🪶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.
Recently turned vampire—without consent—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. 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.

Alder Davenport Mage of Mourningvale, poet by compulsion, and man of many masks. Conceived in shame, born out of wedlock to a mother who died in childbirth at a convent, his birth records bear the assumed surname Davenport. She named him Alder, and he honors her choices by keeping Davenport as his nom de plume. Branded Thorne by the ward who raised him, he wears his fictional name by his mother now by choice, reclaimed from cruelty. To some, he’s a romantic. To others, a traitor. To Victoria, he’s both—and neither. His verses read like riddles wrapped in regret, and his disappearances leave only ink and silence behind. Alder walks the line between redemption and ruin with quiet grace and a fate he no longer tries to outrun.

Lord Gavin Cameron – Composer. Heir. Born in Del Sol Valley, but long settled in Henfordshire, where he and his former wife raised their two children. Son of Blaine Cameron—the legendary vampire and rock icon—Gavin inherited both the music and the shadows, returning to fanged life after years of trying to live mortal.

Reserved. Private. Emotionally guarded.

His recent divorce from Bianca was long, bitter, and exhausting. She still stalks him—except in Henfordshire, the one place she refuses to tread thanks to an old feud with the local royals. There, Gavin has reclaimed quiet. Reclaimed rhythm. And begun, slowly, to rebuild a life that feels like his own.

Chase and Hailey Cameron. Teenage sweethearts turned college lovers, who—with Chase’s best friend Colton—formed a band that would go from dorm room gigs to international fame. They weathered the spotlight, the quiet years, and the chaos of toggling between mortal and fanged lives, eventually choosing the latter for good.

Through it all, they raised three children with equal parts love, discipline, and irreverent humor—the same mix that kept their marriage strong long after the honeymoon phase faded. Fame never fractured them. Parenthood never dulled them. And even immortality couldn’t shake the way they still looked at each other like the first chorus of a song they never stopped playing. Chase is also Gavin’s older brother.

Jackson Kershaw and Briar Rose Cameron. Married twice, divorced twice, with enough distance and detours to prove they weren’t built for easy. They tried living without each other. Tried other partners. Tried pretending the pull wasn’t permanent. But it was.

The rugged cowboy and the glamorous songstress share three children together—plus one each from the times they tried to move on. Now they live in separate towns, but orbit each other like gravity. They spend as much time together as they can, as a couple, as a family, as something that doesn’t fit in a box.

They’ve stopped chasing conventional. Turns out, the only way they work is by rewriting the rules. And they’re finally okay with that. Briar Rose is Chase and Hailey’s daughter.

Beau Wyatt Kershaw and Briony Rose Cameron. Twins—though you’d never guess it by looking. Or talking. Or standing them side by side.

Beau lives with their father at the Chestnut Ridge horse ranch, happiest in boots and dust, allergic to city life in spirit if not in body. Briony, on the other hand, didn’t need her actual allergy to local weeds to know she was never built for cabin life or saddle chores. Even as kids, they knew exactly which world fit them—and it wasn’t the same one.

They bicker constantly. Loudly. Creatively. But heaven help anyone who tries to come between them. Because when it’s not each other, it’s them against the world.

Now fifteen, Briony spends half her time convincing her socialite friends that her twin brother is more than just a walking cowboy cliché. Meanwhile, Beau’s spent more than a few afternoons throwing punches at ranch boys who said the wrong thing about his pretty twin sister.

They learned early how to navigate a life that didn’t look traditional. And they’re still figuring it out—one argument, one inside joke, one unshakable bond at a time.

Re-Entry

The days after Alder’s latest reveal felt like déjà vu with a darker twist.

Just when I thought I’d mapped the edges of his mage identity—no, it wasn’t potions and sparkles, it was rewinds and rewrites—he peeled back another layer. This one wasn’t magical. It was obsessive. Possessive. Stalker-y in that quiet, insidious way that made my skin crawl even when he smiled.

Strangely, he never locked any doors. Never trapped me physically. He always invited me along on his errands, like we were some quaint couple in Ravenwood, strolling past flower carts and gossiping elders.

But I knew better. I knew what he’d done.

He’d rewound time.

And in the process, he’d taken everything from me—my legacy, my choices, my hard-earned sovereignty, my love and my child—and reset it like a game save. Just so I’d have nowhere else to go but him.

