The Gentlemen of the Bay
The private lounge at the Brindleton Bay Country Club was a sanctuary for the elite—a place where deals were made, alliances forged, and reputations solidified. The scent of aged whiskey mingled with the faint aroma of cigars, settling into the air like a silent testament to decades of wealth and influence.
Bradford Cunningham settled into one of the deep leather armchairs, the scent of aged whiskey and cigars thick in the air. Around him, the men who had shaped Brindleton Bay’s legacy for generations lounged in similar fashion—some nursing their drinks, others leaning back in quiet dominance.
The Gentlemen of the Bay—a brotherhood of old money and old power—ruled Brindleton’s social hierarchy with an iron grip wrapped in velvet. They didn’t need boardroom tables or formal meetings. Influence was built here, in whispers over whiskey, in unspoken agreements made between men who had never known uncertainty.
Among them sat Robert Claiborne, a hedge fund titan in his early thirties. Sharp. Polished. Calculated. His presence was expected—but tonight, Brad would ensure it was felt.
Bradford swirled the amber liquid in his glass, letting the heat settle in his throat before leaning back, loosening his tie. “Gentlemen,” he began, his voice carrying the weight of exhaustion, “I envy you. Happy wives. Stable homes. Meanwhile, I’m stuck in a marriage that’s been dead for years.”
He didn’t look at Robert—not at first. He let the words hang, their weight pressing into the silence. Then, slowly, he flicked his gaze toward him. Just enough for the man to feel it.
Across from Brad, Robert’s fingers tightened around his glass. He was a man accustomed to control, accustomed to winning. But as Brad continued, the atmosphere in the room shifted.
Charles Whitmore, ever pragmatic, leaned forward. “Brad, you’ve always been the steady one. I knew your father—your grandfather, too. Strong men. You’ve done well, but if your marriage is truly broken, maybe it’s time you cut your losses.”
Brad let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s not that simple. Molly…”—again, that pause, that flicker of a glance toward Robert—“…she’s built her entire life around being Mrs. Cunningham. If I walk away, she loses everything.”
He leaned back, swirling his drink, voice casual. “Unless, of course, she finds someone willing to… assume my position.” His gaze drifted toward Robert—but never quite settled.
Robert swallowed—too quickly. A sharp cough burst from his throat, drawing a few curious looks. He cleared his throat, waving off concern, but his movements were clipped. Tense.
Before the unease settled, Whitmore pressed on. “Fair point, Brad. There aren’t many eligible bachelors left in Brindleton Bay—at least not with the right pedigree. Fewer still who’d consider a woman with… baggage.”
Robert lifted his glass again, but the timing was poor. A well-placed remark followed, and he mis-swallowed, nearly choking on his whiskey. His throat cleared in sharp bursts as he set the glass down with more force than intended.
A few of the older men exchanged glances—some amused, others watching with quiet assessment.
Richard Hayworth exhaled through his nose. “Legacy, sure. And, Brad—no offense—you know as well as we do the circumstances of your marriage weren’t exactly… savory. One reckless night left you bound to a woman you didn’t choose freely. Had it been your choice, things might have looked different.”
He let the words settle before continuing. “Molly isn’t one of us. Her children—your children—are. But she never will be. A woman marrying into wealth, especially under rather dubious circumstances, isn’t the same as protecting old wealth. Forcing a man of our rank to marry her after trapping him with a child? Hardly rare. Certainly not admirable. Does not inspire respect.” His gaze flickered across the room. “This is why we separate ourselves from new money riffraff.”
Robert adjusted his jacket. “Excuse me,” he muttered, standing abruptly. He made a brisk exit toward the lounge doors, tension trailing behind him.
Brad watched him go, his smirk barely concealed as he swirled his drink again. “Guess the idea of commitment doesn’t sit well with some men,” he mused, just loud enough for the room to hear.
Glasses lifted in agreement, murmurs of certainty exchanged.
Then—Charles Whitmore leaned forward, his silver hair gleaming under the low light. “You can say that again, Brad. Many of us have heard the whispers circulating about Robert these days. A lover. Pregnant by him. Yet—so far, he’s shown no signs of making an honest woman out of her. Who she is?” Whitmore shrugged. “That’s anyone’s guess.”
He paused, letting the words settle before flicking his gaze toward Brad. “But if the rumors are true, it’s hardly surprising. A man like Robert—sharp, polished, but reckless—always leaves loose ends. And loose ends?” His lips curled slightly. “They have a way of unraveling.”
Another man scoffed, swirling his bourbon. “Foolish. The man needs an heir. Shouldn’t be sneaking around the way he always has. It’s time he chose a decent woman and finally settle down. Like a proper gentleman.”
Then—a low chuckle. Rough. Deliberate.
Jonathan Aldridge, one of the older members present, leaned back, tapping ash off his cigar. “Hmph,” he muttered. “Running off like that after what you said, Brad?” His lips twisted in amusement. “Hell, Robert might as well admit he’s been sneaking around with your wife for years. Could she be the pregnant one? We all know not to put too much stock in rumors, but also know there often is a grain of truth in all that.”
Silence.
Jonathan Aldridge’s son, Hugh, visibly exasperated, interjected. “Father! My apologies, Brad.” His voice was measured, yet firm. “Don’t mind the old fool. He speaks out of turn.”
Brad tilted his glass idly, the smirk flickering at the edges. “Why should I mind?” His tone was casual, but the weight of it landed just right.
“He isn’t all wrong.”
The silence stretched.
Then—Brad set his glass down, voice level but sharp.
“Robert and Molly. It’s been going on for years. I’ve known.”
His gaze flickered across the room. “And I suspect some of you have, too. Like most men in our position, I swept it under the rug. But lately—” he exhaled slowly, tapping a finger against his glass, “I find myself stumbling over it far too often. I’m toying with the idea of stepping away. Fully.”
A deliberate pause. He let the weight of that settle.
“Now—I’m not aware of any pregnancies—but at this point? I wouldn’t be surprised. All the more reason for me to step aside, as there’s one thing I know for certain: I wouldn’t be the father.”
Another sip, measured, unrushed. “The irony would be remarkable, considering what I know. But that, gentlemen—” his lips curled slightly, “is a discussion for another day.”
