🪶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.”

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. 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 Quiet Out

I hadn’t planned to go to Del Sol Valley.

But I had no choice.

I packed my things and put them into storage until I could come up with a plan. I ran down the calendar, crossed off every possibility. Even if something affordable existed in Henfordshire, I couldn’t scrape together the deposit. And I didn’t want Scarlett to pay for me. She offered. Pride was literally all I had left — that, and Catie.

Theoretically, our new interim home would be Castello di Vannucci. It may sound like pure luxury and an honor, and while it certainly was an honor to be personally invited to stay indefinitely at the most powerful vampire’s home, it was also basically the vampiric version of a shelter for the destitute among them, until more permanent arrangements could be made.

My move hit a hitch, however, surprise, surprise, as Cesare had something going on — a coven ball, planned months ago, full of pomp and politics and too many eyes. The seen-and-be-seen type. The kind of event where every glance carried meaning, every word was a performance, and every guest was either judging or being judged.

Needless to mention that nearly every vampire with any relevance whatsoever would be there.

Cesare had already hinted — unmistakably — that he expected me to attend. Translation: my presence was mandatory. Ceremonial. A rite of passage. My official introduction into vampire society, whether I liked it or not.

At the worst possible time in my life.

But the days leading up to it, the planning, the prep, the endless parade of guests arriving at the castle like it was a royal summit, all attempting to kiss as much of Cesare’s rear end as humanly possible — it was too much. Too loud. Too crowded. Too ceremonial for the state my soul was in.

Cesare understood.

He offered a quiet out.

Blaine and Scarlett swept in with the solution: they’d insisted I stay with them until it was time for the ball, they would be there too and just bring me and Catriona with them then and leave us to stay after the ball. Their mansion was quieter. More chaotic in a manageable way. Just until I could breathe. Just until I could figure something else out.

So, I stayed. Not permanently. Just for now.

The Glamour Fails Gently

I woke up in a bed the size of a small village, wrapped in sheets that felt like they’d been spun from clouds and money. The room was absurd — floor-to-ceiling windows offering prime views of the Del Sol Valley skyline, velvet blackout curtains heavy as secrets, and a light fixture that looked like it had been stolen from a royal palace in the far future. Everything was sleek, modern, and expensive in that Del Sol Valley way: curated luxury, tech that whispered, and a view designed to make you forget the world below.

I rolled out of bed and wandered into a bathroom that was probably considered another country. It looked like it belonged to a Bond villain with a skincare line — all marble and chrome, backlit mirrors – the type that actually showed my kind too, and a rainfall shower that required a minor engineering degree to operate. I pressed one button and the lights dimmed. Another and the mirror started playing ambient music. A third and the toilet lid opened like it was greeting royalty.

It took me seven tries to get water.

When it finally came on, it was too cold. Then too hot. Then misting like a spa. I stood there, naked and blinking, wondering if I’d accidentally summoned a weather system.

Eventually, I gave up and just stood under it, letting the heat melt the tension out of my shoulders. Catriona was napping in the nursery down the hall, and for the first time in days, I wasn’t holding her, wasn’t packing, wasn’t crying. Just breathing.

Afterward, I wrapped myself in a towel that felt like it had been woven by angels and stared at the vanity.

Del Sol Valley luxury. The kind of place where even the cotton swabs came in crystal jars and the makeup was arranged like a museum exhibit. Yes, courtesy makeup for guests. Along with countless jars and bottles of skin care, for guests.

My own make up was somewhere in the bag I had hastily packed for myself.
I wasn’t even gonna, but since this was here, like a hint, I decided to not offend my courteous and affluent hosts with my post-apocalyptic appearance.

I tried.
I really did.

I started with foundation, but the bottle slipped and exploded across the counter like a light beige crime scene. I dabbed it on anyway — uneven, streaky, tragic — and I had misjudged the color and it was about two shades too dark for me, then reached for mascara and promptly stabbed myself in the eye. Twice.

My eyeliner looked like a toddler’s attempt at calligraphy. My lip gloss melted off before I even finished applying it.

I stared at myself in the mirror — blotchy, teary, ridiculous — and broke.

Not the dramatic kind. Just the quiet kind. The kind where you sit on the edge of the tub and whisper, “I can’t do this,” to no one in particular.

Then I washed it all off.

Every smear. Every mistake. Every attempt to be someone I wasn’t.

I reached for tinted moisturizer. Mascara. A high messy bun that looked intentional enough to pass.

And then I stood there, staring at my reflection, and realized I had used up all my ambition just trying to look decent — let alone like I belonged in a mansion perched above Del Sol Valley, in a house where the walls whispered wealth and the air smelled like curated success.

So my outfit of the day would be extra casual.

Black yoga pants. A black tank top. An oversized hoodie that smelled faintly of baby powder. Cozy socks on my feet. No pretense. Just me.

I stepped out of the room and the hallway stretched to both sides — polished, endless, intimidating. The house was quiet. Too big. Too curated. I wandered through hallways lined with art I didn’t recognize and furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum of modern abstraction. Maybe it was art. Maybe I was the only thing out of place.

I was disoriented. Half-lucent. Still emotionally hungover from everything.

Then I found the nursery.