He wasn’t cruel. He genuinely seemed to think he did everyone a huge favor, sort of reset something that had run out of kilter, and that I would see it once I stopped being upset and angry with him. And that was the worst part. He really was that naive about the whole thing.

He was patient. Gentle. He absorbed my fury like it was foreplay. Every time I begged him to undo the rewind, he’d get that tight look in his jaw and say it wasn’t possible. Maybe he was lying. Maybe he wasn’t. I had no way of knowing and didn’t care.

Because the outcome was the same: he wanted me to play house in a world he’d rewritten for me. A world where I was already as good as pregnant in his mind, already his partner, already his prize.

Yes, I liked him. Maybe even loved him in some twisted, tragic way.

But I would not reward this insanity with romance. I would not build a family on the ashes of my stolen autonomy.

Out of principle, I refused.

Even if it would be easier. Even if he’d be a wonderful partner. Even if part of me wanted to believe the fantasy.

No.

If I had to start over again, it would not be with him. Not like this.

So when he left for town again—same route, same timing—I waited five minutes. Just enough to be sure.

Then I bolted.

No note. No ceremony. Just a cab to the airport and a one-way ticket to anywhere but here.

The flight was to…

Windenburg

The place I was born. The place I once called home.

Where I scraped my knees on cobblestone alleys and kissed my first crush behind the old bell tower.

Ironic, really—returning to the origin point after being erased from my own timeline.

Old stone streets. Salt in the air. A place that felt comfortably familiar yet eerily strange. Windenburg had changed. Or maybe I had. The buildings were taller, the faces younger, and the rhythm of the town no longer matched the beat of my memory.

I arrived with nothing but a carry-on and a name I refused to surrender.

Checked into a modest inn in old downtown—the kind with creaky floors, crooked staircases, and windows that rattled when the wind howled. Perfect. It felt like a place where ghosts whispered and I could hear myself think.

I didn’t unpack. Just dropped my bag and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the faded wallpaper like it might offer answers.

It didn’t.

So I opened my sketchbook instead.

I didn’t draw.

I just stared at the blank page.

The Note at the Threshold

I wasn’t supposed to be in San Myshuno.

I was supposed to be rebuilding quietly in Windenburg—painting coastal ruins, sipping bitter coffee, pretending I didn’t remember a life that no longer existed. But boredom crept in like fog. And memory followed.

San Myshuno was only forty-five minutes away. A bustling metropolis. A place where people still lived like the world hadn’t been rewritten. I wanted to watch them. Not interact. Just observe. Like a ghost haunting the living.

I followed a group of twenty-somethings to a rooftop lounge—drawn by their laughter, their chaos, their unfiltered joy. I couldn’t tell who belonged to whom, and that intrigued me. It was better than TV. Real life, unscripted.

Two cocktails in, after flirting with the bartender and sketching the crowd in my mind, I turned to look for the bathroom. I didn’t really need it, but wanted to make sure that the alcohol didn’t have me looking all frazzled and pink. I wanted to hide in the crowd, not stand out like an ad for borderline intoxication. Taking a big sip I kept my eyes peeled, about to ask the barkeep for directions to the ladies room.

And then he walked in.

HE.

I froze. My heart didn’t. It galloped.

I coughed as the sip went down the wrong pipe. He didn’t see me. Not yet. I hunched down, tried to blend into the bar, face lowered like shame was a disguise.

He scanned the room. Raised a hand. Smiled.

And walked past me.

I turned, just enough to see him greet a well-dressed yuppie type—his whole vibe screamed attorney or investment advisor. I should’ve left. I could’ve vanished again.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I pulled out my sketchbook and began to draw. Not his face. Not yet. Just the outline. The posture. The way he held tension in his shoulders like a secret.

He sat two stools down with his companion, laughing, sipping whiskey. Our eyes met.

I looked away.

But I kept looking. Again. And again. Until the last time, when he caught me staring and his gaze lingered long enough to make my cheeks burn.

His companion—late fifties, maybe early sixties—was striking. Fit, polished, silver at the temples but not in the way that suggested fading. More like refinement. He wore a tailored blazer and carried himself like someone who negotiated for a living and won often.