And just like that—the bomb dropped.
Groundwork laid. Revenge set in motion. Freedom within reach.
Murmurs swelled. Whiskey poured. Hands clasped his shoulder, assurances whispered.
Anything you need.
Reaffirmations of unwavering support.
Brad exhaled slowly, his glass refilled, the amber liquid catching the dim glow of the room.
One step closer.
Checkmate, Molly.
And in the quiet recesses of his mind—he thought of Briar Rose.
Day One: The Explosion
A few days later, Bradford barely had time to set his briefcase down before Molly stormed into the foyer, divorce papers clenched so tightly in her fist that the edges crumpled beneath the force of her grip.
The grand entrance of the mansion—normally a space of quiet opulence—felt charged, the polished floors and towering ceilings unable to soften the fury radiating off her. Sharp. Suffocating.
Brad had seen this energy before—but never like this.
Not when it didn’t faze him.
“You bastard,” she spat, shoving the papers toward him like an accusation. “You have me served while you’re off at work like it’s just another Tuesday? What kind of coward move is that?”
Bradford sighed, loosening his tie with deliberate ease. “Molly—”
“No.” She cut him off, voice cracking under the weight of betrayal. “You think you can just—just erase me? Walk away and pretend none of this mattered? Our marriage, our life, our family—you think you can throw it away like it’s nothing?”
Bradford met her glare with unnerving calm. He had anticipated this reaction—every outburst, every attempt at guilt, every dramatic display. The Bradford of before might have flinched, might have softened. Not anymore.
“I’m not erasing you, Molly. I am undoing a wrong, a lie we both have been living too long.” His voice was measured, firm—not cold, but unwavering. Not a plea. Not an apology. Just truth. “You’re the mother of my children,” he continued. “That will never change. But I can’t be your husband anymore. I haven’t been your husband in a long time, and you haven’t been my wife. We have been lying to the world and ourselves. And I won’t do that anymore.”
Molly stiffened, but something in her gaze flickered—a break in her defenses, a realization that this wasn’t just him leaving. This was him deciding. On his terms.
She paced, her movements sharp and erratic. “I am Mrs. Cunningham—this estate, this life, it’s as much mine as it is yours.”
Bradford tilted his head slightly, watching her. Studying her. “And this is where you are wrong. None of this is yours. Not me, not the house, not the property, everything in it is part of the Cunningham legacy. The life has always been a lie. You can keep the illusion, but the legacy remains mine. Everything is mine, Molly. You read the papers. My offer is more than generous—take it and start over, as I intend to.
I know you’re upset, but understand this: You signed a prenup. The name you wear—it was always mine, never ours. You agreed, in writing, that should this end, you would relinquish even that and reassume your maiden name, and I will press for that, in light of some things I heard of late. I am offering you far more than I am obligated to. A sign of good faith. This is not about hurting you or discarding you—it’s about freeing myself.”
Molly narrowed her eyes, chest rising and falling with sharp breaths. There was something unsettling in Bradford’s unwavering control, something that made her shift her weight.
“Don’t give me that legacy crap!” she snapped. “I know everything is yours, Brad, and you can have it all, but you need me to stay in that perfect world of yours. You think the Old Guard will respect a divorced Dr. Bradford Cunningham? You think they’ll just welcome you back after you toss your wife aside like yesterday’s news?”
He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head. She didn’t get it yet.
“They already have, Molly.”
“What?”
Silence stretched between them. Bradford picked up the papers she had shoved at him, flattening out the crumpled edges with slow, deliberate precision.
“They know,” he said simply, folding the paper with careful intent.
Molly blinked. “Know what?”
Bradford’s lips curved—not a smile, just the faintest hint of something old and tired and utterly resolute.
“You really want me to say it?”
Something shifted in her stance. Molly’s fingers twitched at her sides, her shoulders tensing as if preparing for impact.
Bradford tilted his head slightly, watching her squirm—watching her try to keep control of the narrative.
“You think I haven’t known?” His voice was still measured, but now there was an edge to it—a finality that cut deeper than her fury. “You think I didn’t notice every late night, every glance exchanged at parties when you thought no one was looking?” He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “Robert saw to it that this marriage was over long before these papers. Are you pregnant by him?”
Molly’s breath hitched—just slightly. Not enough for most to notice, but Bradford saw it. He saw everything.
She forced herself to scoff, to roll her eyes, to summon another spark of indignation. “So what? You expect me to grovel? You expect me to apologize, now?”
“No,” Bradford said simply, setting the papers down with careful precision. “I expect you to sign.”
The weight of his words settled between them, thick and suffocating. Molly inhaled sharply, her nails biting into the flesh of her palm.
“Fine. Do what you feel you must, but I am taking the kids!”
Bradford barely reacted. He exhaled slowly, smoothing out the papers with precise movements before lifting his gaze back to her.
“I know you’re upset, so I’ll let that slide this once,” he said, voice measured, but with an unmistakable edge beneath the calm. “But hear me, Molly—never use the kids as ammunition against me. You don’t want to see the other side of me.”
A flicker of hesitation passed through her expression. He saw it. He always saw it.
“There’s an addendum you signed back when the kids were born,” he continued, tone unwavering. “My father was very thorough. For all the pain he caused me, I’ll give him that—this part comes in handy now.”
Molly’s face paled, but Bradford kept going. “I am being generous. Take my offer, and you will never have to work again, and we will share custody. Fight me, and you will get nothing and lose the kids. Do not test me.”
Molly stared at him, hatred flickering in her eyes—but beneath it, buried deep in the cracks, was something else.
Fear.
The next days: The Cold War
The house was silent, but the tension was suffocating. Molly barely spoke, and when she did, it was clipped, ice-cold.
Bradford woke to empty rooms, passed her in the hall only to be met with sharpened glances and quick, angry footsteps.
She slammed doors. She left unfinished glasses of wine on the counter, reminders of her frustration, of her refusal to fully engage with him.
She didn’t fight outright—not anymore. But she made sure he felt the weight of it.
By the third evening, he booked the flights for the kids.
They would visit their grandmother and her new husband in Evergreen Harbor—a place far, far away from Brindleton Bay, from its suffocating walls, from the mess their parents were in.
