🪶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. Vampire. Mother.
Born in Windenburg. Resides in Unit 3B of Montfort Court Rowhouses in Henfordshire. Recently turned vampire—without consent—by Alder in a desperate act to save her life during childbirth. She is recovering emotionally and physically, navigating her new existence with fierce vulnerability and mythic resolve. Mother to Catriona Sinclair, named in honor of Alder’s late mother. Her art and writing now carry the weight of immortality, legacy, and maternal fire.

“I didn’t ask for eternity. But I’ll make it mean something.”

Alder Davenport – Ageless, born in Innisgreen, raised and rooted in Henfordshire. Alder Davenport—a name forged from grief and defiance. Turned the mother of his child without authorization, risking execution to save her life. Pardoned after a public trial where she defended him. Deeply in love and fully integrated into the vampire community. Quietly powerful, emotionally fluent, and devoted to both Victoria and their daughter, Catriona.

“I gave her my blood. She gave me a life.”

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, commands it with icy elegance. Appears early thirties, silver-eyed and unreadable. Older sister to Caelan, wife 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.

The Abbey, the Rowhouse, and the Overgrown Toddler

We planned a wedding—something small, because let’s face it, neither Alder nor I had long lists of people we knew, and even fewer we actually wanted at our wedding. While Cesare graciously offered the ballroom at his castle, and admittedly ever since awakening with my new dental layout it had lost some of the initial creepiness, neither Alder nor I were too keen on it. I already had my big wedding a long time ago and Alder couldn’t care less, but eloping felt wrong, so mostly to preserve optics, we chose the small abbey in Henfordshire. Or tried to.

Well. Let me tell you this bit.

Scarlett had become the closest thing to a friend I’ve had in a very long time. So had Rhiannon. Even Lavinia, Riordan’s wife—almost inevitable, since I spend so much time at the castle now. Somehow, despite us all being from vastly different backgrounds, we vibed. Not in a forced, “let’s do brunch” kind of way. More the kind that knows how to soothe a newborn while explaining vampire etiquette and how not to accidentally use compulsion on the mailman. Please don’t ask. There really is a LOT more to this vamp thing than meets the eye.

Scarlett came to Henfordshire, to our small rental rowhouse, to help me plan the wedding and give a few more pointers with the baby. I mean, that woman raised eight—and several fosters, as I found out later. She’s grace incarnate in a sea of chaos, the kind that tells it to you straight without hurting your feelings too much.

Blaine was along for the ride and mostly annoying. Sorry. I know he’s a fan favorite and all the women love him, but in my home—where delicate painting supplies live and breathe—he was like an overgrown toddler with a caffeine addiction. He touched everything. He hummed constantly. He rearranged my brushes “for better flow.” Insisted a sculpture work in process in the corner was going to be a pottery dildo. I decided to meet him down in the gutter for my retort when I told him I didn’t need one, as I had a fiancé for such things, making Alder spit out his tea and for a moment I wasn’t so convinced vampires couldn’t choke to death, between poor Alder trying to get his bearing and Blaine literally rolling with laughter across the bed. Yes, I know, a lot of women would consider this the highlight of their lives having THE Blaine Cameron in their bed, to me is was nothing but ‘too much’. Especially with dirty shoes on. Eew.

“I really wanted an autumn wedding here at the old abbey,” I sighed, pointing out the window across the marketplace where the centuries-old building stood like a stone sentinel. “Something mid to late October.”

“But?” Scarlett asked, already sensing the punchline.

“Booked solid through next year. Who knew we lived across such a hotspot for weddings and communions and whatever else people do in sacred spaces.”

“Ah!” Blaine made, rolled off my bed, then vanished.

Ok.

I didn’t even ask. I’ve learned not to.

About ten minutes later, he was back—handing me paperwork with a theatric flourish that would’ve seemed sarcastic if you saw him. Shaggy, wild longer hair. Light jade green eyes. A black leather jacket with studs and decorative zippers. Faded blue jeans that—fine, I’ll admit—did right by his ass, accentuating long legs and a lanky frame that somehow still read masculine, despite the cheeky tees he always wore. Every single time I’d seen him, it was either his own branded merch or something like “I Taught Christian Grey All That Shit”, “Orgasm Donor”, or “That’s Not a Good Sign” with a stick figure pointing at a sign reading BAD. That type.

I unfolded the papers. Scarlett leaned in on one side. Alder came over and looked over my other shoulder. And I started to believe in the Easter Bunny as I looked up at Blaine.

“How?!” I muttered.

He smirked and shrugged, self-righteous and smug. “Well, sometimes it’s who you blow, and sometimes who you know. Turns out when I ask, doors open. So you won’t have to blow nobody, you know the right dude. You’re welcome!”

I thanked him and rose to hug him. I have to admit—it wasn’t terrible. This man had something. More than just charisma. I was starting to see why Scarlett put up with his crap. She was stunning. She could have any man—and not just using vampiric mind tricks like compulsion. Yeah, some of the more seasoned ones could do that. I was learning it.

It was hard.

As was vampiric speed. They all made it look so easy. Like you get turned and suddenly you’re a ballet dancer with fangs.

Wrong.

