her snort—loud enough to earn a sharp nudge from Branwen and a raised warning finger.

He held up his hands in mock surrender, mouthing, “What? I said it was romantic.”

Scarlett elbowed him. “You called him whipped.”

Blaine shrugged. “Same thing.”

Branwen sighed like she was reconsidering motherhood entirely.

Then, just as the silence began to stretch again, Blaine cupped his hands around his mouth and called out in a theatrical, nasal voice that fooled no one:

“Shit or get off the pot—say yes already!”

A ripple of laughter broke through the solemnity. Heads turned. No one needed to guess.

Scarlett slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with mock horror. “Oh my God, Blaine!” she hissed, trying not to laugh.

Branwen gave him another elbow, this one sharper. Her warning finger rose again, trembling with maternal fury and barely concealed amusement.

But I smiled.

Because of course Blaine would say something off-color in the middle of a historic proposal. And of course Scarlett would laugh. And of course Branwen would try to keep order while failing gloriously.

They were my chaos. My chorus. My coven. This was my people now.

And Alder was still kneeling.

Waiting.

Not demanding. Not performing.

Just offering.

The chamber held its breath.

I looked back at Alder.

Then the audience, realizing just a simple answer wouldn’t do here. I was a writer, so, let’s be poetic, I thought to myself. And then I spoke.

“My former life crashed and burned before I met you,” I said. “It buried me beneath the ruins—alone, desolate, and half-feral. I was still digging myself out when I found a nerdy roommate, ignored by most and worse than elusive. Though I’ll admit, I always thought you were cute. And special. Even long before I knew you were a vampire with a gift for stories and a past that reads like a tragedy penned in candlelight by someone who enjoyed wine and opium a little too much.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

“Initially I fell for your usual invisibility cloak—hiding in plain sight, acting as harmless as a newborn kitten, forgettable—fooled me like it fooled everyone else. I judged the book by its cover. And I was wrong. You were overlooked by all, which was your tactic, but you were there when I needed you to be. You showed me your true colors, and I fell hopelessly in love with that version, the true you. We both made mistakes. But we are fixing them together. At first it was very hard for me to understand why you did what you did, but I think I am starting to see it. You changed the entire trajectory of my life. I had nothing left. You gave me a future, a new career, hope. You gave me eternity. You made me a mother. A lover. A fighter. A vampire. You gave me a new beginning. You are my renaissance.”

I paused. Let the silence hold.

“So, because of all that—and to put Blaine out of his misery and to ‘shit’, since I really do not want to get off this pot we’re on together: Yes,” I said. “I will marry you, Alder.”

The chamber collectively relaxed. Applause rose.

Scarlett let out a whoop that echoed like a victory cry. Rhiannon clapped her hands over her mouth, sobbing openly now. Branwen gave a slow, solemn nod—then elbowed Blaine when he shot to his feet, fists raised like he’d just won a championship.

“That’s my girl, yeah!” he shouted, voice echoing off the stone.

Scarlett yanked him back down by the coat. “Sit your ass down, Blaine!”

Branwen gave him a glare so sharp it could’ve cut through marble. He grinned, unrepentant.

Even Cesare smiled—just barely. A flicker at the corner of his mouth, like history had just done something he hadn’t predicted, but condoned.

Caelan didn’t move. But his gaze lingered on Alder, and for the first time, I saw something shift. Not approval. Not pride. Just… a softening. A recalibration. A quiet maybe. Maybe this stranger could become his son—not just in genetics shared long ago, but in legacy. In choice.

And Alder—my Alder—briefly closed his eyes.

When he opened them, the tension was gone.

He slipped the ring onto my finger, hands steady, reverent.

I couldn’t believe I was standing here in this crazy, unbelievable place, promising to get married again. Not just to anyone—but to him. To the vampire who had rewritten my story with ink, blood, and myth. Helped me rise from the ashes.

Around us, the hollows erupted.

Applause. Cheers. Even a few ancient chants I didn’t understand—low, melodic, echoing through the stone like old magic waking up. He looked at me like I was the first page of a story he’d never dared to write.

And then he kissed me.

Not hungrily. Not theatrically. Just… reverently.

Like he was sealing a vow. Like he was anchoring eternity to a single moment.

The crowd roared louder. Blaine shouted something unintelligible and triumphant. Scarlett laughed so hard she nearly fell off her seat. Branwen wiped her eyes with a silk handkerchief and muttered, “Finally.”

And I—

I kissed him back.

Because this was our beginning.

Ashes and ink.

And everything after.

Forever after.

Cesare stepped forward, placed a hand on Alder’s shoulder, then mine.

“Let it be known,” he said, voice ringing, “that this union is witnessed, honored, and blessed by the Convocation of the Veil. A proper wedding shall follow, as tradition demands. Congratulations to you both. Victoria, I would like to add that you are not the only one changed here. The renaissance you speak of also happened to Alder. My grandson. Yes, everyone, you hear me. Let it be known, Alder Davenport is my legitimate—and herewith fully acknowledged—grandson. Blood of my blood, a true Vannucci, even if not in name.”

Alder smiled, pulled me back into his arms, then kissed me like the past, the present and the future had been rewritten.

And maybe it had.

🪶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.