It was massive, of course — tastefully decorated like a mood board from an upscale living catalog. Soft neutrals, gold accents, plush everything. And in the center of it all, in a crib that probably cost more than my first car, was Catriona. And Blaine.

He was crouched beside her, making ridiculous gargling noises while she giggled and kicked her feet. Her little hands reached for his face, and he let her grab his nose like it was a sacred ritual.

He looked up and grinned. “Already fed her, we had a little bath — hope that was okay. Didn’t occur to me that nowadays that may be considered awkward and make me a creep. I mean, I raised a bunch of little girls and bathed them, but since I wasn’t involved in her production I guess I might have overstepped a bit… sorry. Has a fresh diaper and is chill as fuck, aren’t we, Catie-girl?”

Something about him being all daddy gave me a terrifying jolt in the hollow where my heart used to beat. This. Exactly this I had wanted with Alder. Not Blaine. I mean, I was grateful — deeply — but he wasn’t the right man. The man I had wanted to do that with had left me. Left us.

Ouch.

I forced a smile, thanked him. I felt good about my performance of I am totally okay, but my emotions betrayed me. Out of nowhere, I burst into sobs.

Blaine’s eyes went wide followed by a ‘whoa!’. He gently set Catriona down, who blinked at me, confused, then decided nap time was more important than adult drama. She curled into her blanket like a tiny queen and drifted off.

Blaine crossed the room in two strides and wrapped me in a hug so tight it felt like scaffolding. He didn’t say anything at first — just held me while I cried into his shoulder, hoodie damp, breath hitching.

Finally, he murmured, “It’s gonna be okay. You’re doing amazing. You’re allowed to break down. You’re allowed to feel it. But what you need right now is a big fat cup of industrial-strength coffee.”

I laughed through the tears, wiped my face with the sleeve of my hoodie, and nodded.

“Come on,” he said, guiding me toward the hallway. “Let’s caffeinate the pain.”

I glanced back once, just before we left the nursery. Catriona was fast asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling, her fingers curled around the edge of her blanket. The room glowed softly around her, like even the mansion knew she was the most important thing in it.

And I followed Blaine, grateful and aching, into the day.

Kitchen Chaos

The kitchen was absurd. Huge, with vaulted ceilings, marble counters that could seat a small orchestra, and an espresso machine that looked like it could launch satellites, so complicated I was afraid to look directly at it. Beyond the adjacent dining room’s glass wall, the pool shimmered like liquid sapphire, and the Del Sol Valley skyline glittered in the distance like it was auditioning for a role in its own legend.

Blaine stood barefoot on the heated tile, sleeves rolled up, coaxing the espresso machine into giving both of us our much-needed coffees like it owed him child support. I sat at the island, watching him with the kind of cautious reverence reserved for wild animals and mildly annoyed music gods.

One thing I’d learned so far: clothing was always optional with Blaine.

If he wasn’t half-dressed, he was stomping around in leather, denim, and either one of his own merch tees or something raunchy, cheeky, or mildly to offensively inappropriate — the kind of shirt that made you squint and ask, Did that really say what I think it said?

Yesterday’s masterpiece read: “I’m not a gynecologist, but I’ll take a look” in bold neon green.

The day before, it was: “I’m not rude. I just have the balls to say what everyone’s thinking.”
I’d seen: “I’m allergic to stupidity. It makes me break out in sarcasm.” — that one I’d almost borrow.
“I’m the reason the gene pool needs a lifeguard.”
And once — tragically — “I don’t suffer from insanity. I enjoy every minute of it.” Paired with leather pants and zero shame.

I’d nearly walked into a wall a few times staring at that man’s outfit choices. Or, in some cases, his lack thereof. He was … well, the politest way I can think of to accurately describe it would be eclectic. Basically if there was a bottom, there usually was no top. If there was a top, well … there wouldn’t be much of a bottom. In either case, what was there was most often cringeworthy.

By now, I’d seen a lot of Blaine. Luckily, he’d kept a few secrets — but if I stayed around long enough, I was fairly certain I’d be inadvertently treated to the rest of his naked glory.

We’re talking about the kind of man who’s been known to pull down his pants on stage just to give his audience a full moon view of himself. Not metaphorically. Literally.

And the worst part?

They cheered.

Yeah.

Sometime yesterday, I was returning to my room when Blaine nearly collided with me in the hallway — wearing nothing but a pair of boxers that looked hastily yanked on mid-nookie. They barely covered the fact that he and Scarlett had clearly been in the middle of something, if you catch my drift. If not, let me be clearer: his trouser-buddy was at full attention. I almost evaporated from embarrassment. He didn’t even blink before topping it off with:

“You don’t happen to have a condom you can spare, do ya?”

I blinked, utterly speechless. He grinned. Then jogged off, bare feet slapping against the stone floor like it was the most normal request in the world.

That man had very little if any censorship, period.
And don’t get me wrong — I knew he wasn’t trying to be sexy. It was obvious. This was just Blaine being Blaine: unapologetically chaotic, theatrically unfiltered, and somehow still charming enough to get away with it.

Sometimes he’d go outside, just randomly, maybe when he noticed the fans camping out front while grabbing his morning coffee — and whatever he had on then, or didn’t, was what they got to see of him.