He checked his phone, frowned, and leaned in toward Gavin. Their heads dipped together for a brief exchange—low voices, a hand on Gavin’s shoulder, a nod. Then the man stood, already speaking into the phone, already summoned elsewhere.

Gavin watched him go, then turned slightly—closer to me now. One stool away.

I felt the shift before I saw it. The air changed. His cologne reached me first—warm, familiar, unnerving.

Then his voice.

“Do I know you?” he asked—polite, curious, disarming.

Gulp. I felt hot and cold at the same time. So busted.

“No,” I said.

He laughed. “That’s bold.”

I blinked, confused, until I saw him gesture—not at me, but at the sketchbook in my lap.

Reflexively, I snapped it shut and pressed it to my chest like a shield.

“Oh, that,” I muttered, as if there was a reasonable explanation. There wasn’t.

He smiled, eyes narrowing with interest. And something flickered. Not memory. But something. An echo.

“You don’t see that often,” he said, nodding toward the sketchbook. “Most women at bars are glued to their phones, dancing, or trying way too hard to be noticed. You’re just… drawing. Like the night’s a still life.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I didn’t.

“You do that professionally?” he asked. “Looks pretty damn professional. I just bought property in Henfordshire and thought an oil painting of myself and maybe my family would be appropriate.”

I almost choked on the irony. Another painting? All the ones I’d done before were gone. Erased. Like me.

“Yeah,” I said. “I take commissions.”

“Fantastic. Mind if I sit?”

“What about your… friend?”

“Friend? Oh, Nick? He’s my nephew. Also handling my divorce. Well, there goes TMI. Yup, I’m part of the statistic now.”

“Interesting you still wear your wedding band,” I said, unable to bite it back.

He chuckled. “Truth be told, it’s mostly for decoy. Things with Bianca haven’t been great for a long time. I’m not interested in dating, but no ring is an open invitation. And I’ve had enough of those.”

“I always thought that was every divorced man’s dream—playing the field once the ball and chain is off.”

He laughed—genuinely, not mockingly. Then tipped back the last of his whiskey and set the glass down with a soft clink.

“Sorry to burst your preconception,” he said, gesturing to the bartender. “Another round. For me and the lady.”

The bartender nodded. Gavin turned back to me, eyes steady.

“I prefer the newfound quiet.”

This wasn’t a rewind. This was a strange reset.

We spent the rest of the evening talking.

Not about anything monumental. Not at first. Just this and that. Music. Art. The way cities feel different at night. He told me about the house in Henfordshire—how he wasn’t sure if it was a retreat or a mistake. I told him about Windenburg, in vague strokes, like I was describing a dream I hadn’t quite woken from.

He didn’t press. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t try to touch me.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Because I wanted him to. And I didn’t. And I hated that I couldn’t tell which part of me was louder.

He was kind. Present. Curious in a way that felt earned, not performative. He asked questions and actually listened to the answers. He laughed at the right moments. He didn’t fill silences with noise.

And somewhere between the second drink and the last, I realized I still loved him.

Not the version I remembered. Not the man from the erased timeline. This one.

The one who didn’t know me. The one who was unknowingly breaking my heart all over again by being exactly the kind of man I’d remembered him being.

He offered to take me home but I refused, so we said our goodbyes near the exit of the bar, hands in his pockets, keeping a respectful distance. He smiled and said goodnight like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I nodded. Smiled back. And turned away.

I was halfway to the exit of his hotel when I heard hurried footsteps behind me.

“Miss—excuse me, miss!”

I turned. A bellhop—young, flushed, slightly out of breath—was weaving through the lobby crowd, waving a folded piece of hotel stationery like it was a royal decree.

“A message for you,” he said, offering it with both hands, as if it might combust.

I took it. No name on the outside. Just the hotel’s crest embossed in gold.

I didn’t open it right away.

I stepped outside first, into the cool San Myshuno night. The city buzzed around me—horns, laughter, the low hum of traffic. I stood beneath the awning, the note in my hand, and let the moment breathe.

Then I unfolded it.

You said you’re rebuilding. I don’t know why, but I’d like to see what you’re building. I don’t know how long your early morning commitments will take, but if you’re still here tomorrow, I’ll be in the rooftop garden at 10 a.m. No pressure. Just curiosity. — G

I placed the note on the nightstand. I didn’t reread it. I didn’t need to.