“They’ll love it,” he told Molly simply, avoiding any hint of condescension. “A change of scenery will be good for them.”
She didn’t protest. She barely acknowledged him at all.
But later, as he sat in his study reviewing paperwork, she lingered in the doorway.
“You know,” she murmured, voice deceptively smooth, “Robert told me once that the biggest mistake you ever made was thinking the world revolved around your name and your legacy. And he said you are afraid that sooner or later, someone would take it from you. If you divorce me, even if you strip me of your last name, it will leave you weak and vulnerable. You’ll never find someone who wants to marry a weak loser like you, you will die a lonely old man.”
Bradford didn’t even look up.
“Robert says a lot of things,” he replied, flipping to the next page with perfect indifference. “Not all of them are worth listening to.”
A beat of silence. The weight of her presence hovered—like a storm waiting for the right moment to strike.
But there was no fight to be had. No reaction, no bite. Nothing for her to grab hold of.
Bradford signed the last document.
It was done. His workload, but more importantly, he had quietly reinforced his position—methodical, absolute.
The final proof that while Molly had spent days waging silent war, Bradford had already won. Molly exhaled sharply and walked away, probably realizing that the dragon no longer lay dormant, no longer content to be controlled.
He had awakened, shedding the chains they had placed on him, ready to burn down everything that stood in his way.
A Reprieve: Distance & Escape
Bradford sat beside his children on the flight, watching the familiar coastlines shrink beneath them, replaced by endless sky.
The flight to Evergreen Harbor felt like more than just travel—it was distance in a way he hadn’t allowed himself before. Physical proof that he was stepping away from his old shackled life in Brindleton Bay, its suffocating walls, its endless battles. When he came back, he would be ready to fight again.
When they landed, his mother greeted the kids with open arms, laughter, warmth. She had fled Brindleton after his father’s death, remarried, built a new life far from the pressures of the old money world they once belonged to.
She had started over.
And now, so would he.
After settling the kids in, Bradford made his way to the hotel—his official excuse being a “work trip” while in town. His mother suspected nothing.
In reality, Bri was arriving soon.
The Escape: Time Away from the Battle
Bri flew up later that evening. When she stepped into the hotel room, he barely had time to exhale before her arms were around him, before the tension of everything melted.
This was what he needed—a few days away. A few days where he wasn’t walking through a minefield with Molly, where he wasn’t calculating every step of his own strategy.
Bri felt easy—the way she always had. They fell into quiet conversations, long walks through Evergreen Harbor, dinners in hidden little spots where no one knew them.
Bradford lay beside Bri, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns along her arm as she slept, her breath soft and steady against his chest. He studied the peaceful curve of her lips, the way her lashes brushed against her cheek, the way the glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains painted her in a warm, golden hue.
It was moments like this—silent, unspoken—that made everything else fade away. The weight of the divorce, the negotiations, the tangled wreckage of what his life had been before her. With Bri, it all felt distant. Irrelevant. She had always been effortless, like water finding its course, smoothing the jagged edges of his reality.
Earlier that day, she had stopped mid-step, eyes wide, hands flying to her mouth at the sight of a patch of wildflowers growing in the cracks of the pavement. She had knelt to run her fingers over the petals, letting out that bright, chiming laugh that always made him feel lighter. And later, without warning, she had burst into song—her voice clear, melodic, unselfconscious—as if the world itself was her stage.
For once, there was no war waiting at the other side of the night.
But Brindleton Bay was still waiting. And Molly.
Bradford knew this peace was temporary, a stolen reprieve in a battle he had not yet finished. Soon, he would have to return. Soon, he would have to walk back into the fire.
But not yet.
Not tonight.
Tonight, he had her.
At Long Last: Resonance
When Bradford returned home, Molly was indeed waiting.
Not at the front door, not with another round of fury.
She was in the living room, a half-empty bottle of wine resting beside her, feet tucked beneath her on the couch.
She looked exhausted—not from anger, but from everything.
Bradford set down his bag, glancing at her but not engaging immediately. He had learned patience with her.
“I’m back from Evergreen Harbor,” he said simply, pouring himself a drink. “Kids love and miss you.”
Molly nodded, silent, swirling her own glass.
He turned, intending to retreat to his study, but then—
“Brad?”
He paused.
“Can I ask you something?”
He exhaled, turning back toward her, nodding once.
Her voice was quieter now, uncertain. “What happened to you?”
Something flickered in Molly’s eyes. Not fear—not exactly—but understanding. A realization that he had changed, that he had moved beyond her reach.
“You are different. You’ve been planning this,” she whispered, voice softer now—no less angry, but layered with something new. “For weeks. That’s why you’ve been acting differently. You have been strategically working me out of your life, haven’t you?”
Bradford didn’t confirm or deny it. He simply looked at her—steady, resolved, completely immune to whatever emotional storm she tried to drag him into.
Molly clenched her jaw. “I won’t let you win, Brad. I will make you regret this.”
Bradford stepped forward, calm, unhurried, completely in control. For the first time, this wasn’t a negotiation. This was his decision. His life.
“I have been regretting this. For over a decade we both have regretted this. You wanted me because someone else had me. Or you wanted me as a trophy, as a ticket into the closed inner circle of the Bay. I am convinced you never loved me; you were obsessed with the idea of me.
You wanted me and you got what you wanted. And then you were disappointed with what that was, the man beneath it all wasn’t what you wanted at all. And you let me feel it, all those years you made sure I knew how disappointed you were with what you got. Yet, you won’t set me free.
I tried to end this before, which you foiled using my gullible way around you, but my attorneys still had the records of the first filing, easily proven that the reason I withdrew back then just happens to coincide with the conception of our daughter. Sure, it will make me look like a spineless idiot, and I know I have been, but how do you think that will make YOU look?”
He let it sink in briefly, before continuing.
“I have more like this, Molly. The children have been evaluated by professionals, and it’s on official record—they are healthy, happy, and deeply loved by both of us. So let me be clear: do not even think about using them as leverage.
I understand you don’t want this divorce, and I understand why. I’m trying to make this as easy on you as I can, but when it comes to the children, that’s where I draw a hard line. They are, without question, the only good thing that ever came out of this marriage.