Nope.

Either way, turned out Blaine actually had a sweet side to him, as he now hugged me, snuggled me and kissed my cheek. Not the silly smooching. Gentle. Nice. It surprised me.

Which leads me to another moment where he actually came through for me.

The Unexpected Mentor

This time I was at his mansion in the prestigious hills of Del Sol Valley. That thing is gigantic. I can see how a couple could can have eight kids and some fosters here and it not feel even remotely crowded. You could live here and not run into another person for days.

Well, after we got the tour I was even more impressed. Not just the sheer size and number of rooms, but the things here. Walls laden with photos of people we’d all heard of—most of them relatives. A state-of-the-art recording studio made my eyes go big. A frankly ridiculous number of instruments filled the studio and spilled into the rest of the house. Blaine floored both of us when he casually answered my question about whether he could play them all. Yup. He was a master. Then again, he was over a hundred years old. Plenty of time to learn. I figured in another five decades, I’d be really good at something too.

At some point, Blaine found me standing by the patio door — a massive window front with the most amazing views of the sun lowering over the Del Sol Valley skyline on one side and the ocean on the other.

His voice came from behind me, low and raspy, like a bassline wrapped in denim. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

I turned slightly. “Sorry?”

“The time till you can go out again without smelling like a college dorm kitchen. Burned AF.”

“How did you…?”

“Been there, done that.” He stepped beside me, his boots silent on the polished floor. “Girl, I had to stumble a lot before I could run. I’m not exactly famous for being subtle.”

“Could’ve fooled me…” I said, my tone warm but dripping with sarcasm — the kind that paints in broad strokes when I’m tired.

Blaine laughed, a full-bodied sound like a guitar riff that didn’t care who was listening. He wrapped an arm around my shoulder, casual and familiar. “I like you. You’ve got spunk. When I heard ole Alder hooked up with some older widow in Henfordshire, my feet went to sleep. I had no clue that dude could land someone with a bite like you — pun totally intended.”

I took the compliment and smiled. Then he launched into way too many details about his accidental turning. I’ll spare you. I’m not exactly prude, but that was way TMI. Let’s just say it involved him and Scarlett in their bedroom at a level that was about to set off the fire alarms. She got a little too carried away and… well. Chomp.

“Ha, and as you found out firsthand with your Alder situation, Cesare doesn’t take kindly to shit happening without him rubberstamping it. Oh, he was so mad at us. I’ve pissed that man off like it was my hobby — not as much as Caelan, because that actually is one of my favorite hobbies — but Cesare was red hot for a long time.”

He paced a little, voice rising and falling like a stage monologue. “Of course we had to have a court about it too, and everyone got a demo of how powerful that man actually is when some Karen in the audience questioned why the death penalty wasn’t even on the menu for Scarlett turning me just like that. Cesare flipped his shit so bad — super quiet at first — asking that Vamp-Karen if she was seriously suggesting having his only son kill his only daughter. Collective gulp in the audience.”

He turned to me, eyes gleaming. “In case you haven’t caught on, while Cesare would never admit it, Scarlett is his favorite. Apple of his eye. Branwen’s too. Don’t make the mistake of dismissing Mrs. Vannucci either. She’s very quiet and seems demure, but she has Cesare’s balls in a glass on her nightstand.”

I snorted, half horrified, half impressed.

“And there is no vamp currently on this earth more powerful than ye ol’ Cesare. So, in case you were wondering how I get away with fucking with Caelan as much as I do, there is your answer. He wouldn’t dare.”

He paused, voice dropping into something darker. “Scarlett died, you know that? Like, for real. So did I. We were starting to lose our kids to old age and couldn’t handle it, so when that was still possible, we got unturned — after much reluctance from Cesare. I accidentally knocked her up again. As vamps, that had kinda run its course, but re-humanized? Our shit started working again.”

His voice cracked slightly, then steadied. “Well, our happy fluffy fairy tale crash landed nine months later when my babygirl died in childbirth and my world ended. I hate recycled names — I have one, named after my great-grandpappy — but she really wanted to name our kid after me, so I did, in her honor. I made it a year after. I just… died. Legit simply stopped living, just like that. In my grandson Connor’s guestroom too. He’s still trying to kick my ass for that.”

I swallowed hard, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged, eyes distant. “It’s part of the story. The messy, mythic, ridiculous story. Branwen — Cesare’s wife — begged him to bring Scarlett back. She rarely asks for anything, and Cesare can’t say no to her. And since they knew Letty would be miserable without me, they brought me back too. Caelan’s illegitimate necromancer daughter Leeora did the honors.”

He winked. “So yeah, in a roundabout way you’re talking to a zombie, girlfriend. No worries though, I have no taste for brains. I would’ve starved a long time ago in this here town. Del Sol Valley isn’t famous for brilliance — just actors, musicians, lawyers, cosmetic surgeons, plastic and silicone.”

Smirking—and for added shock factor, I’m sure—he planted a hearty kiss on my cheek. I was too busy processing all that, unclear whether to be amazed, appalled, or some unnamed feeling.

I blinked at him. “A zombie …” I parroted.

“Technically,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “But a sexy one. Like if Tim Burton and a Calvin Klein ad had a baby.”