And the female fans ate that shit up.

Oh man, it made me sick to see — while Scarlett wasn’t even fazed by young girls asking him for tit tats and cheek signatures. Yes, cheek. As in, lower hemisphere. As in, “Can you sign my ass?” delivered with giggles and permanent markers.

Scarlett knew they had nothing on her.

And she was right. He was obsessed with her. And the feeling was mutual, Scarlett was just more subtle about it. But it was unmistakably clear if you spent more than five minutes around them. It was in little gestures and grand performances.

He always made her coffee — not just any coffee, but the kind she liked, with cinnamon and a splash of oat milk, even though he hated oat milk and claimed cinnamon was “a spice invented by liars.” He still made it. Every morning.

She always wore his shirts in the mornings — the worn ones, not fresh from his closet. Not because she didn’t have her own sleepwear or a robe, but because she liked the way they smelled like him. And he liked the way she looked in them. He’d pretend to be annoyed when she stole one, but he’d leave another draped over her chair the next day. And I got to enjoy the reruns of the cheeky tees.

He played guitar poolside when he knew she was getting ready upstairs. Loud enough to reach her window. Soft enough to pretend it wasn’t for her.

She’d hum along — not always in tune, but always in rhythm. And when he stopped playing, she’d yell down, “Missed a chord, rookie.” He’d flip her off. She’d blow him a kiss.

They were constantly teasing each other, but if anyone ever overstepped a boundary with one of them, the other would pounce. Blaine was hilariously protective of her. And if Blaine ever pushed Caelan too far with their bickering, Scarlett would fold her dangerous vampire-killing little brother into a size that would fit in a matchbox.

And it was hard to ignore their obsession was also physical, considering how much she and Blaine got it on.

My room was huge. So was theirs. But they were right next to each other and faced the same view. With a window open, it was full sound effects.

Scarlett was also a screamer, in case you were wondering.

No?

Well. Not exactly anything I personally needed to know about my friend. I can honestly say I’ve never once wondered about anybody else’s sexy time except my own — but here we are. I knew and now you do too.

But most days in the mornings it was just Blaine. Shirtless, tatted up, lean and muscular in all the right places, like someone had sculpted him out of chaos and caffeine. Slender overall, but with arms that looked like they’d been earned in backstage brawls and bad decisions. And while he was married to someone I considered a very good friend, I wasn’t going to complain about the views. I enjoyed them. Quietly. Thoroughly. Even though at times they were a bit much.

The more time I spent with Blaine, the more I understood why Scarlett loved him so.

He was abrasive, obnoxious, a pottymouth with a guttermind — but you always knew where you stood with him. He’d tell you, whether you wanted to know or not. No games. No masks. Just Blaine, in all his chaotic glory.

And underneath all that noise and snark was a heart so stupidly generous it made you ache. He’d give you the last shirt off his back — probably while calling you a dumbass and roasting your haircut — but he’d mean it. Every time. He was genuine.

And when he was being sweet, it was the kind that snuck up on you. The kind that made you think about all the times you wondered why a woman like Scarlett would put up with him and think, Oh. So that’s why.

I couldn’t help but like him. Really like him. A lot.

Who would’ve thought? Because my initial impression of him had been as pleasant as fingernails on a chalkboard while getting a pap smear in the middle of an intersection. But now? Now he was espresso and entropy. And somehow, that worked.

The Mini-Him And Other Truths

Then the chaos arrived.

A little boy burst in like he’d been launched from a cannon — all elbows and volume, hair wild and black paired with eyes the lightest green you have ever seen. I didn’t need an introduction to know this was Blaine Jr. His mini-me. He skidded across the tile, pointed dramatically at his father, and declared:

“Dad, I need the platinum headphones. The ones from the tour. Not the old ones. The new ones. The ones with your logo on them.”

Blaine didn’t even look up. “Okay, rude. Not even a ‘good morning’, huh? And a) no, b) no, c) fuck no, d) see a through c. Don’t you see we have a guest, you ding-dong? Too feral to remember manners? What do you say when you meet someone new? Huh?”

Blaine Jr. blinked, then turned to me with a half-hearted wave. “Sorry. Hi.” Then back to his father. “But seriously, I need them. I have a thing.”

“A thing,” Blaine repeated. “I don’t even wanna know what kind of things you would have, kid. And still no. So that was it? Just some limp-biscuit ‘Hi’ is all we get here? That’s all that motormouth of yours got for us? Weak. So, definitely no to this and everything after.”

“What do you want me to say, Dad? I don’t know who she is. She could be one of those ass-kissing, dick-sucking—”

Blaine turned so fast it was like he’d teleported, pressing a firm hand over his son’s mouth before the sentence could finish. “We don’t use that kind of language,” he said, voice low but unmistakably serious. “Especially not around ladies. Or anyone with ears for that matter, especially not your mother.”

Blaine Jr. squawked behind his dad’s hand, trying to bite him, which only made Blaine grab him in a loose sleeperhold and rustle his dark and already wild hair until it looked like a bird’s nest.

“Apologize,” Blaine said, still wrestling him like a gremlin.

“I didn’t even say much!”

“You said too much.”