I know you love them, but I’d wager I love them more. I’m absent because I have to be—you’re absent because you choose to be. So don’t even try to challenge my demand for physical custody. That’s not a fight you’ll win.”
Molly lingered, fingers tightening around the papers. She straightened slightly, clinging to that last shred of defiance. “And what if I don’t sign?”
Bradford didn’t answer right away. He simply watched her, silent, deliberate.
Then—just one slow shake of his head.
The weight of it settled into the space between them.
No threats. No pleading. Just certainty.
She swallowed.
“You really have thought of everything, haven’t you? You have planned this out. You can’t do that, Brad. It is cruel. You are not like this. Who is making you do this?”
“Someone you don’t know. Someone nobody knows. Someone who has been dormant for such a long time I barely remember who that is. His name is Dr. Bradford Cunningham. Yes, I am also moving to remove the II from my name. There may have been a Bradford somewhere in the family tree before me, but I am not second to anyone anymore. You want to know why? I think most of the reasons are blatantly obvious, but there are more subtle ones, which cut even deeper. How about an example. Tell me something, Molly.” His voice was measured, a quiet force. “What’s my favorite candy?”
She blinked. “What?”
“My favorite candy,” he repeated. “You’ve been married to me for over a decade. Thirteen years to be exact. Should be a no brainer.”
Molly scoffed, rolling her eyes. “This is ridiculous.”
Bradford didn’t waver. “Go on. Humor me.”
“Men don’t like sweets,” she muttered, impatient, dismissive.
Bradford let out a soft, amused breath—not cruel, not mocking. Just knowing. Unshaken.
“Maybe other men don’t. I do,” he said simply. “I love all kinds of sweets, but I have one absolute favorite. Since I was about ten, when someone, one of my friends, handed me one for the very first time, I loved them—the Alderwood Honey Caramels.”
He exhaled, the memory settling in his chest with quiet certainty. “They don’t make them anywhere else. Just that little shop on Main, where they stir the caramel in oak barrels and lace it with Alderwood-smoked sea salt. The honey—pure, golden, drawn from the hives right at the edge of the bay—makes them deeper, richer. Sweeter, but not in a way that oversteps. Just enough warmth, just enough pull.”
His voice didn’t waver, but something in it softened—not weakness, but precision. He could still taste them. Because years later, when he was in Bri’s hotel room the day they reconnected, she had reached into her bag, pulled out a small, wrapped piece, and fed it to him with the smallest, knowing smile.
He hadn’t needed to say a word.
She had remembered. She was the friend who gave them to him for the first time when they were ten, they had been his favorite ever since and she still remembered despite a decade of them being out of touch.
Molly’s lips parted slightly. Not shock—just realization. A flicker of something uncomfortable in her expression, an awareness she couldn’t push aside.
“You sound like a TV commercial. And what’s your point? That’s not—” she faltered, brushing it off. “That doesn’t mean anything. Who cares?”
“It does matter a great deal—and I care,” Bradford countered, his voice smooth, unwavering. “There are many more examples just like this. My favorite book? My favorite movie? My favorite song? What makes me laugh? What makes me smile? You wouldn’t know any of it.”
He paused, just long enough for the weight of his words to settle.
“I have volumes of text messages from you complaining that I don’t smile. But did you ever wonder why? I do smile, Molly. Even laugh—when there’s reason to.”
Molly stilled—her posture stiffened, her hands tightening around the papers. She looked away, arms crossing defensively.
“You don’t know any of those things about me either, so what?”
Bradford exhaled slowly, studying her—not with anger, not with regret. Just quiet certainty.
“You’re right. I don’t.” His voice was calm, measured. “Maybe I should. Maybe, after more than a decade, I should be able to tell you your favorite book, your favorite song, the thing that makes you laugh when no one’s watching.”
He tilted his head slightly, considering his next words—not cruel, just honest.
“But here’s the thing, Molly. You never let me know. You never gave me the chance. And after a while—I stopped wanting to.”
Silence stretched between them. Not the suffocating tension of past arguments, but something colder. More final.
“You sent lists. You made purchases. You lived your life beside me, not with me. And I let it happen because it was easy, because fighting it would’ve meant confronting the truth. But now? Now I see it for what it was.”
He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head.
“I am not taking anything from you, Molly. I am giving you something—you just don’t see it yet. I am giving both of us, and our kids, something I never had: options and liberties.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing.
“Or maybe I am taking something too. I am taking away the lies. No more of those—not for me, not for our children. I would rather they have divorced parents who are happy than continue the same lies my parents lived out for me, and their parents before them.”
A pause.
“This house means nothing to you. It’s Cunningham property. It’s big, it’s luxurious, it offers great views, but there are many like it. Its history means nothing to you, but it does to me. You could live in a nice house anywhere and be just as happy—maybe happier—without me in it to agitate and disappoint you further by being the husband you got instead of the one you thought you wanted.”
He glanced at the papers in her grip, then back at her.
“Maybe this is exactly what you wanted. I wouldn’t know. And frankly?” His voice remained steady, unwavering.
“I don’t care.”
Bradford’s voice softened—but the edge was still there. He wasn’t backing down.
“We were never meant to be together, Molly. You know it. I know it. You forced our hand, and we both know it. I’m not accusing you—I was just as much to blame for falling for it. Not once, but twice.
We married for the wrong reasons. We stayed married because it was easier. But this—this fight you’re gearing up for—it won’t change the truth. And you won’t win it.
There comes a point in a man’s life when he has had enough. I’m there now.
I’m offering you peace, Molly. A clean, honest dissolution of a marriage that never truly existed. A life in comfort—wherever, however, and with whomever you choose. You won’t have to change your lifestyle—I will be more than generous.
And as for the children? We both don’t see them all the time anyway. I travel for work. You travel for pleasure. This arrangement won’t be some radical shift—it will simply be the truth we have been avoiding. I’ve spoken to the nanny; she’s willing to travel with them unless you prefer to hire your own.
You can find real love. You don’t need me. You don’t love me. I’m not even sure you ever truly liked me.
This isn’t love, Molly. It’s not a marriage. It’s nothing.
Don’t you want to be happy? Truly happy?