I snorted, letting the sarcasm drip just enough to make him grin. “Yeah, right. Don’t forget humble.”

Blaine laughed — that full-bodied, rockstar laugh that sounded like it belonged on a stadium mic. “Nah, nobody ever accused me of that. But you’re adorable when you’re overwhelmed.”

He nudged me with his shoulder, then gestured dramatically toward the couch like it was a throne. “Come on, sit. I’ll give you the crash course.”

He dragged me to one of the oversized couches that looked like it had eaten three smaller couches and a chaise lounge for dessert. I sank in, legs folding under me, while Blaine perched like a caffeinated crow on the armrest.

“Lesson one,” he said, holding up a finger. “You’re gonna crave blood at the worst possible times. Like, during PTA meetings. Or while watching cooking shows. Or when your fiancé is shirtless and chopping garlic and you suddenly want to bite him and not in the fun way.”

I blinked. “Alder’s a vampire. He doesn’t chop garlic and even I know vampires don’t bite each other — unless it’s in the fun way.”

Blaine froze for half a beat, then broke into a grin so wide it could’ve powered a stadium. “Ohhh, I like that,” he said, voice dropping into a gravelly purr. He pointed at me with both hands like he’d just heard a killer guitar solo. “Ten points to our baby vamp here for the spicy delivery.”

I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t help smiling.

“Right,” he continued, still smirking. “Then substitute mailman. Or the guy delivering your blood packs. Or literally anyone who smells vaguely edible. It happens. Ask me how I know.”

He leaned in conspiratorially, voice low and melodic — the kind of tone that belonged backstage at a rock concert or whispered across velvet sheets. “In my early days, I got my butt spanked by Scarlett for accidental nibble attacks on unapproved targets more than I care to recall. And trust me, she doesn’t do gentle reprimands. She does full-on lecture-with-a-lash.”

He paused, then added with a wink and a grin that could’ve sold out stadiums, “And I normally don’t mind a spanking from her — but only in the right context.”

I groaned. “Yeah. I know what you mean. That’s why Alder hardly ever leaves me alone. If he has to go somewhere, Branwen, Scarlett, Rhiannon, or Lavinia babysit me. Worst of all is that I still can’t eat normal food. Cesare said the injections take time.”

“They do,” Blaine said, patting my knee. “And you’ll be tempted. Oh, you’ll be tempted. I know my skinny ass don’t look it, but this boy here likes food. I once tried to eat a croissant two weeks in. Thought I was ready. It smelled divine. I took one huge-ass bite and projectile-puked across a five-star restaurant. Hit a chandelier. Scarlett still tells that story at parties. Loudly. With sound effects.”

I snorted. “That’s horrifying.”

“It was majestic. Like a vampire rendition of The Exorcist. Good thing I’m a rock musician and that was booked under ‘eccentric.’ People just kinda expect me to do weird unexpected shit. You’ll get there. Just don’t rush it. And for the love of all things undead, don’t try sushi until month seven at the earliest. Trust me. Without going into too many details, while we can eat and taste foods again once the magic starts working, our bodies don’t process the food, so you’ll have to get used to it coming out the way it went in. It’ll be a trip. But chewed up sushi comes out looking like raw meat with maggots in it, the rice, until your body makes some juices that can break it down a bit.”

I nodded, filing that away under never, ever, EVER.

“Speed’s another beast,” Blaine continued. “You’ll think you’ve got it. You’ll feel fast. You’ll feel powerful. Exhilarated. And then you’ll crash into a wall trying to grab a baby bottle and take out half the kitchen.”

“That already happened,” I muttered. “Our landlady was not impressed by the damage, and we weren’t impressed by the bill she handed us to get it fixed. Can’t afford too many crashes like that.”

Blaine burst out laughing, loud and unfiltered. “Oh my god, that’s rich. You broke the kitchen and got invoiced for it? Welcome to the club, babe. We’re all just glorified wrecking balls for the first few months. Luckily, I own this shed and could afford to put the kids of several contractors through college with all the fixes I needed.
I always have to laugh at vampire movies—when they turn people and they rise like demons on crack. In reality? The first year after getting turned leaves you feeling goofy and awkward on the best days while trying not to end up smoking well done because you forgot not to go outside just yet. Like, ‘Oops, I just yeeted myself through a wall trying to grab a spoon.’ That kind of vibe.”

Then he leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Yeah, for better or worse, you’re one of us now. Lisp and all. All of us turned ones get that—the born vamps somehow adjust quicker. I sounded like a psycho with a schoolgirl fetish for months till I relearned how to talk and sing with fangs.
You still give ‘All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth.’”

“Wow, thanks much,” I said, mildly annoyed but more amused. It was true.

He leaned back, arms stretched across the couch like he owned the universe. “And then there’s porting. Two words for ya: Forget it. You’re lightyears from that. Took me many years and I wanted nothing more than that. And even now, I still occasionally end up in the wrong room if I’m distracted—which happens a lot because I’ve got a squirrel for a brain. Once ported into a broom closet during a live interview. Had to pretend it was a metaphor I was trying to make. Again, laughed off as me being the eccentric rockstar.”