“No, I censored out the good parts! I was gonna say she could be one of those scumsucking tabloid leeches you always yell about. A gossip ghoul. Clickbait banshee. Or—”

Blaine clamped his hand back over his son’s mouth. “Okay, that’s enough. We’re done with the Blaine Jr. Greatest Hits of Dad’s Worst Rants reel.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’m not a reporter.”

Blaine Jr. blinked, pulling his father’s hand off his mouth. “Then what are you?”

Blaine grinned. “She’s your mom’s new friend. And mine. And she will be staying with us until your grandpa’s big Masquerade Ball. The one you are still way too young to attend, so don’t even go there, kid.”

Blaine Jr. froze, then twisted out of Blaine’s grip to look at me properly, while straightening his ruffled hair and clothing. “You’re living here now?”

“Temporarily,” I said, trying to sound like a functioning adult and not someone who’d just cried into a hoodie two hours ago.

He squinted. “Do you fart a lot?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Do you eat waffles with lots of whipped cream?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you like video games?”

“Yes.”

As he launched into the next question, Blaine reached around and started doing that thing — the blep blep blep finger-on-the-lips thing, like he was trying to turn his son into a malfunctioning trumpet.

“Daaaaaaad! Stahp!” Blaine Jr. squealed, pulling away and flailing like a gremlin in a dryer. Blaine’s very mature response was to lean on his child’s head like a pillar. Parental excellence. But somehow, the mini-him only affected by the appearance, not the treatment.

“Can you be done with the interrogation then, son? Case you didn’t hear me, she’s your mom’s friend, so you don’t need to approve, you already have been overruled. We both have, got it? Your 99 questions make my head hurt so early in the morning.”

“Thinking always makes your head hurt, Dad. Well, welcome to the nuthouse then, lady. You got a name?”

“I do. Victoria.”

“Another one? Are you are royal princess too.”

“No, definitely not.” I told him, wondering what he was talking about.

“Hey Junior, go find your mother,” Blaine said, finally releasing him. “Tell her she wants you.”

“She only ever wants me to do chores or homework or both,” Blaine Jr. groaned, already backing toward the hallway.

“Exactly,” Blaine said. “Tell her I said it’s urgent and to load you up with chores. Go scrub toilets, son.”

Blaine Jr. turned mid-stride, eyes gleaming. “Yeah, with your toothbrush, Dad.”

Then he bolted.

His footsteps echoed through the marble foyer, followed by Blaine’s exaggerated chase call: “I’m coming for you, shithead!”

I laughed. Quietly. The kind of laugh that slips out when you’re not expecting joy.

Blaine returned to the espresso machine, completely unbothered. “We usually keep him hidden from visitors like a failed science experiment come to life. Our older kids got all the smarts and looks from Mom, mostly. This one’s about as dumb as rainboots on a fish. Looks and sounds like me. Sorry, world. At least the name on the packaging should serve as a warning. If it’s called Blaine, you know what to expect.”

Blaine Jr.’s head reappeared around the corner, followed by the rest of him, mouth agape, arms lifted in theatrical betrayal. “Wow, Dad. Dafuq?”

“Hey! Language.”

“You curse all the time.”

“Yeah, and I’m over eighteen, pay the bills, and can legally drink booze. Once you can do all that, you can curse to your heart’s content. Until then, you censor yourself or I dock your pay, you big spender.”

“That kid is a shopaholic,” he added, turning to me. “And he didn’t get that from me.”

“I’m telling Mom you said that,” Blaine Jr. huffed.

“Cool, do. Bring her the most recent credit card bill so she knows I’m not talking out of my ass. I got proof.”

The boy stomped off again, muttering something about how this house was no fun, and we heard his footsteps thudding up the stairs.

Blaine handed me a mug, and I took a sip. It was, hands down, in the top three coffees I’d ever had — rich, smooth, and somehow comforting. Like it had been brewed by someone who knew how to cradle chaos.

“What was he talking about? You know a royal princess?”

“I know a bunch of them,” Blaine said casually. “My great-granddaughters. By AG. Or as you might know her — Her Royal Majesty Queen Aria-Grace Cromwell of Henfordshire.”

He attempted a Henfordian accent for the title, and it would’ve been hilarious if I hadn’t been in full-body shock. That man — the one who recently asked me for a spare condom in the hallway while in full arousal — and a queen? Princesses?

My life would never be normal again after knowing that.

And if you haven’t lived in Henfordshire, you might not understand the magnitude of that reveal. But I have. And it doesn’t take long to figure out there are three types of people on that island kingdom:

• The religious ones — they rank God first, then the royal family. No exceptions.
• The non-religious ones — they skip God entirely and still worship the royals like it’s a national sport.
• And then there are the Innisgreeners — who smile politely in public but think “fuck the royals” in private. They’ve wanted autonomy from Henfordshire for centuries. Full stop. Basically every usurpation, rebellion, or assassination attempt against the Cromwell family in recorded history started with someone from Innisgreen with a grudge and a plan.

That’s it. That’s the whole spectrum.

So yeah. Knowing the royal family is blood related to Blaine? That’s a whammy. A legacy-level, crown-shaking, etiquette-shattering whammy.