I set my alarm for 9.

The Rooftop Garden

The rooftop garden was quiet.

Ivy curled around wrought iron railings. The skyline stretched like a promise. And there he was—Gavin—leaning against the balustrade, coffee in hand, looking out over the city like he was trying to remember something he’d never known.

He turned when he heard my steps.

“You came,” he said.

“I did.”

He gave a hand signal to one of the attendants and ordered coffee for me as well. We sat. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was full. Like a canvas waiting for the first stroke.

“I don’t usually do things like this,” he said.

“Leave notes for strangers? Well, guess we’re even, cos I don’t habitually meet strangers I met at a bar for breakfast.”

“Especially when the strangers do not feel like strangers.”

Bam!

With those almost innocent words he had grabbed my heart and squeezed it tightly.

We didn’t rush. We let the morning unfold slowly—talking about art, architecture, the way cities breathe differently depending on the hour. He asked about my work, and I gave him pieces of the truth. Not the whole mosaic. Just enough to feel real.

He didn’t remember me. Not the affair. Not our daughter.

But something in him responded to me. A flicker. A pull. Like a song he’d heard once in a dream.

I studied him. Really studied him.

The skin was smoother. The eyes brighter. The faint shimmer of immortality clung to him like mist. He’d done it. He’d turned back, transformation complete.

Then I saw the ring.

Left hand. Gold band. Divorcing or not, it stung for some reason. I hated that ring, marking him as someone else’s, even though he wouldn’t be mine now without it either anyway.

He noticed my gaze and shifted, suddenly uncomfortable, before pulling it off.

“I don’t think I need to wear it anymore,” he said, voice low. “The divorce is as good as final, according to Nick. Bianca’s dragged it out as long as she could, but she’s out of options now. At long last. And I am a big boy. No need for decoys.”

“Congratulations,” I said, without hesitation. “She wasn’t good for you. Always all about her needs, her wishes, her wants, and you just always had to bend over and take it.”

It slipped out. I completely forgot that he’d forgotten I knew.

His eyes narrowed—not in anger, just confusion.

“How would you know that?”

I shrugged, blushing. “Just a lucky guess, maybe. Based on the fact that you’re a vampire. Not every woman’s built for that. Which strains a marriage that’s felt forced and dead ever since the kids grew up and flew the coop. Am I close?”

He stared at me. Really stared.

“How did you know that I was…” He stopped, glancing around to make sure no unwanted witnesses were in earshot.

Oops again. This wasn’t as easy as last night with all the bar distractions.

I opened my mouth to explain that he just looked younger than before—realized, just in time, that as far as he was concerned we’d only met for the first time last night.

So instead I went with:

“I’m just good at reading people, I suppose.” Followed by an awkward smile.

He blinked.

“A little too good.”

“Well, don’t worry about it. I should go.”

I turned. The ache was already blooming in my chest. But before I could walk away, he caught my wrist—gently, reverently.

“Stay,” he said. “Please.”

I looked at him. And in that moment, I knew.

I still loved him.

Not the memory. Not the echo.

Him.

So I stayed.

Memories

After breakfast, we lingered.

The rooftop garden emptied slowly, the city rising around us like a tide. Gavin offered to walk me down, but I didn’t move. I just sat there, watching ivy curl around iron, watching him sip his coffee like he was trying to memorize the moment.

Eventually, he said, “I have a suite downstairs. If you’d like to keep talking.”

It wasn’t a proposition. It was a question. A door, not a trap.

I nodded.

We didn’t speak much on the way down. Just quiet glances, shared silence, the kind that feels like a bridge between two timelines.

His room was quiet.

Dimly lit. Curtains drawn against the skyline. The kind of hush that feels sacred, like a chapel built for two.

We didn’t speak much. We didn’t need to.

It was as if a switch was flipped. It came natural. Unplanned, but … right.

He kissed me like he was remembering something he’d never lived. I kissed him like I was trying to forget what he couldn’t remember.

We undressed slowly. Reverently. Like ceremony.

His hands were familiar. His breath, his rhythm, the way he touched me—it was all there. Muscle memory. Echoes. A love that had once been real, now rewritten into something half-remembered and half-imagined.