I laughed. “Cesare won’t even train me on that yet. He’s training Alder and it’s going slower than molasses in winter. And Alder has almost a century of a headstart being a vamp.”

“Yeah, see, that’s the nice thing about us being immortal. Time doesn’t matter anymore. Unfortunately, that helps jackshit with impatience. Just hang in there. You’ll get there. You learn. You trip. You break things. You cry. You laugh. You projectile-puke croissants. And eventually, you get the hang of it all and become something new.
And that’s when life really starts. Trust me on that one. You’ll think of my words someday and go, ‘Damn, that dumbfuck was onto something there.’”

I looked at him. “I don’t think of you as dumb. I’m not either, and I can tell it’s an act you routinely put on. But okay. So… you really died? That wasn’t a joke, was it?”

Blaine blinked, then gave me a slow, crooked smile. “Well damn. You see right through me, huh?”

He leaned back, arms stretched across the couch like he was settling into a confession booth made of leather and ego. “Yeah. I play dumb. It’s easier. People underestimate you, expect less, forgive more. And when you do something brilliant, it looks like magic. But you—you barely just met me and you clocked it. Respect. Not a dummy yourself, huh?”

He nodded, eyes softer now. “And yeah, we both croaked at some point. Scarlett and I chose to get unturned. Wanted to grow old with our kids—the two oldest were born mortal, the others chose to get unturned—and we didn’t want to bury them all. Wanted to do that circle of life thing and lead the way for our kiddos and grandkiddies. Wanted to be human again. And we were. For a while.”

“What happened?”

“She got pregnant. We didn’t expect it. Vampirism had dulled all that—I’m sure you were told that after so many decades your shit just dries up and it takes a miracle to procreate. But once rehumanized, biology kicked back in full gear. We were thrilled. Terrified. And then… she died in childbirth. Our son lived. But I didn’t. Not really. I tried to hold on. For him. Do his momma proud. But I broke. A year later, I just… stopped.”

I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “It’s part of the story. The messy, mythic, ridiculous story. Branwen—Cesare’s wife—begged him to bring Scarlett back. She rarely asks for anything, and Cesare can’t say no to her. And since they knew Letty would be miserable without me, they brought me back too. Caelan’s illegitimate necromancer daughter Leeora did the honors. Cesare is 100% against raising dead, but Branwen gets what Branwen wants. And between you and I, if you haven’t already figured that out, Scarlett is the apple of Cesare’s eye, his clear favorite. Pisses Caelan off, but he won’t fuck with big daddy.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. So technically, I’m a zombie. But a sexy one. With fangs. And I play mean guitar riffs and can fuck like the devil possessed—ask Scarlett.” He grinned, fully aiming for effect.

I rolled my eyes. “I feel mentally enriched knowing that. Thanks.”

“You’re also impatient,” he said, poking my arm with a smirk. “Which brings me to lesson four: Daywalking. You’ll get there. But until the meds kick in fully, you’re gonna smell like burnt toast if you push it. And if you’ve ever had a bad burn and thought that was bad? You’re in for a real surprise. Advice from someone who would know: don’t push it.”

“That’s not encouraging.”

“Not meant to be, cos neither was the time I lounged poolside, living my best undead life, yelling at the kids for burning stuff on the BBQ—only to realize the burnt smell wasn’t singed burgers. It was me. Daddy Blaine, extra-crispy. Do not recommend.”

I burst out laughing, snorting. “You’re insane.”

“Nah, I’m experienced,” he said, grinning. “And apparently your mentor now. Guess I’ll have to take you under my wing.”

I looked up at him. “You’re being weirdly nice.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he said, nudging me hard with his shoulder like we’d been friends forever. “I still think your sculpture looks like a sad baguette.”

“It’s a grieving angel.”

“Sure it is. Weird shape for a pleasure toy, but hey—live your truth, girl.”

This time I punched his arm like an old friend and we both laughed.

We sat there for a while, watching the last sliver of sun disappear behind the hills. I didn’t say anything. Neither did he. But it felt… okay. Like maybe this new life wasn’t all chaos and compulsion and broken doorframes.

Maybe it had room for friendship. For laughter. For healing.

Even if it came wrapped in leather jackets and inappropriate t-shirts.

A Moment

Henfordshire dusk was soft that evening — the kind that wraps around rooftops like a shawl and makes the whole town feel like it’s holding its breath. Inside our townhome, the fire crackled low, casting golden light across the sitting room. Alder and I were curled together on the velvet settee, our daughter Catriona asleep in the bassinet nearby, her tiny chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm, her heartbeat steady and warm.

His arm was around my shoulders, thumb tracing lazy circles against my collarbone. I was half-dozing, head tucked beneath his chin, both of us quiet in the way only vampires can be — no breath, no pulse, just stillness and silence.

“I talked to Scarlett today,” I murmured. “She still thinks I should go with the deep plum, claims whites are for first time brides and lame for vamps. Rhiannon says definitely ivory. Branwen’s pushing for champagne or gold, and Lavinia sent me a mood board that looks like a funeral in Versailles.”

Alder made a noise that could’ve been a groan or a laugh. “You know I have no opinion on this.”