With someone you actually want, in every way a couple is meant to be together?
Because if you don’t—I do. And neither of us will ever get there if we stay in this lie of a marriage.”
Molly swallowed, jaw tight, but he could see the cracks forming. He could read in her face that his words were making sense to her. He knew he was right and he could see she knew it too.
Brad stepped back, giving her space. No pressure. Just inevitability.
“You married me for my power, my influence, my name. You wanted the man who could open doors, who could make the world bend to his will. Well, Molly—this is what a man with all that power and influence does when he’s had enough.”
His voice was calm, deliberate, but the weight of it landed like a hammer.
“Sign, and you get everything I am offering. Fight me, and I’ll make sure you get exactly what the prenup says. Either way, I’m leaving this marriage. That is not up for debate. It is happening. I decided it will happen. You get to decide how.”
Molly lingered in the quiet of the room, fingers tightening around the papers. Everything she had built felt solid—her status, her influence, the permanence of her place within the Cunningham dynasty.
But now, looking at Brad, she saw something unsettling.
Not cruelty. Not heartlessness.
Just a man who had already won.
She had options.
Fighting meant dragging herself through a brutal war—one she wasn’t sure she had the stamina to wage. The Old Guard would close ranks, whisper, judge. She would lose the life she had fought to carve out in Brindleton Bay anyway, but in the ugliest, most humiliating way possible.
Or she could walk away—not as a scorned woman, but as one who dictated her own terms. A marriage that simply didn’t make it.
Molly swallowed, her voice quieter now. “If I sign this… what exactly is in it for me?”
Bradford didn’t gloat. He didn’t need to. She wasn’t mourning the marriage—only her place within it.
“It’s all detailed in there. A substantial one-time payout. You’ll never have to work. Alimony until you remarry. Custody handled like adults—for us and for the kids. You walk away with dignity. A fresh start, wherever you choose. No war. Just an ending.”
Silence settled between them.
Molly glanced down at the papers, then back at Bradford. He had laid the bait—a future beyond this suffocating, unchanging town. She could buy a new home, build a new life, untangle herself from a society that had never truly been hers.
And wasn’t that the ultimate freedom?
Her lips parted slightly. “I’ll need some time.”
Bradford gave the smallest nod, already knowing time would turn this offer into inevitability. “Have your attorney look it over. This isn’t coercion, and I’m not trying to shortchange you. Make me a counteroffer—if it’s reasonable, I’ll consider it.”
Molly studied him, something unreadable in her expression. “You’ve changed. You’re different.”
“I know.” A beat. “So have you.”
Her face tightened—not in anger, but in something more fragile.
“You were sweet once,” he admitted. “Innocent. Kind. This life made you someone else, and I’m not sure I like that version of you.” His lips twitched slightly—almost amused, almost nostalgic. “I really hope you find your way back. The old Molly was something else.”
Molly swallowed hard. “I’ll miss you.”
Bradford hesitated—for just a breath. He didn’t believe her. No, he wouldn’t miss her. It wasn’t her fault—not entirely—but when he looked at her now, he saw every Cunningham marriage before them. A legacy of unhappiness stretching back generations.
But it wouldn’t destroy him. Or Bri.
And it wouldn’t destroy their children.
“Brad?”
She looked at him then, eyes glassy, worn.
“I talked to my parents while you were gone,” she murmured, voice brittle. “And my brother. They told me to take the deal and run—and take them with me. They want out. Away from the Bay.” She let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “They’re done with it. They’re moving. Means I’d be alone.”
Bradford said nothing.
“Ironically, they told me I’d changed. Not in a way they liked.” She looked down, blinking quickly. “That stung. Hearing it from them. And now I’m hearing it from you—almost verbatim. Ouch.”
A pause. A quiet realization settling in her chest.
“After listening to all that… I think I’m done.” Her voice cracked slightly. “Ignorance is bliss, but now that I know how everyone feels—yikes.”
A brittle breath. Then—
“Brad. Whatever happens… please don’t take the kids from me.”
His response was immediate. “You know I never would.”
She exhaled—just slightly relieved.
“But I won’t give them up either,” he added, firm but fair. “Other parents manage to co-parent. We can do the same.”
Molly nodded.
And just like that—the fight was over without ever truly beginning. Just two people watching the curtain fall on a story that was never meant to last.
The Next Morning
There was a knock on the door of his home office.
Bradford looked up, fingers resting against the cooling ceramic of his untouched coffee cup. The steam had long dissipated, the surface smooth and undisturbed. His breakfast sat beside it—a plate of eggs gone cold, toast untouched. He had taken to eating here, alone, though in truth, he had barely eaten at all in days. The meals were more habit than hunger, more routine than necessity.
On the far side of his desk sat two whiskey glasses—one old, one fresh. The older glass, its edges stained with remnants of an aged single malt, had been sitting there since the night he first resolved to file. He hadn’t touched it since. The second—poured hours ago—remained untouched as well. He had thought drinking might help. It hadn’t.
The staff had long since learned to leave this room alone. Bradford had dismissed them whenever they tried to tidy up, and in time, they stopped asking. The glasses remained, ghosts of moments he hadn’t quite let himself process.
The knock came again.
Bradford sighed, staring at the cooling ceramic of his untouched coffee cup. “Come in.”
Molly.
She entered hesitantly, a shift so unnatural for her that it caught him off guard—though he didn’t let it show. Normally, in all their years, Molly had demanded. Now, she was asking.
“Are you busy?” Her voice was quiet, almost sheepish.
Bradford glanced at the whiskey glass, fingers brushing the base before folding his hands together. “No. What’s up?”
She approached his desk and placed a stack of papers before him.
“I signed.”
Brad’s heart nearly stopped.
“Oh.” He forced himself to breathe. “That’s… great. I’ll make sure my attorney files them right away. Thank you, Molly.”
She lingered, fingers brushing the edge of the papers. “Can I ask one thing?”
He nodded. “Sure.”
Molly frowned, confusion flickering across her face. “What happened to you?” She wasn’t angry anymore—just bewildered. “It seems like you changed overnight. I could tell something was different. I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Was it something I said? Something I did?”
Bradford exhaled slowly, eyes drifting toward the papers before finally meeting her gaze.