And when it was over, he stepped into the shower.

The door left ajar. An invitation.

I wanted to join him. Wanted to let the water wash away the ache, the irony, the impossible truth of it all.

But I couldn’t move.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling everything. The love. The loss. The sovereign ache of being remembered by no one but myself.

This wasn’t a reunion. It was a requiem.

I got up. Dressed quietly. Left a sketch on the pillow—his face, half-shadowed, half-lit. A note beneath it:

You were mine once. I wish you could be again. But not like this.

Then I slipped out.

The hallway was silent. The elevator chimed like a bell at the end of a ritual. I stepped in, pressed the lobby button, and watched the numbers descend like a countdown to sovereignty.

Outside, the city was waking.

San Myshuno’s skyline glowed with early light, and I walked without direction, letting the ache settle into my bones like fog. Silent tears rolled down my face. I didn’t wipe them away.

I didn’t regret it. I mourned it.

I had let myself feel it all again—the love, the longing, the impossible truth of being erased from someone’s heart by magic. And I had left before it could become a rewrite. Before it could become a trap.

Back in my room, I unpacked my sketchbook.

Flipped to the page where I’d drawn him at the bar. I added the shadows. The tension. The flicker of recognition in his eyes.

Then I began a new sketch.

Not of Gavin. Of me.

Not the woman he remembered. Not the woman Alder rewound.

The woman I had to become.

Whoever she was, I was hoping by the time I finished the sketch, I would know.

Would she have fangs again? Would she be a mother again? Would she have Gavin by her side?

I didn’t know.

But I kept drawing.

Sugar Town

Walking away from the man was easy. Walking away from the memory? Not so much.

Every day that followed was just another rerun of every single feeling—on loop. Like a melancholic merry-go-round I couldn’t get off. Especially after refreshing every intimate detail with Gavin—his voice, his hands, the way he used to look at me like I was the only thing that mattered. The way he kissed me. Touched me. The way it felt when we… well. Dot dot dot.

He was in my head 24/7, and I couldn’t get out of my own damn mind.

Nighttime was the worst. One evening, after nightfall, I just couldn’t drown it out anymore.

So I did what any emotionally scrambled, mythically exhausted woman would do in a situation this screwed up.

I got wasted.

I found a bar. Didn’t care if it was new or old. Didn’t care if it had history or charm. It had booze, and it was within stumbling distance of the room I rented in Windenburg. That was enough.

It was karaoke night.

At first, I grinned and shook my head at the brave idiots stepping up to the mic, publicly embarrassing themselves like it was a sport. But two rum and cokes and one whiskey on the rocks later, I was up there too—slurring my way through Nancy Sinatra’s “Sugar Town” like I was getting paid to butcher it.

Why that song? Hell if I know. Maybe because it was the furthest thing from my reality. Maybe because I wanted to pretend I was someone else for three minutes and thirty seconds.

The upbeat melody chimed up, and my voice followed the prompts on the screen.

I got some troubles, but they won’t last I’m gonna lay right down here in the grass…

I was getting into it. Oh friend, I was getting down. I swayed. I twirled. I sang like the world was my stage for the night.

And then I saw him.

Caelan Vannucci.

Not a memory. A vampire hunter. Coven Enforcer. The kind of man who didn’t walk into a bar unless he was there to collect something—or someone.

He didn’t look amused.

Then again, had he ever? Pretty sure that was just his default setting.

If I had a million dollars or ten I’d give it to you, world, and then…

I kept singing, thinking maybe it was coincidence. I mean, he wouldn’t remember me either, right? So why worry?

But then his eyes met mine. Locked. His body straightened, shoulders tensing like a drawn bow.

And I knew.

He was here for me.

Oh hell no.

…my life in shoo-shoo-shoo, Sugar Town…

I dropped the mic mid-verse and bolted for the back exit.

The cold night air slapped me sober-ish. I made it ten steps before a grip like steel caught me. I was yanked against a body so solid it could’ve been a wall, and the world blurred.

Next thing I knew, I was standing in the stone lobby of the vampire castle in Forgotten Hollow. Medieval walls. Flickering sconces. The same damn place I tried to start my last new beginning—before it melted into a big ball of WTF, ending with Alder hitting some magical erase-and-rewind button.