“Of course you do. You just haven’t discovered it yet. Your wedding too.”

“I’m wearing black.”

“You always wear black.”

“Exactly.”

I smiled, eyes fluttering open. “I still can’t believe Blaine got us an Autumn date at the abbey. Just after the equinox. It’s perfect. Maybe I should go with ivory or champagne and some autumnal shades as accent.”

He glanced at the bassinet, his expression softening. “She’s old enough to be there for the ceremony. Unless she starts screaming.”

“She’ll be adorable. I already have her dress picked out.”

“Of course you do.”

I reached for his hand. “I want her to grow up knowing she’s loved. Not just by us, but by the world we build around her.”

“She can’t help that with you as her mom,” he said.

We sat like that for a while, wrapped in quiet joy, the kind that feels like it could last forever. The kind that makes you believe in happy sappy endings.

Vanishing Act

I came home late the next day, arms full of fabric swatches, sketchbooks, and a half-finished veil from Branwen’s atelier. We’d spent the afternoon debating lace density and ceremonial layering while Lavinia tried to convince me to add a lace cape. A cape. I was still recovering. Who did she want to turn me into? Superbride? Hard pass. But without hurting her feelings. She was too sweet for that.

“You wouldn’t believe what Branwen said about tulle,” I called out, kicking off my boots and tossing my keys into the ceramic bowl by the door. “Alder? Cat?”

No answer.

I shrugged off my coat, hung it on the hook, and padded into the kitchen. Dark. Quiet. No kettle on. No fire lit.

“Alder?”

Still nothing.

I climbed the stairs, two at a time, worry growing with each step. Had something happened to Catie? Did he have to take her to the hospital?

His office was empty. The fireplace cold. The curtains drawn.

I ran up another flight, breath catching. The nursery door was ajar. The crib — empty.

But on the rocking chair, folded neatly, was a letter.

Just my name on the envelope. His handwriting.

I opened it with shaking hands.

My Victoria,

Before anything else: Catriona is safe. She’s with Mrs. Penhalley next door — the one who smells like old soap and bakes those terrifying scones. I trust her. You can fetch her the moment you finish reading this.

I need you to know that I have never loved anyone the way I love you. Not in all my years. Not in all my solitude. And that I will never love like this again, from here to eternity. I never imagined I could love a child — truly love — until I held our daughter and felt something ancient and terrifying crack open inside me.

This past year has been the strangest and most beautiful of my life. You gave me color. You gave me chaos. You gave me a reason to exist. Gave my eternal life meaning. A reason to stay.

But I’ve come to realize something I can’t ignore.

I am not the man you and Catriona deserve.

I was and always will be broken. And I was born in a very different time, Victoria. I always knew I don’t belong. Not here, not there, not anywhere. I bid my time for decades in perfect solitude, speaking only when necessary, moving through the world like a shadow. I don’t know how to be a decent husband, let alone a good one, better than your last. Nor how to be a decent father, how to make sure our little girl is part of this world like I never managed to be. I never had parents to show me what good parenting is supposed to look like. I have only ever been a shadow, acknowledged then immediately forgotten. I don’t know how to live in a rowhouse and pretend I belong. How to be memorable.

I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried. But it feels like a mask I am wearing, hiding the loner, the vagabond who never learned how to stay. The ghost. That’s what I have always been, a ghost, careful not to rattle my chains and draw any attention.

You and our daughter deserve someone who can be there fully and wholly, fearlessly, which isn’t me. All I could ever do is hold you back. Both of you.

Catriona deserves someone present. She deserves someone who doesn’t wake up every morning wondering if he’s a burden to the very people he loves most.

I love you. I love her. But I can’t be what you need. And you should not marry another man who doesn’t deserve you. I haven’t earned you.

I’m leaving before I become something you resent. Before I turn this home into a mausoleum of what could’ve been.

Please don’t come looking for me. I have spent nearly a century hiding from everyone including myself.

You are the best thing that ever happened to me. And I will carry you — both of you — in whatever remains of my heart and soul.

Love, forever and always,

Alder

I didn’t cry. Not at first.

I just stood there, letter in hand, my reaction the same as that of someone who was stuck with a grocery list. The silence pressing in like fog through the floorboards. The nursery seemed warm and welcoming. The bassinet still had my baby’s impression. His coat still hung on the hook downstairs. My keys still sat in the bowl.

It felt like the house was holding its breath — like it knew.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t collapse. I just walked back down the stairs, one at a time, like I was descending into something I couldn’t name yet.

I picked up my phone. Called Mrs. Penhalley. She answered on the second ring, cheerful and oblivious.

“She’s fine, dear,” she said. “Just had her bottle and fell asleep on my lap. Alder said you’d be back soon.”

I thanked her. Told her I’d be right over.

Then I hung up and sat on the bottom step, letter still in hand, staring at the door.

He was gone.

And I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again.

Ashes

Scarlett ported to me within minutes, arms outstretched, her expression already halfway to fury. I hugged her tight, Catriona between us, and the world folded in on itself.

Not long after we arrived in the great hall of Castello di Vannucci with a rush of displaced air and ancient stone. The castle was medieval and moody, all iron sconces and tapestries that looked like they remembered the Crusades.