“Yeah, she’s not very open about that, don’t blame her,” he continued probably reading my derailed facial expression. “So Letty and I don’t visit often. Too much ado. That whole palace etiquette BS just isn’t me.”

No shit, I thought, still recovering.

So not only pottymouth Blaine was the grandpa, but Scarlett was also grandma to the queen, meaning Cesare, the uber-vamp, was directly related to one of the most predominant and influential royal families in the world.

Okaaaaay.

I glanced at him, decided to switch the topic before I’d very unregally collapse off the barstool by the kitchen island I was perched on.

“Is he like… us?”

Blaine paused, glanced toward the hallway, then back at me. “We don’t know. Technically, we were unturned — mortal when he was conceived. But it was early on. And Scarlett being a Vannucci?” He shrugged. “That fang force is strong with her.”

He leaned against the counter like he hadn’t just wrestled a small hurricane.

“He definitely carries the spark. Question is whether it’ll break out. We’ll know in a few years, once the hormones start turning his brain into mush. He might wake up with fangs one morning. Or one day, we may bury him like our other kids.”

He said it plainly. No drama. Just truth.

“But for now, he’s got time. For now, he’s just a little boy. Just — unlike his older siblings — if he ends up with fangs, it’s final. He won’t get to choose. Sorry, kid.”

He shrugged. “But I ain’t mad if he’s a vampy. I hate losing our kids. I’m trying to talk some of them into returning to the fold before it’s too late. Cesare can do something that brings you back to your prime years. Like what happened to you. How’d you like your little body rejuvenation therapy?”

I smirked. “Yeah, I’ll admit, that was a nice side effect. But Alder turned me. Not Cesare.”

“Half right, chica. Alder started it, but he didn’t know what he was doing. Skipped all the vampy school we had to go to. Takes more than a love bite to turn someone. Just biting and overdrinking? That just makes the other person dead.”

He tapped the counter. “You gotta do a ritual if you want them fanged. Alder almost fucked that up. Called Cesare, and Cesare fixed you up right. That’s why you look twenty years younger. Most turned stay at whatever age they were at.”

“Oh.”

And just like that, another truth shoveled onto my proverbial plate to roll around in my mouth and digest.

All this time, I thought Alder had turned me. Now I heard he couldn’t even finish the job. Cesare had to step in.

Had I ever known that man at all?

For the second time now, he had abandoned me.

Our wedding was supposed to be in four weeks. Almost to the day.

I knew Alder had his inner demons to fight. Nobody understood that better than I did. So I cut him insane amounts of slack.

But I made a pact with myself.

If he hadn’t shown up — hadn’t contacted me somehow — before our wedding date came and went, then I would forget he ever existed.

Yes, I know what some of you will think. Catie is his kid too. And sure, that’s true.

But what good is a father like him? Was he even really a father or just a sperm donor? From what I had seen, Blaine, Cesare and Riordan had been more of a father figure to my daughter than Alder. What kind of example can a man set for a little girl when he does what Alder did?

I didn’t say anything for a moment. Just let the silence stretch, like a rubber band pulled tight between grief and clarity.

Blaine didn’t push. He just watched me, eyes steady, like he’d seen this kind of unraveling before — maybe in Scarlett, maybe in himself.

I exhaled slowly. “So Cesare fixed me.”

“Yeah,” Blaine said, voice low. “He doesn’t do that often. But when he does, it sticks.”

I nodded, more to myself than to him. My fingers traced the edge of the counter, grounding me in the present while my mind spun through the past. Alder’s past. My past. Catie’s.

“I don’t want her to grow up thinking that kind of love is normal,” I said finally. “The disappearing kind. The kind that only shows up when it’s convenient.”

Blaine’s jaw flexed. “She won’t. Not with you raising her. Not with Cesare watching. Not with Riordan calling her ‘Princess Chaos’ and sneaking her lullabies when you’re not looking.”

I snorted. “He does that?”

“Every damn time.”

I smiled, just a little. It felt earned.

Then Blaine leaned in, elbows on the counter, voice dropping into something softer.

“Love’s not always clean,” he said finally. “It’s not a straight line. Sometimes it’s a damn maze. Sometimes you fight for it and it pays off. Sometimes you fight and realize you’re the only one swinging.”

I didn’t respond. Just let the words settle.

He leaned in a little more yet, voice softer now. “It’s too fresh. You’re still bleeding. You can’t see past the pain yet — and that’s okay. But once it settles, once the dust clears, you’ll know. You’ll know if Alder’s worth keeping in your life, if he ever shows his face again. Or if it’s time to shut that door for good, even if he comes knocking.”

I swallowed hard. That truth hit deeper than I expected.

Blaine reached for his coffee, took a sip, then added with a smirk, “And hey, if you do shut that door? I know a few lonely bachelors who’ve got a reputation for rocking a woman’s world in the sack. Might help the grieving process along.”

I groaned. “Argh Blaine.”

He winked. “Just sayin’. Emotional healing comes in many forms. Some of them best enjoyed naked.”

Blaine’s eyes flicked past me, and before I could turn, I saw it — the way his face lit up. Not performative. Not loud. Just that quiet, involuntary softening that only happened when she walked in.

I felt Scarlett’s hand on my back a second later, followed by the gentle press of her lips against Blaine’s temple. He leaned into it like a man who’d been kissed that way a thousand times and still wasn’t over it.