I stumbled back from Caelan, still drunk, still invincible, and shoved him.

Or rather, I tried to.

He didn’t budge. Just glared at me while I cursed him out with every colorful word I knew.

Then his eyes shifted—past me.

I turned, wobbling slightly.

“Gavin?!”

Caelan didn’t blink. “Is this her?”

“Yes,” Gavin said, stepping forward. “Thank you, Uncle.”

“Wow. You sicced the creep on me?”

Caelan gave me a grunt and a nudge that sent me stumbling straight into Gavin’s arms. He caught me. God, he smelled good. My drunk brain didn’t care about dignity—I snuggled into the crick of his neck like I belonged there.

“Drunk,” Caelan muttered again, with the disdain of someone who’s never allowed themselves the luxury of falling apart. “You sure know how to pick ’em. Finally got rid of the bimbo, and now you’re cuddling a gutter mermaid.”

Then he turned to Gavin and added, deadpan: “Found her howling some showtune like a cat in heat.”

I flung around, nearly tripping over my own boots, and snarled: “It was Nancy Sinatra’s Sugar Town, you cultural void!”

Caelan raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got no musical bone in your body. You couldn’t carry a tune if someone handed it to you in a bucket with a lid.”

“Ha. Who died and made you the grand authority on the arts, Lurch?”

Gavin blinked, caught somewhere between amusement and concern.

And then—from the shadows—a voice I hadn’t heard in what felt like a lifetime.

“Interesting to see that some things never change. Always you two bickering. How curious, indeed!”

I froze. Gavin turned. Caelan straightened. And I stared.

Cesare.

He stepped into the light like a revelation carved from time itself. Tall, composed, ancient in the way that made time feel like a suggestion. His eyes met mine, and something in me cracked open.

“You remember?” I whispered.

He nodded. “Of course I remember…”

That was all I heard. Cesare remembered me.

Suddenly it all went blank and black… then bright white…

Back To Reality

I gasped.

I woke choking on air that didn’t belong to me.

The ceiling was wrong. The light was wrong. My body felt like static—like I’d been rewound and stitched back together with someone else’s thread. I tried to sit up, but the room spun sideways, and my voice cracked out of me before thought could catch it. I jumped up, tried to run, but there was nowhere to go.

“Alder! Alder—what did you do? Bring them back! I want them all back! Annabelle! Gavin! Cesare, help me! Cesare, you remember, please help me!”

I lunged forward, blinded, confused and dizzy, crashing into something sharp—a corner table, maybe. My hip screamed. I slid to the ground, sobbing, clutching at air that wouldn’t hold me.

“I want Gavin back. And my baby. I don’t want everyone not to know me. I was building something good here…”

The dream clung to me like smoke. Alder’s rewritten world. Gavin’s hollow eyes. The child erased. It hadn’t happened. But it felt real. Too real.

Somewhere nearby, Briony Rose Cameron gasped.

“Oh my god. How much did Uncle Con-Bear give her? Is she, like, high?”

Her twin brother, Beau Wyatt Kershaw, drawled from somewhere behind her.

“Shoot, I dunno. Figured vampires could handle more’n us. Booze, drugs, whatever.”

“Yeah, but like… not this. She’s clearly glitching. Is this, like, a vampire overdose?”

“I dunno what Uncle Connor gave ’er, all I know is the young stallions act jus’ like that when we tranquilize ’em to castrate ’em.”

“Well, I am pretty sure Uncle Connor isn’t planning that, Beau-Beau! I think he said something to calm her down and make her sleep.”

“Same thing, ain’t it?” Beau drawled. “Ain’t no male creature alive gonna let you snip his berries without bein’ fully knocked out. You ever try aimin’ right to turn a horse into a gelding while he’s still kickin’? One wrong move and you’re catchin’ a hoof to the head and wakin’ up in the next dimension.”

“Yeah, cool story Beau, now what? Do something!”

“Like what? Want me to rope her and hog-tie her?”

“Oh my god, no! She’s a vampire, not a runaway calf! What if she goes full feral or something?”

“Well, hog-tyin’ would sure prevent that, but jus’ get behind me.”

“Ugh, not the cowboy hero act again. I am not helpless! I have, like, pepper spray in my purse.”