I didn’t wait. I stormed toward the study, Scarlett at my side like two furies on a mission.

We burst through the heavy oak doors like a storm.

Caelan stood near the hearth, arms crossed, expression carved from granite. His presence was immovable, elemental — like the fire behind him burned only to cast shadows across his face. Cesare sat behind the desk, regal and unmoved, Riordan beside him with a ledger open and one brow raised. They looked up in unison as we entered — me wild-eyed, breath hitching, Scarlett flushed with fury.

“You have to find him,” I said, voice cracking. “Caelan, please. If anyone can find him, it’s you. You’ve done it before!”

Caelan didn’t blink. His voice, when it came, was deep and gravelly, rasping like stone dragged across stone. “What?”

“He’s gone!” I exclaimed, as if it were common knowledge and not a fresh, raw wound.

“Hmph.” A sound like a scoff ground down to dust. Dismissive. Uninterested. His face matched it — unreadable, unmoved.

“Caelan!” I pressed, stepping closer.

“So?”

“So?! Do something!” I grabbed his upper arm, fingers digging in, trying to shake sense into him — but he was a statue, colder than the marble he resembled.

He peeled out of my grip with surgical precision, smoothing his leather sleeve as if I were dirt beneath it. “No.”

“Why not?” Scarlett snapped, stepping forward, her voice sharp with disbelief. “Come on, Caelan—”

“No,” he repeated, voice like frostbite. “He’s done nothing wrong. He isn’t on my list.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.” A pause. “Not my problem.”

I took another step, fists clenched, desperation clawing at my throat. “You’re the goddamn Coven Enforcer. You track people for a living.”

“I track suspects,” Caelan said, flat as slate. “He’s not one.”

Cesare rose from behind the desk, voice calm but commanding — the kind of voice that once held court in marble halls and now ruled with quiet authority. It was elegant, deliberate, and unmistakably tired of our bullshit. “What is the meaning of this?”

Scarlett turned to him, eyes pleading. Her voice, usually smooth and poised, cracked with withheld spunk — the kind that simmered beneath years of marriage to a pottymouthed rockstar. “Daddy, please. Alder left Victoria. He left the baby. He’s not thinking clearly. Something spooked him or whatever. Caelan can find him. So … send Cae to find him, since my brother is too stubborn to offer help on his own!”

Cesare’s gaze flicked to me, then to Catriona in my arms — her tiny form nestled against my chest, the only heartbeat in the room.

I stepped forward, voice thin with panic. “You had Caelan find him before.”

Cesare nodded, his voice like velvet over steel. “Yes. For good reason, as Caelan already pointed out. My Coven Enforcers are not private investigators to find runaway partners and pets. They have serious jobs to do. Which is not to dismiss what happened — I agree, it is unfathomable. But when I had him brought here, he had broken our laws. The rules on that are clear. He was to make you proficient and not leave you destitute. That was done. As far as I am concerned, he is free to go wherever he pleases. I am not the morale police.”

“He left,” I said. “He left us.”

“Yes, so I gather,” Cesare replied, voice still elegant, still unmoved. “Which is unfortunate, but not the first time it happens and certainly not the last. From a legal standpoint, if he chooses to be a rogue, it is his right. As long as he doesn’t break our laws, he is free to roam. I do not force anyone to remain in the coven. If they do not want safety in numbers, so be it. And if fathers and fiancés choose freedom over responsibility, I have no say in that. It’s a personal choice — he has to answer to his own moral compass for it.”

His voice echoed through the stone chamber, final and cold. “Grooms getting cold feet is a story older than time. If I had a dime for each time I heard about it happening …”

I stared at him, stunned. The room felt colder now, not because of any draft — but because the stillness had deepened. No breath. No pulse. No warmth except the baby’s. Scarlett’s grip on my hand tightened. Catriona stirred against me, her heartbeat a fragile rhythm in a chamber of silence.

Caelan turned away, already done with the conversation. His deep, gravelly voice had fallen silent, but the echo of it — dry and metallic, like a blade dragged across marble — lingered in the stillness.

I stepped forward, voice low but steady, panic simmering beneath the surface. “You said he was supposed to make me proficient. Not leave me destitute. Is this not destitution? I am drowning in debt. My income is spotty and goes almost fully to digging myself out of debt which I inherited from my late husband through no fault of my own. I work hard to clear my name and so my daughter doesn’t inherit all this nonsense. I can’t do that alone.”

Cesare’s gaze flicked to me, unreadable. “What you are is a member of my coven. Therefore, you are surrounded by allies. One of the many advantages of the coven. You are never alone, unless you choose to be.”

“I am alone. With a baby. I am learning how to be a writer, painter, mother, and vampire. Alone.”

“No,” he said, voice clipped. “You are not.”

Scarlett stepped in, voice sharp now — the elegance stripped back to reveal the fire beneath. “This is bullshit, Daddy. You know it. Alder’s not just some rogue. He’s Victoria’s partner. He’s Catriona’s father. He loves both of them. He’s one of us. We were planning their wedding. Maybe he did freak out. So, have Cae find him and we’ll talk about it with him. If I am wrong, and if he still chooses to leave, fine, be my guest. Can’t help him if he chooses to be a douche. But maybe he just panicked and needs some other dude to mansplain it all to him, tell him everything will be okay or whatever — we all know he’s weird. Sorry, Victoria but it’s true. Maybe he just needs a pep talk.”