Then she turned to me, graceful as ever, while Blaine moved to the coffee machine with a theatrical groan.

“Cinnamon and oat milk, comin’ right up,” he muttered, already reaching for the jar he claimed was the devil’s spice. “You know this stuff smells like regret, right?”

Scarlett didn’t even blink. She just stepped behind him, kissed him full on the mouth — the kind of kiss that shut up complaints and rewired brain chemistry — then turned back to me like nothing had happened.

“How are you doing, sweetheart?” she asked, her voice low and velvety, the kind that could soothe a storm or command a room without raising a decibel. “Has my husband been antagonizing you all morning?”

“Hey, what the fuck woman!” Blaine complained, while I smiled

“No, he’s been really sweet, actually.”

“There you have it! She said sweet, you hear! Expect an apology.”

“You’ll get your apology Blaine. Just the way you like it.” Scarlett said without taking her eyes off me, smiling in that certain way while winking at me while Blaine cheered exxageratedly by the now roaring coffee maker. “Now that’s what I like to hear! I’ll clear my schedule.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. Victoria and I are meeting the other girls at dad’s castle for the dress fittings at four.”

“Boooooring!” Blaine whined in the background.

I blinked. “Dress fitting?”

Scarlett tilted her head. “For the Masquerade Ball.”

“Oh.” I swallowed. “For a second I thought you meant the wedding gown.”

Scarlett’s expression didn’t change, but Blaine snorted from the espresso machine.

“Wedding on the brain,” he said. “Still not quite giving up on Alder galloping up the driveway on a white horse to whisk her off to become his lawfully wedded ball and chain, huh? Horse probably stolen from the royal stables in Henfordshire.”

Scarlett groaned. “Blaine.”

He winked. “Hey, I’m just saying — if he shows up with a bouquet and an apologetic smile at our doorstep, I’ll be the first to say ‘I told you so.’ I don’t think girlfriend here is ready to accept the sad truth. That man ran with his tail between his legs. Some weak-ass bullshit.”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “Made a cute baby though, I’ll give him that. But then again, it’s not that hard — look at our brood. Maybe we should quit with the protection crap and see if we’ve still got it. Been eight years since the last one, but if the plumbing still works, I say tallyho.”

He glanced at me, grinning. “Didn’t realize until Vic moved in with Cat how much I like all that daddy chaos. Kinda suits me. And I am damn good at it. Yeah, we need to make us a couple more kids, fanged this time with no way out like the others. Kids we won’t have to bury one day.”

Scarlett rolled her eyes, mouthing no way at me behind his back.

God, they were a cute couple. Damn you, Alder. We could’ve been this. Well — except Alder and I were nothing like Scarlett and Blaine, but you get the drift.

The Masquerade Ball

The ballroom was aglow like Versailles reborn — all gilded cornices, candlelit chandeliers, and velvet drapery that whispered of centuries past. Music floated through the air, not eerie or vampiric, but lush and ceremonial, the kind that made you stand taller just by entering the room.

Everyone danced — not wildly, not stiffly, but with the grace of centuries behind them. Their formalwear, likely drawn from the eras of their respective heydays, moved like silk and shadow across the polished floor. Each ensemble was a declaration of identity, legacy, and myth.

It took me a moment to notice the pattern — subtle, but unmistakable. The men’s attire echoed the colors of their partners. Not matched exactly, but threaded in: a lapel, a lining, a cufflink. Burgundy for Lavinia. Plum for Rhiannon. Blue for Branwen and Cesare. It wasn’t just fashion; it was choreography. A ritual of visual harmony. Across the ballroom, every couple danced in tandem not just in movement, but in palette — as if the masquerade demanded unity, even in disguise. Some masks had since been shed for the dance. This was about joy and harmony, not concealment.

Some of the women wore gowns daringly low in the back, revealing intricate tattoos — the Vannucci family crest etched in black and silver, with the name spelled out beneath like a vow. Scarlett had caught my gaze earlier, lifted her hair and turned her back, showing hers, then leaned in with a smirk: “Only family gets those. It’s not just ink — it’s legacy. Practical vampire royalty.”

To the left, Rhiannon twirled in a gown of black, ivory, and deep plum — a palette that suited her perfectly. Her mask, now resting on a nearby credenza, was delicate filigree with hints of amethyst. She spun with soft laughter, unguarded and radiant. Caelan danced with her, mostly hidden from view, a shadow in black with plum accents. His movements were precise but restrained, like a man who’d learned to waltz only to please his wife.

Next to them, Riordan and Lavinia glided in quiet harmony. Riordan, ever the gentleman, wore a deep burgundy Edwardian coat. His mask of black lace and bone lay on the grand piano. Lavinia, back to us, was draped in matching burgundy silk, her hair swept up to reveal pearl earrings that glinted like stars. They moved as one — sweetness incarnate, the kind of couple that made you believe in quiet love.

In the foreground, I stood and watched in silver — a gown that shimmered like moonlight on water, structured but soft, with black lace at the sleeves. My mask lay on the nearby table; I wanted to see every detail, take the spectacle in fully. Not far from me, Scarlett wore red — a sculpted gown with a tall matching hat. Her feathered Venetian mask lay beside mine and Blaine’s. Blaine twirled her with his signature crooked smirk, tuxedo sharp enough to cut glass. They weren’t just dancing — they were performing, bold and unapologetic, a portrait of modern vampire royalty with a touch of chaos.