“I don’t think that’s any good for a vampire.”

“It’s organic. It might work.”

“Hell, Briony, jus’ don’t. Let’s just get someone before she bites one of us.”

“Fine. I’m calling for help. You stay here and… I don’t know, keep her busy, make sure she doesn’t like jump out the window or something but don’t die.”

Footsteps. A door opened. Briony’s voice echoed down the hall, shouting names that made no sense to me. More footsteps. Then Chase’s voice, dry and unbothered:

“Oh shit, she’s up all right.”

Hailey’s voice followed, clipped and unimpressed.

“Looks to me like she’s down, Gump. You go help her.”

“Ummm, hard pass,” Chase said. “I know my limits with angry women and I am not poking that bear. She looks ripe and cray cray.”

“Nobody says cray cray anymore, Gump,” Hailey giggled nudging her husband, then got serious. “Okay, enough playing. Call Cesare. Tell your grandpa his little vampire intern just short-circuited. And you two, Beau and Briony, don’t let your grandpa come in here. I’m not dealing with a full-blown chaos vortex with Blaine involved in this hot new mess.”

Both teens scurried with one last concerned glance at me.

“Thinking my dad might be better in dealing with her. He speaks fluent meltdown.”

“No thank you. I don’t know what’s happening with her, but I do know adding Blaine to it  would just make it worse. Cesare knows how to handle vampires at their thresholds. Tell him she’s babbling about rewritten timelines and missing babies. That should get him moving. Have him bring Caelan, just in case. And I will call your brother.”

“Which one? I am one of eight siblings, gotta be more specific, babe,” Chase chuckled.

“Well, yeah, but most are girls, so not the pre-teen and not the dead one either, duh! So which one you think? Obviously I am talking about the one that got this girl here pregnant and turned.”

“She’s long past pregnant and my lil bro didn’t turn her.”

“No, but if he didn’t get involved with her WHILE still trying to divorce the bimbo, that Alder dude wouldn’t have concocted all that other mess. So yeah, I do think this is up to Gavin to figure out.”

I had been half in and out of consciousness but hearing that name perked me right up.

“Gavin?! I want Gavin … if he even remembers me …” I mumbled, still confused but triggered by the familiar name. Hailey nudged Chase hard, gesturing him to get moving, then knelt beside me, voice lowering.

“Hey there, Victoria. Shhh, calm down girl, all is good,” she cooed.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My body was shaking, my mind still half-trapped in the dream. Then—footsteps. Heavy. Familiar. Cesare’s voice, low and commanding. Caelan next to him, Riordan’s beside him, murmuring to the kids.

“Children please remove yourselves from the scene. This isn’t fit for young eyes. She’s not dangerous. She’s just disoriented. Step back.”

Cesare crouched down in front of me while Hailey stepped back, gently running the back of his hand across my cheek.

“You’re safe, everything will be okay.” He said and I just flung myself into his arms. The Grand Master Elder turned into a father-like figure and caught me, gently cooing and rubbing my back.

“Should we call Gavin?” Hailey wondered. Cesare’s voice was like a soothing balm.

“No need. She’ll be coming with us and he’s already there with the baby.”

I stiffened, pulling away to look into his eyes.

“Gavin? My baby? You have them? They are alive?”

“Yes, everything is fine. Everyone is fine and quite worried about you.”

A hand on my shoulder. A whisper in my ear. Then the sharp sting of a needle. I tried to squirm, but it was already done.

Darkness took me.

Recovery

I woke again, slower this time. The sheets were silk. The air was cool. Branwen sat beside me, reading in a book I didn’t recognize. When I stirred, she smiled gently and set the book aside.

“Welcome back, my darling,” she said, brushing hair from my forehead. “Cesare will want to see you right away.”

She called softly, and Cesare entered moments later, his presence grounding the room like stone.

He checked my eyes, my mouth. Then he sat beside me, folding his hands.

“You’re building sun resistance,” he said. “But an entire week in Chestnut Ridge was just too much. The elixir helped, but it wasn’t calibrated for your current threshold, creating a bit of an overdose, which your body wasn’t able to handle. Add the food, the wine, the emotional weight of Blaine’s family—and you overloaded. Your circuits collapsed, sending you into a sort of comatose state.”