“Scarlett,” Cesare said, voice softening just enough to acknowledge her fury without indulging it. “I understand why you are flustered. I am not endorsing his choice. But my hands are tied. As a respectable leader, I don’t have the right to meddle in the lives of the members of my coven — let alone those who choose not to be part. He’s fulfilled his obligations as far as our laws and I am concerned. Now he has chosen solitude. I don’t have a right to force him to change his mind. Whether I like his choice or not is beside the point here — as it goes without saying that on a personal level, I find it appalling.”

Caelan didn’t react. Just stared at the hearth like it held answers no one else could see.

I turned to him again. “You found him before. You can find him again, blindfolded. So why won’t you? Alder is your fucking son, Caelan. It would make a huge difference to me and your granddaughter and barely be a minor inconvenience to you.”

“Last time I found him,” Caelan said. “because he was breaking rules. Now he’s just breaking hearts. I don’t care about that. I am a Coven Enforcer, not cupid.”

Scarlett flinched. I did too. Normally everything about this would have made me burst into laughter, the tone, the delivery, his face and the visual of Caelan as cupid … but not today.

Riordan stepped forward, voice quiet but unmistakably firm. “I have a hard time believing Alder just left,” he stated, eyes on Cesare. “Without a word? Without warning? Without a fight? That he abandoned Victoria and the child of his own free will?”

Cesare didn’t answer immediately. He turned to me, and I understood the cue, shook my head then reached into my coat and pulled out the folded letter, the one Alder left behind. My fingers trembled as I handed it to him.

Cesare took it with ceremonial grace, unfolding the parchment like it was a relic. Riordan moved beside him, reading over his shoulder. They stood in silence, eyes scanning line by line. Cesare’s face remained composed, but Riordan’s softened, then darkened. His brow furrowed. His lips parted slightly, then pressed together again.

When they finished, Riordan took the letter from Cesare, folded the letter with care and handed it back to me. His voice was low, but it carried. “This doesn’t read like a man fleeing responsibility. It reads like someone haunted. Someone who doesn’t believe he’s enough.”

Cesare sighed, elegant and unmoved. “It reads like another groom crushed beneath the weight of expectation. Another new father who ran from the mound of responsibilities. It’s not uncommon.”

Riordan didn’t blink. “No Uncle. This is not cowardice. I read fear. Deep, old fear. You know that, Uncle.”

“I am not a therapist, Riordan,” Cesare said. “This is out of my hands. As I stated, I do not like, nor endorse Alder’s actions, but I can’t do more than scoff at it.”

“With all due respect,” Riordan replied, voice sharpening, “we cannot leave Victoria like this.”

“We are not,” Cesare said. “She will get as much help as she requires, which I am sure Scarlett already offered. But I extend that offer to the entire coven. She isn’t alone. That is what a coven is. Strength and safety through unity.”

“You don’t understand,” I said, the words tumbling out. “I can’t raise a baby without Alder. I have to accept any commission whenever one is offered to me— sometimes I have no income for weeks or months, and if I do it often requires travel and for me to stay at someone else’s homes for a while. I have even been to palaces before. Homes of nobility. I can’t show up with a baby! And I’m not going to expect Scarlett to be my babysitter for weeks at a time. I am still a nobody in the art world, and even if I accept every commission, I can barely pay rent on my own without Alder’s help. He’s an established author. I had some success, but I basically dabble. I will be homeless in a few months!”

Cesare’s expression softened, but his voice remained cool. “You may stay here, Victoria. Rest. Regroup. The castle is yours for as long as you need it. I am truly sorry, but I cannot do more. I will not dispatch my Enforcers to find runaway grooms. If I make an exception for you, it sets a precedent, then I must make the exception for all, and before long Caelan, Connell, Damon and the rest will be fetching cats out of trees and tracking down lost items. The answer is no.”

I nodded, numb.

“I always said that boy isn’t right,” Caelan muttered, voice like gravel ground into ice. “There you have it. Raised by nuns into a deadbeat. The good merciful sisters performed a masterpiece in the name of the Lord. Had I known about him, I would have raised him. Maybe I wouldn’t have done better without a mother for the boy, but at only eighteen I certainly couldn’t have done worse. Hmph.”

Cesare turned, slow and deliberate. “Caelan.”

His son didn’t flinch.

“We do not speak the Lord’s name in vain,” Cesare said, voice low and formal. “Not in this house. Not in jest. Not in judgment. You may curse the man’s choices, but you will not profane the mercy that raised him.”

Caelan grunted, but said nothing more.

That did it.

I broke.

The sob tore out of me before I could stop it, raw and humiliating. My knees buckled, and I sank to the floor, clutching Catriona against me as if her heartbeat could hold me together. She wailed, startled by the collapse, her cry slicing through the chamber like a blade.