“Not everything is about you, Molly.” His voice wasn’t cruel—just matter-of-fact, unwavering. “This isn’t because of something you said. Or something you did. It was a combination of things. You’re part of it, yes—but not the whole of it.”
A pause.
“I know you think I’ve changed overnight, but that’s only because you weren’t paying attention while it was happening.”
Silence stretched between them. Molly swallowed, looking away, the weight of his words settling into the space between them.
She swallowed, looking away.
“I hope you’ll experience this kind of change yourself,” he continued, tone softer now—but steady. “You were a nice, innocent, sweet girl. This life turned you into someone else, and that someone isn’t you. I really hope you can find a way back to the Molly you were before. That Molly—she was quite amazing.”
Her breath hitched.
“I will miss you,” she murmured, voice brittle.
Bradford didn’t say it back.
It would have been a lie, and he was done lying—to her and to himself.
He reached for the papers, glancing at the signature. There it was—her name, written with finality. No more battles. No more empty victories. Just an ending.
“Molly?”
She looked up. “Hm?”
Bradford met her gaze, something quiet settling between them.
“Thank you.”
The moment Molly stepped out of his office, Bradford just sat there for a second, staring at the papers on his desk. It was done. Signed. Real.
He barely let himself breathe before he grabbed the documents, shoved them into a folder, and strode out of the house without a glance back.
The drive to his lawyer’s office felt surreal—like he was floating through it, hands gripping the steering wheel, his mind replaying the moment over and over. Molly had been… calm. Resigned. And now, all that was left was to make it official.
He parked haphazardly, rushed inside, and placed the folder down on his attorney’s desk with a firm nod.
“File them. Today.”
A few hours later, the confirmation came—the papers had been submitted to the court.
It had begun.
The Weight Lifts
Bradford stood on the courthouse steps in San Myshuno, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement. His attorneys lingered behind him, murmuring quiet congratulations, shaking his hand, offering reassurances that it was done, official, irreversible.
He barely heard them.
He gripped the edges of the document as the words sank in.
It was over.
It had been exactly three months and five days since he filed the divorce papers.
Every step had moved swiftly—strategically. Two months in, financial matters settled. Another month, custody finalized. And now, the ink on the final decree had barely dried, the legal threads fully severed.
Yet, through it all, there had been her.
Bri. His Bri. She was the quiet certainty that had anchored him through the storm, the pulse beneath every decision, every step forward. She was his future.
And yet—when he opened his eyes, he saw his past.
A few feet away, Molly stood with her attorney, silent as final signatures were exchanged, formalities completed.
For the first time in years, the weight in Bradford’s chest lifted—not in slow increments, not in cautious relief, but in one sharp, undeniable rush.
A laugh bubbled up—raw, unsteady.
Not bitter. Not victorious. Just pure release.
And then—before he could stop himself—tears followed.
Bradford pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath as his body caught up with the realization. He had held himself together for years—through disappointment, resentment, exhaustion. Through the quiet, aching loneliness of a marriage that had drained him.
Now, he was free.
Molly turned slightly, as if sensing his laughter, her gaze flicking toward him for the briefest moment. But she didn’t linger.
Instead, she walked toward the curb, where a sleek black Aston Martin DBS Superleggera idled, its engine purring softly.
Robert leaned casually against the passenger side, his tailored suit immaculate, his posture effortless. The kind of man who had been born into wealth but forged his own empire when his father’s illness forced him to take the reins far too young.
As Molly approached, Robert straightened, his expression softening. He opened his arms, and she stepped into them without hesitation.
Bradford watched as Robert kissed her temple, murmuring something that made her smile faintly. He opened the car door for her, his movements smooth, practiced.
Their eyes met then—Bradford’s and Robert’s.
Robert didn’t flinch. Neither did Bradford.
And in that moment, Bradford realized something that surprised even him: it didn’t faze him at all.
The woman he had been married to just this morning was kissing another man, and he felt… nothing. No anger. No jealousy. Not even relief. Just a quiet, unshakable certainty that this chapter of his life was well and truly over.
Molly slid into the passenger seat, and Robert closed the door behind her. He rounded the car, casting one last glance at Bradford before slipping into the driver’s seat.
The Aston Martin pulled away, its engine humming as it disappeared into the San Myshuno traffic.
Bradford turned back toward his car, his steps unsteady, his pulse hammering.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, he gripped the steering wheel with both hands, staring out at nothing. His breath hitched, another laugh slipping through—the kind born from relief so overwhelming it felt like grief. It took him a full minute to gather himself, to breathe through the storm inside him.
Then, with damp eyes and hands still trembling slightly, Bradford steadied his breath, staring through the windshield, exhaling against the rush of emotions still clinging to him.
His fingers flexed against the steering wheel, then—
“Call Bri.”
The command echoed through the car’s speakers, and within seconds, the line connected.
She answered almost immediately.
“It’s over,” he said, voice uneven, still carrying the remnants of his release. “I’m free.”
The silence stretched—just for a beat. Then, a sharp inhale on the other end of the line, followed by her voice, thick and raw.
“Baby.”
Bradford could hear the tears in her words, could feel them.
“It’s happening,” she whispered, emotion breaking through like waves crashing onto the shore.
And just like that, Bradford lost it again. He dropped his head against the steering wheel, one hand wiping his face as laughter and tears tangled together.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, it is.”
Bri sniffled, exhaling shakily. Then, through the overwhelming emotion, came the invitation—warm, breathless, and so utterly her.
“Come celebrate with me.”
Bradford let out a shaky laugh, still catching his breath. “Celebrate?”
“Yes,” she said, voice soft but sure. “I’m heading to Sulani for a shoot. Tomorrow afternoon, actually. Just a few scenes, then I am free. Come with me.”
He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Sulani, huh?”
“Sun, salt, fresh air,” she teased, but beneath her words was something deeper. “Freedom, Brad. We need to celebrate it. And us. A couple’s vacation.”
His chest tightened—not in sadness, not in hesitation, but in something new. Something real.
“I’ll pack a bag,” he murmured.
Her delighted laugh was pure oxygen.