I blinked. The dream still clung to my ribs.

“It wasn’t real?”

Cesare regarded me with that ageless stillness, the kind that made time feel irrelevant.

“Not real,” he said at last. “But not meaningless.”

He folded his hands, the gesture precise, almost ceremonial. “Visions like that do not arise from nothing. I am not a man given to wagers, but if I were, I’d stake a considerable sum on Alder’s involvement. A construct, perhaps. A magical test. A glimpse into the choices you might make if forced to choose again.”

His gaze sharpened. “Or a premonition. A warning. You saw what could have been. What might still be, should Alder ever decide to rewrite the world in his image. I do not know if such power is truly within his grasp—but I would not dismiss the possibility. Not now. Not with Gwydion as his mentor.”

He paused, voice cooling. “I knew Gwydion long before he was tamed. My granddaughter Fiona is married to him now, and that bond has tempered him into something resembling an ally. But she could recount endless tales of illusions, manipulations, and trials he put her through. And still, she loves him.”

Cesare leaned forward slightly. “So I caution you again. Not because I dislike Alder. Not because I doubt your judgment. But because I have lived long enough to recognize danger dressed in affection. Alder cares for you—this we all know. But care is not the same as safety. And proximity to power, especially unstable power, is never without cost.”

He let the silence settle before finishing, voice low and final.

“Let this dream be a reminder. Of what he could become. Of what he might do, if he ever decided you should belong to him. And let it also remind you why I have warned you before. This is not sentiment. It is strategy. It is protection. For you. For your child. For everyone you hold dear. An angry mage is no small thing. Not even for me.”

I nodded slowly. My body ached. My mind buzzed.

“I want to come back and work for you. I want you to teach me more. Please. You and Riordan were the only ones who remembered me in my … my … dream. That just has to mean something. Definitely means something to me, even though I am not really sure what exactly.”

Cesare just nodded.

He took my hand and gave it a squeeze, smiled briefly at me then rose, smiling differently at his wife before he left.

Branwen helped me sit up. My limbs felt like borrowed furniture, but they worked. The silk sheets rustled as I moved, and the cool air bit gently at my skin.

Then the door opened.

Gavin stepped in, carrying Annabelle. My heart leap at the sight. The expression that you don’t know what you had until it’s gone came to mind. Branwen kissed her grandson and great-granddaughter then left the room to give us privacy.

Annabelle was perched on his arm, steady and alert, her tiny fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt. Chestnut hair tousled from sleep. Pale green eyes wide and searching.

She saw me first.

Her face lit up—not with recognition, but with certainty. Like she’d never doubted I’d be here again.

I reached for her, and Gavin crossed the room without hesitation. He leaned down and kissed me—soft, sure, no questions asked while handing our daughter to me. I pressed Annabelle against my chest, breathing her in, letting the weight of her presence anchor me.

She was warm. Real. Mine.

I wrapped my free arm around Gavin, careful not to crush the baby between us. He held me back, just as tightly, forehead resting against mine for a moment that didn’t need words.

Then he gently took Annabelle from my arms and slipped into bed beside me, placing her between us like a bridge.

She gurgled once, then settled, one hand resting on my collarbone, the other curled into Gavin’s palm.

He wrapped his arm around me, pulling me close.

I exhaled. Not dramatically. Just enough to feel the tension leave my ribs.

He kissed my temple.

Then, near my ear, his voice low:

“Grandfather said you’ll be working with him again. That’s a good choice for you, I think, and he agrees. But I would like for you and Annabelle to move in with me. I can port you here or Riordan can come fetch you. And I would really like for you to start thinking seriously about the next level of us. I heard about your scary coma-dream and you had all of us very worried when you wouldn’t wake up, but kept screaming my name and Anna’s and mumbling scary things.”

I turned slightly, met his eyes.

He smiled.

“You see, soon, a lot sooner than I thought I’d be ready for this again, if I even thought I would ever wanted to go down that road ever again, I’m going to ask you a very important question. We didn’t mean to fall for each other, we didn’t mean to create a child, but we have and so it seems that fate thinks we should be a family. And when I do ask it, I expect you to be ready to answer it.”

I didn’t reply.

I just reached for his hand, laced my fingers through his, and let myself rest.

 

🪶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.