Behind them, Branwen and Cesare moved like mythic anchors, the epitome of elegance. Branwen wore deep blue Victorian mourning silk, jet beads catching the light as she turned. Her mask, obsidian and velvet, had given her the air of a raven in flight. Cesare, in matching blue brocade with gold embroidery, had worn a lion’s-head mask like a crown for most of the evening. Those masks had been shed too. They didn’t just glide — they commanded the floor, every step a quiet decree.

I was still adjusting to the grandeur when Rhiannon danced her way toward me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

“Victoria,” she said, taking my hand mid-spin. “You look positively radiant. But I need a break — these heels are medieval torture. Will you dance with Caelan for me?”

Caelan, already beside her, raised a brow. “I need rest too.”

“You’re not wearing heels, lover,” she shot back. “Dance with your family’s guest of honor. Don’t be rude. Be your father’s son. You always complain that all he uses you for are things that require brutality. Show him you can shine with finesse — just like Scarlett. Go on!”

He sighed, then turned to me. We both knew she wasn’t tired. This was her way of nudging us — throwing her husband and me to the proverbial wolves. Maybe she wanted me to enjoy the dance. Maybe she wanted Caelan and me to shed some of our obvious dislike. Whatever the reason, he and I now had a pesky problem in common.

Without a word, he offered his hand — not stiffly, not theatrically, but with a quiet grace that implied a bow without requiring one. A gesture born of old-world training and decades of restraint. His fingers were steady, palm open, waiting.

“Shall we then?” he said, voice low.

I hesitated. Caelan — the emotionally bankrupt statue of a man who fathered Alder and never knew. The one I’d blamed for Alder’s damage, even if it wasn’t fair. But Rhiannon was watching, and something in her eyes said trust him.

I couldn’t deny her wish.

The ballroom shimmered in candlelight and centuries-old pride. Gilded sconces cast golden halos across the marble floor, and the air was thick with velvet and wine — not blood, not breath, just the quiet hum of legacy. No heartbeats. No warmth. Just elegance.

Strings swelled from the quartet in the alcove, their bows gliding in perfect synchronicity. The music was lush, ceremonial — not eerie, not vampiric, just timeless. Dancers moved like ghosts in silk, each pair a portrait of their own heyday. Edwardian coats brushed against Regency skirts. Renaissance embroidery met Victorian lace. Masks glittered like secrets.

I placed my hand in his.

Caelan’s grip was firm, cool, and precise. He led me onto the floor with the kind of control that felt almost clinical — until the music shifted. A minor key melted into something softer, and he dipped me with surprising grace. It was … nice.

“You’re full of surprises,” I murmured. “I would’ve never pegged you as such a great dancer.”

“I’ve had practice,” he said. “Rhiannon likes to dance. I lost her once, by not listening to what she needs. I won’t lose her again.”

He turned us, sharp and fluid, while I processed his words.

“Besides,” he added, “I figured if I ever had to dance with someone who might stake me mid-waltz, I should probably learn to do it right.”

I snorted. “You’re not wrong.” So, it had a sense of humor too? Huh. How about that.

We passed under a chandelier, its crystals catching the light like frozen stars. I caught his profile — sharp, unreadable, like a statue carved in grief. But he wasn’t as ugly as I always remembered. It was the coldness, the grumpy attitude, the emotional void that made him seem that way. Up close, he was… well, muscular. His face was… interesting. Masculine. And that scar kind of just added to the man-of-mystery darkness.

Okay, Rhiannon. I get it now.

“You know,” I said, “you have potential. I’ve seen you with her. You can be very nice. So why choose to come off so cold?”

“I’m a Coven Enforcer,” he replied. “Not the hostess at an upscale restaurant. I’m supposed to instill fear.”

“Yes, I get that. In certain settings. I’m not suggesting you do stand-up comedy during coven meetings. But I’ve met your son and grandson — both Enforcers. They’re pleasant when not on duty. You’re just always grumpy. Why alienate everyone by coming across so emotionally bankrupt?”

He didn’t flinch. “It’s not my fault.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

He kept his gaze forward. “It’s an affliction. Some vampires get it. Guess you haven’t gotten to that part in your training yet. It dulls everything — feelings, reactions, empathy. If you let it go too far, you end up careless. Dangerous. Once you go too far and kill mortals or other vamps, you end up on my list. Hunted till death.”

“So how did you not end up on your list?”

“I fight it. I stay grounded. Rhiannon helps. I came close a few times when she left me. I reacted all wrong. I made terrible mistakes. I see that now. I won’t repeat them. Some could be fixed. Others…” His voice dropped. “Are unfixable.”

I didn’t speak. Just let the music fill the silence between us. No breath. No pulse. Just movement and memory.

He dipped me again, slower this time. My heart — metaphorical, mythic — stuttered.

“Mistakes,” I said quietly. “Like Alder.”

The music swelled.

He stopped. Abruptly. The dance ended mid-turn.