“Perfect timing. But…” she paused, voice shifting, warm but quieter, more her. “Meet me in San Sequoia first. You have to connect here anyway, make it a longer stopover. I need you for something before I leave.”
Bradford straightened, blinking rapidly. “Sounds mysterious…”
“Oh yeah, it’s a surprise. And you are the key to it. Just trust me, you’ll love it.”
He didn’t even hesitate.
“I’ll be there, first flight.”
A New Beginning
Brad’s flight landed just after sunrise, the soft glow of morning light spilling over the tarmac. He stepped into the arrivals terminal, his carry-on slung over one shoulder, dragging his wheeled carry-on, scanning the crowd until he spotted her through the big windows of the arrivals hall.
Curbside, Bri leaned casually against her car, sunglasses perched on her nose, a playful smile tugging at her lips. She waved him over, and as he approached, they hugged and kissed, before she pulled away and opened the passenger door with a flourish.
“Good morning, Dr. Cunningham, I will be your ride for the morning,” she teased, her tone light but brimming with excitement.
Brad chuckled, heaving his luggage into the trunk alongside hers, before sliding into the seat. “You’re in a good mood. Should I be worried?”
She grinned, slipping into the driver’s seat and pulling out of the lot. “Oh, you’ll see. Trust me, you’re going to love this.”
The drive was quick, the city still waking up around them. Bri hummed along to the radio, her fingers tapping the steering wheel, while Brad watched her, curiosity simmering beneath his calm exterior.
When they pulled into the parking lot of the San Sequoia Medical Institute, Brad raised an eyebrow.
“Here?” he asked, glancing at the familiar building.
Bri didn’t answer. Instead, she parked, hopped out, and rounded the car to grab his hand. “Come on,” she said, tugging him toward the entrance.
“Bri, what—”
“No questions,” she interrupted, dragging him through the glass doors. He stumbled slightly, caught off guard by her determination, but followed without protest.
They stopped just inside the lobby, the polished floors gleaming under the morning light. Bri turned to face him, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“There,” she said, gesturing toward the facility. “This is the surprise. I’ve taken you as far as I can. Now you work your magic, Dr. Cunningham, owner of this very establishment.”
Brad blinked, momentarily thrown. “Magic?”
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a softer, more intimate tone. “You, Sir, will be performing the very first official exam on me and our child. The sonogram. And you will tell us the gender. And then we will leave on a Sulani vacation.”
His breath caught, the weight of her words settling over him. For a moment, he just stared at her, the reality of it sinking in.
Then, without a word, he straightened, his expression shifting into something resolute. He turned toward the reception desk, his voice calm but commanding.
“I need a sonogram room. One hour. No interruptions. No assistance required.”
The receptionist blinked, startled, but quickly nodded, recognizing him. “Of course, Dr. Cunningham.”
Bri watched him, her heart swelling as he took charge, his presence filling the space. This was Brad at his best—focused, confident, and entirely hers.
The stolen weekends had been their lifeline—covert escapes woven so flawlessly that even intelligence agencies would envy their precision. Private locations, careful disguises, silent check-ins that left no trace.
Not once had they been reckless. Not once had they slipped.
Brad had made sure of it.
And in those moments—between hushed laughter and whispered reassurances—he had never stopped taking care of her.
Even without full facilities, Brad had found ways to check on Bri and the baby—using portable equipment to monitor the heartbeat, arranging discreet blood tests, prescribing vitamins and anti-nausea meds, ensuring every detail was handled with precision.
Prepared. Always prepared.
But now—this was different.
Not a hotel suite. Not a rental cabin. A real facility. Their first step toward something tangible, toward a life beyond secrecy.
All rang in with this special moment, followed by a couple’s retreat in Sulani later that day. And they looked the part.
Brad had dressed in a light linen shirt, sleeves casually rolled up, the effortless ease of vacation settling into his posture. Bri, barefoot on the exam bed, wore a soft, flowy camisole and loose linen shorts—practical for the scan, yet effortlessly elegant.
The soft glow of the sonogram monitor illuminated her bare belly—the first hints of undeniable rounded fullness. Nearly nineteen weeks along.
Still hidden. Still theirs.
No announcements. No speculation. No whispers in industry circles.
Not yet.
Brad steadied the sonogram probe. His hands didn’t tremble. Not anymore.
And then—there it was, clear as day.
Brad exhaled, his voice quiet but sure.
“There. Bri, we’re having a boy.”
A single tear slipped down Bri’s cheek.
She wiped at it, letting out a shaky laugh—disbelief and joy tangled together.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “Brad—we’re really having a baby. I can see him now, it’s real now. OMG!”
Brad swallowed hard, then laughed too—soft, unsteady, full of something he hadn’t felt in years.
Happiness. Real, unfiltered happiness.
They hugged, laughed and cried together, clinging to this moment.
Then—
Brad reached for a blank maternity record, flipping it open, pen poised.
“You haven’t officially seen a doctor yet,” he murmured. “So we’re starting now.”
Bri blinked at him, something unreadable flickering in her gaze.
“Are you filling out my maternity pass?”
Brad looked up, meeting her eyes. His voice was warm, sure.
“Of course! I have been your attending all along, I have all the details recorded, might as well transfer them to something official.”
She inhaled slowly, lips pressing together as emotion swelled.
He documented it all—every scan detail, every metric, every quiet certainty that she and their son were safe.
Brad felt as if in a dream he never wanted to wake up from.
Then, as if needing to shift the moment, he asked, teasing but genuine—
“So… have you thought of baby names yet? I know we said we wouldn’t, but I have. And I know you always dance to your own beat.”
Bri opened her mouth—then paused, looking at the monitor.
She stared at the soft flicker of movement, at the little shape she had barely allowed herself to imagine for weeks.
Then, softly—she reached for his hand.
“I have a little list,” she whispered, meeting his gaze. “But Brad, I want you to choose his name.”
Brad froze.
For a man who had spent his entire life being told what to do—by society, expectations, obligation—this struck deep.
She trusted him.
Bri wasn’t looking for anyone’s approval. She wasn’t waiting for validation.
She wanted him to decide.
His chest tightened.
Slowly, reverently, he lifted her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
His voice was hoarse. “Are you sure?”