Scarlett moved fast. She knelt beside me, pried Catriona gently from my arms, and stood. “I’ve got her,” she said, voice steady but tight. “You’ll be okay, baby, yes you will, yes you will,” she cooed at Catriona.

She kept crying, her tiny fists flailing. Scarlett turned, hesitated, then handed her to Riordan.

He blinked, startled — then took her with surprising ease, cradling her against his chest. Cesare stepped forward, adjusting the blanket around her with practiced hands as Catie started to calm and quiet down. Neither of them spoke, but something shifted. They had done this before. Experienced fathers. All three of them, even Caelan.

I stayed on the floor, sobbing. My world had crumbled once. Now it was dust.

Things Can Always Get Worse

Scarlett ported directly into the small hallway of the Henfordshire rowhouse with Catie and me — a quiet breach of etiquette, but one I allowed. It was late, and I didn’t want the neighbors watching us appear out of nowhere.

The air inside was still. Familiar. The fire hadn’t been lit. The curtains were drawn. The silence felt like it had been waiting for us.

We stayed in the hallway, coats still on, keys still in hand. The weight of everything pressed in — Alder’s absence, the letter, the castle, the choices I hadn’t made yet. I felt like a ghost in my own home.

Scarlett gave me a moment, voice low. “You’re always welcome to come live with Blaine and me, God knows we have the room for you both and a dozen more. I just can’t promise you peace and quiet at my home. My two Blaines are noisy by default, and with all the kids, grandkids and great-grandkids always coming by … I am not sure it wouldn’t be too much for you right now. You could stay at the castle. Just for a while. It’s quiet. No direct sun in Forgotten Hollow most days. You won’t keep burning yourself every time you forget you’re not immune yet.”

I nodded, not ready to answer.

Then came the knock.

We both winced and froze.

It was late — too late for polite visits. Scarlett’s eyes met mine, a question within.

“Alder?” I whispered, hope blooming like a bruise.

Scarlett shook her head. “He wouldn’t knock, would he?”

Another knock. Firmer. Then a familiar voice, clipped and polite: “Victoria, dear, I can see the light. Kindly open. Won’t be long. It’s rather pressing.”

Scarlett’s brow furrowed. “You expecting someone?”

I sighed. “As if! That’s our landlady, Baroness Montfort-Yates. I have to talk to her. She doesn’t even know Alder left. But she knows I can’t afford this place alone.”

“Yeah, but not tonight. Get rid of her.”

“I will.” I handed Catriona to Scarlett, who took her without a word and disappeared around the corner toward the open kitchen and dining area, not easily visible from the hallway.

I opened the door.

Baroness Clara Montfort-Yates stood on the stoop, wrapped in her usual wool coat, hair pinned back in its no-nonsense twist. Her expression was soft, but her eyes were too still — rehearsed, like she’d practiced this moment in front of a mirror.

“May I come in for a moment?” she asked.

I stepped aside. She owned the house. I could hardly say no. She entered like she was walking into a memory, gaze sweeping the hallway with quiet reverence.

Just then, my phone buzzed. I glanced down. One of the neighbors. I clicked it away. It rang again — another neighbor.

Clara saw it. Her voice was gentle. “Yes, they’re calling because I already went to see them. To give them this.”

She reached into her coat and handed me a folded letter. Her fingers trembled slightly.

“I’m awfully sorry, dear.”

I opened it. The words blurred, then sharpened:

To our beloved tenants,

After many years of stewardship, John and I have decided to retire and devote more time to our growing family. With John’s only son expecting his first child, and my daughters raising young children — not to mention the teenaged grandchildren by my son, who seem to be growing up far too quickly and are speaking about cars and universities — we are looking forward to this next chapter.

As such, we have sold the Henfordshire rowhouses to a private buyer. The new owners have expressed their intent to repurpose the properties and will not be continuing rental agreements.

This letter serves as your formal 30-day notice to vacate the premises.

We are deeply grateful for your tenancy and wish you all the very best in your future endeavors.

Warm regards, Baroness Clara Montfort-Yates & Lord Admiral John Montfort-Yates

I stared at the paper. My hands didn’t shake. My heart did.

Clara touched my arm. “I truly am sorry. I would’ve kept you forever if I could. Give my regards to Alder.”

I nodded, numb. “Ok.”

She left quietly, her footsteps fading down the cobbled path like a goodbye that didn’t want to be heard.

The door clicked shut.

Scarlett appeared in the hallway, Catriona asleep in her arms. She didn’t ask. Just saw the letter in my hand and the look on my face.

She stepped closer, voice low. “You’re not alone. Even if it feels like you are.”

I nodded, but the words didn’t reach me. Not yet.

In one day, two letters had dismantled the fragile life I’d rebuilt from the rubble of the last collapse. And here I was again — but this time, with a baby to protect. No partner. No home. No plan.

Just a friend. A daughter. And thirty days.

“I mean it,” Scarlett said. “You’re not.”

I looked at her, then at my daughter — her tiny form curled against Scarlett’s chest, safe and warm.

I had no home now. Not the rowhouse. Not the castle. Not Alder.

But I had her. I had Catriona. And Scarlett, who stayed.

And I would choose where we begin again.

Even if I had to build it from ashes.

🪶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.