“I’ll let you get back to your evening,” he said, voice clipped.

And then he was gone — swallowed by candlelight and velvet shadows.

That was my answer. He did care. He just couldn’t show it right and didn’t know how to fix it.

Okay. Being forced to get closer to the other vamps had turned out very enlightening so far.

Melancholic Thoughts

I watched the dancers swirl beneath chandeliers, their gowns catching the candlelight like waves of silk and shadow. The music was still playing — something slow, something aching — and I stood at the edge of it all, trying to process everything I’d gotten wrong.

Blaine. Caelan. The whole vampire thing.

They weren’t monsters. Not really. Not the way the stories made them out to be. This wasn’t some bloodthirsty cult in a crypt. It was a society — structured, governed, elegant. Better run than most mortal governments, if I was being honest. And somehow… beautiful. In a melancholic way. Like a painting that made you cry without knowing why.

Yes, I’d lost a lot. My life. Some abilities — at least for now. But look at what I’d gained. If I could pull this off, if I really put effort into learning all those intricacies, this could be the new beginning I’d been trying for. The one I thought Alder would give me.

Maybe this was where I was supposed to be all along.

But then the melancholy crept in. That quiet, cruel kind. The kind that wraps around your ribs and squeezes.

The ballroom was filled with couples. Dancing. Laughing. Whispering behind masks. And I felt it — that alone in a crowd feeling. Yes, most here were polite. Helpful. Even kind. But at the end of the day, I was a single parent. My bed was empty. Nobody to hold me. Nobody to share affection with. Just me and my daughter. And a legacy I hadn’t asked for.

A servant passed with a tray of crystal flutes filled with something golden and sparkling. I grabbed one. It tasted like starlight — smooth, sweet, and deceptively light. I emptied it. Found another. Then another. Until the edges of the room blurred and the music felt like it was playing underwater.

There was a buffet, of course — splendidly presented like everything else. Silver trays, sculpted fruit, delicacies I couldn’t pronounce. My mind was clouded, my judgment worse. The food looked divine. So I noshed.

Rude Awakening

And I wasn’t ready.

Not physiologically. Not mythically. Not even remotely.

I felt it hit — fast and brutal. A pressure in my gut, a twist in my throat. I tried to breathe, tried to steady myself, but of course, I didn’t breathe anymore.

And then it happened.

I projectile vomited like a rogue sprinkler. Elegant marble floors. Velvet shoes. A nearby statue. All victims.

The music screeched to a halt. Masks turned. Gasps echoed. Someone dropped a glass.

I stood there, frozen, humiliated, dripping in regret and sparkling wine.

Blaine’s voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“Oh shit — she found the booze and the buffet!”

Scarlett groaned. “Blaine.”

I was lit, but not drunk enough to not want to die. Or evaporate. Or maybe just melt into the floor and become part of the marble.

Cesare appeared beside me like a ghost in blue and gold, his hand already on my elbow. “Come,” he said softly, no judgment in his voice. Just quiet command.

Branwen was on my other side, her gloved hand steadying me as if I were royalty and not the rogue sprinkler of the evening. Together, they ushered me out of the ballroom — past the velvet curtains, down a candlelit corridor, into a quiet room that smelled of lavender and old books.

The door closed behind us, sealing off the music and the stares and Blaine’s inevitable reenactment.

Cesare handed me a silk cloth and a glass of something dark and restorative. “Drink this,” he said gently. “It’ll help.”

I took it. I drank. I didn’t speak.

Branwen moved to the fireplace, adjusting the flame with a flick of her wrist. The room was warm, quiet, and mercifully empty.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurted, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t thinking— I just—”

Cesare sat beside me without hesitation, his arm settling around my shoulders like a father comforting a sick child. Not performative. Not pitying. Just steady warmth.

“You are learning,” he said gently. “And now you’ve very publicly discovered why we have certain rules. Perhaps now you are a bit more receptive to hear me. To really listen. To learn.”

I nodded, mascara smudged, throat raw. “I feel so lost,” I whispered. “Like I’m eternally falling. No direction. No idea what to do.”

Cesare’s gaze was calm, ancient. His voice, when he spoke, sounded like it had been carved from marble and softened by time.

“You need a task,” he said. “And I will give you one.”

He turned to Branwen, who was already halfway to the door. “Give us a moment alone, my love. Assure the mess has been cleaned. Kindly arrange for something clean for her to wear.”

Branwen nodded once and vanished like a shadow with purpose.

Cesare turned back to me. “You will retreat to your chambers for the night. Tomorrow, you will feel ill. Vampires are not as receptive to alcohol and hangovers, but you are too new still — and you will feel it.”

I groaned softly. “Great.”

“Tomorrow you shall rest. Recover. The day after,” he continued, “you will come to me after rising. You will assist me. I will teach you while you help me.”

“How could someone like I help a man like you?”

He paused, studying me.

“You are a writer, no? And a painter. I always have use for those skilled in words and arts. In return, you will gain very useful insights — insights that will help you find your way. For your sake. For your daughter’s sake.”

I blinked, stunned by the clarity of it. The offer. The structure. The kindness.

And for the first time in days, I felt something solid beneath me. Not a solution. Not a miracle.

Just a place to begin.

🪶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.