Bri nodded. “I’ve never been more sure.”
Brad exhaled, feeling the weight of it.
Then—he looked at their son on the sonogram image.
And his gaze wandered.
As his mind turned over possibilities, his eyes flicked to his travel bag, resting near the armchair in the corner. A worn, hardcover book peeked out—the same book he had been re-reading on the flight.
The Amulet of Samarkand.
He hadn’t picked it up in years—not since he was a teenager, barely 15, when he had first devoured its pages late at night in his childhood bedroom. Back then the protagonist had fascinated him. A boy who had clawed his way forward, made mistakes, learned from them, and ultimately, came into his own.
Brad had seen himself in him.
Even at 15, Brad had been ambitious, driven, and determined to rise above expectations. The story had been a mirror—a reflection of the boy he was and the man he would become. And now—standing here, on the precipice of something greater than ambition—he saw the parallel again.
His voice was quiet but sure.
“Nathaniel.”
Brad pushed up from his chair, crossing the room. He reached for the book, gripping its worn edges, then turned back to Bri.
Wordlessly, he handed it to her.
She sat up slightly, fingers curling around the cover. The weight of it settled in her hands, tangible, real. Bri’s gaze flicked to the book, then back to him, recognition dawning.
A memory surfaced—one she hadn’t thought about in years.
They had been teenagers, basking in a sun-drenched summer, the scent of salt and sunscreen thick in the air. While their friends had raced across the water on jet skis, Brad had stayed behind, tucked beneath the shade of an old oak, book in hand.
Curious, Bri had settled beside him in the grass, watching him read in silent fascination. She hadn’t understood why he preferred ink and pages to speed and thrill—until he had read a passage aloud for her. His voice had been steady, measured, confident.
She had listened.
Even back then, Brad had been different.
Now, all these years later, she could still hear the echo of his younger self in the way he said the name.
“When I was younger,” he murmured, “alone in my room at night, finally allowed to dream—I was obsessed with this. Saw a lot of myself in him. Nathaniel’s mistakes, his drive. His growth. Re-reading it now as an adult because I still do. Silly, I know, this is a fictional magical dystopian world written for teenagers, but somehow, real life often felt like it.”
Bri inhaled, lips pressing together, the memory merging with the present.
She smiled—soft, warm. “I remember this book. I love the name. It’s perfect. Decided then.”
Brad exhaled, watching the certainty settle in her eyes, the quiet finality of the decision.
Nathaniel Cunningham.
It fit.
Bri looked down at the book again, turning it over. Then, she glanced up.
“Can I read this while we’re in Sulani?”
Brad chuckled, shaking his head lightly. “You can keep it and read it whenever you want. But literature analysis on our first official couple’s vacation? Really? And here I thought we’d be busy with very different things between video shoots. You’re turning me into a Cameron after all.”
She smirked. “Oh, there’ll be time for that, you better believe it. I can multitask.”
Brad arched a brow, his voice dropping slightly. “Multitask? As much as I usualy admire a strong talent for multitasking, but I will veto that notion. I very much prefer you to focus solely on me whenever we… engage in… in…”
“Mattress mambo? Horizontal tango?” she offered, deadpan.
Brad blinked, then burst out laughing. “Horizontal tango? Really?”
She shrugged, her grin widening. “What else do you want me to call it that wouldn’t make a Cunningham scream like a little girl? Should I go full Cameron on you? Or maybe throw in some shirako references? I can turn traditional fish jizz dishes into something that will make you blush. I can go super-dirty on you without breaking a sweat, Braddy. So, careful what you wish for.”
Both laughed, the sound echoing warmly between them, the kind of laughter that felt like home.
She flipped absent-mindedly through the pages as Brad turned back to his desk to finalize the documentation. Then—she giggled.
Brad paused, glancing over his shoulder. It wasn’t exactly a humorous book.
“What?”
Bri glanced up at him, amused, eyes sparkling. “I just remembered—last time I talked to Iris and Jas, they finally settled on a name for their son.”
Brad raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Bri grinned. “Tate. They’re naming him Tate. So, Nate and Tate will be playing together, since I’m only about nine, ten weeks behind Iris.” she giggled more.
Brad stared at her for a second, then laughed—low, incredulous, amused.
Brad chuckled. “Well, at least they’re cousins and not twins. Convenient too—when your mom calls for dinner, she’ll only have to yell once, and both will come running.”
Bri rolled her eyes, laughing. “Please. They’ve got Cameron genes, Braddy. They won’t listen anyway.”
Brad smirked. “True. Selective hearing and extreme stubbornness—it’s practically genetic for any Cameron. Pair that with blind Cunningham obedience, and our poor kid won’t know if he’s coming or going. Joyful times ahead indeed. I bet the moment our son starts talking he’ll be negotiating his bedtime like a seasoned diplomat.”
Bri scoffed playfully. “Don’t be silly. Camerons don’t negotiate—we just … well … do.”
Brad shook his head, still grinning as he turned back to the counter, amusement lingering as he finalized the maternity pass, documenting everything—every scan, every test, every quiet certainty.
Every detail, every precaution.
Everything he had tracked in secrecy, now recorded officially. Bri’s care plan, built by his own hand. Because this wasn’t just a moment.
This was the beginning.
Brad wrote the name in deliberate strokes, sharp and unmistakably his.
There was no space for it—no official line on a maternity pass, no predefined section in a patient file.
But Brad wrote it anyway.
A quiet assertion. A permanent truth.
Nathaniel Cunningham.
The first of his children he truly got to name.
Choosing names before had been tedious—his father had still been alive then, rejecting every suggestion Brad and Molly had until they finally settled on Graham and, later, Lauren.
Then, with a quiet, knowing smile, he turned the file toward Bri.
She stared at it, at the certainty in his handwriting.
With a shaky exhale, she brushed her fingertips over the ink, tracing it softly, as if grounding it in reality. Without hesitation, she plucked the pen from his hand and made her own mark.
A heart.
Small. Perfect.
A quiet, unmistakable claim stamped onto the page—delicate but undeniable.
They had avoided planning. They had refused to hope too soon.
But now—
Their son.
Their miracle.
Their future.
Their new beginning.
… to be continued …
EchoesOfLegacy 