The Storm Unleashed

Sulani, Main Island

The scent of sea salt mingled with the faint sweetness of frangipani as Brad stepped onto the sprawling veranda, his phone vibrating in his palm. The Sulani resort was stirring awake—waves whispering against the shore, seagulls exchanging sharp, melodic calls, the rising sun painting liquid gold across the ocean’s surface.

His phone buzzed again, like a command to keep his mind tethered to responsibility. Brad glanced at the caller ID. James. His assistant.

His jaw tightened. He had promised himself this trip would be untouched by deadlines and board meetings. But business had a way of slithering in, uninvited.

With a quiet sigh, he accepted the call, already anticipating the familiar list of urgent matters—expansion plans, legal approvals, staffing concerns. His responses were clipped, efficient, but his gaze kept drifting inside, drawn to Bri’s voice.

She sat cross-legged in a wicker chair, fingers drumming absently against the polished desk as she hummed softly, testing the heartbeat of a melody yet to take full shape. Her voice—unassuming yet undeniable—wove through the space like sunlight warming the air, carrying the intimacy of a songwriter lost in creation.

Brad exhaled.

Without another thought, he powered down his phone, tossing it onto the nearest table with an air of finality. Business could wait.

He leaned against the doorframe, the worn wood cool beneath his palm, framed by slatted windows that let in the honeyed hues of morning. Outside, the rhythmic lull of the waves melted into the distant chatter of island life, but inside, all he could hear was her.

She filled a space effortlessly, surrounded by scattered pages of lyrics and pastel highlighters tossed carelessly aside, the glow of her laptop illuminating the world she was crafting. Even in the disorder, there was beauty.

Brad had spent years in controlled environments—corporate offices, sleek operating rooms, spaces designed to be sharp and unyielding. But here, watching her, the weight of the past decade lifted ever so slightly. Maybe, just maybe, he wanted to learn how to feel that way, too.

“Are you going to stare all morning, or are you going to kiss me?” she teased, a playful lilt in her voice, eyes sparkling like sunlight dancing on the ocean.

Brad felt his chest tighten, a rush of warmth spreading through him that was both exhilarating and grounding. The room seemed to shrink as he crossed it in two purposeful strides, the soft creak of the wooden floorboards beneath his feet the only sound besides the distant crash of waves outside. He reached her, his hands finding her waist as if they had always belonged there. Her laughter lit the air like fireworks, bright and fleeting, before dissolving into a breathless stillness.

She tilted her head back, her gaze unwavering, daring him to hold on tighter. And he did. When their lips met, it was like the world tilted on its axis. The kiss was slow at first, a tentative exploration, but quickly deepened into something more—something raw and consuming. Her lips were soft, warm, and tasted faintly of the sea air that clung to the cabin. His hands slid up her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them, only the electric hum of their connection.

Her arms looped around his neck, fingers threading through his hair as if anchoring herself to him. She leaned into him, her body pliant and trusting, and he felt a surge of protectiveness so fierce it nearly overwhelmed him. Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her across the room. The world outside faded—the waves, the wind, the distant hum of island life—all of it dissolved into the background, leaving only the two of them suspended in this moment.

He set her down gently on the edge of the desk, the scattered papers and highlighters forgotten as they tumbled to the floor. Her hands cupped his face, her thumbs brushing against his jawline as if memorizing him. When they finally pulled apart, their breaths mingling in the space between them. Her eyes searched his, and in that quiet, unspoken exchange, he knew he was hers—completely, irrevocably. And moreover, she was finally his again.

On the Beach: Filming the Music Video

Bri twirled effortlessly on the sun-bleached sand, her bare feet kicking up small, golden clouds of dust that seemed to linger in the air like glitter. The rhythmic crash of waves framed the soft melody of her song as it poured from hidden speakers along the makeshift set. Her dress—an ethereal, flowing concoction of seafoam-green chiffon—caught the playful breeze, lifting like wings at her back, almost defiant against gravity itself.

The delicate shade mirrored the vibrant waters just beyond her, shifting between soft mint and radiant turquoise under the sun’s golden glow. It made her look as if she belonged to the ocean itself, fluid and untamed, weaving her own melody into the rhythm of the waves.

The camera crew buzzed around her, a swarm of focused professionals adjusting tripods, flipping dials, and raking stray seashells and pebbles from the sand to perfect the frame. The producer, a wiry man in sunglasses too big for his face, shouted to no one in particular about jet skiers disrupting the “aesthetic.” Brad sipped from a cocktail in his hand, the umbrella skimming his cheek as he leaned against a weathered palm tree, utterly uninterested in the logistical chaos.

His gaze was fixed on Bri. She danced barefoot in the shallow water, oblivious to the world beyond the song she was mouthing along to. The camera captured her every motion: the way her hair, undone from its ponytail, cascaded down her back in loose, sunlit waves; the way her expression shifted between joy and longing as if she were serenading the ocean itself.

But Brad knew better. She wasn’t singing to the camera or the ocean. She was singing to him.

He ran a hand through his hair, almost embarrassed at how openly captivated he was. When had he last felt this? Unapologetic about being in the exact place he wanted to be? He couldn’t remember, and for once, he didn’t care.

That Evening: A Night Beneath the Torches

The island night was alive with pulsing energy. Flames flickered in open tiki torches along the crowded boardwalk, their smoke curling like ghosts into the humid air. The pounding bass from a nearby bar reverberated through the sand beneath their feet as Brad guided Bri to a small table beneath a canopy of string lights. The faint scent of rum, lime, and fresh mint wafted from the drinks served to other tables, while laughter and conversation swirled around them, mingling with the sound of distant waves.

Bri tossed her hair over her shoulder, her skin glowing in the firelight. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands as if she hadn’t a care in the world despite the quiet storm swirling just beyond their temporary paradise.

“You can’t keep watching me like that, you cute, sweet creep,” she teased, her voice lilting, almost musical.

Brad grinned, leaning closer. “And what if I can? It’s my favorite view.”

Bri leaned against the bamboo counter, her honey-blonde waves catching the firelight in a way that made her look almost otherworldly. Her warm ivory skin glowed, softened by the tropical humidity that had bronzed it into the beginnings of a delicate beige tan. Her light green eyes, framed by the faintest dusting of freckles over her nose, gleamed with delight as she watched Brad take the last sip of his drink. She wore a flowy, off-shoulder dress in a radiant coral hue, the lightweight fabric rippling like the waves as she moved. Subtle silver embroidery decorated the dress, catching the tiki torchlight like scattered stars. A delicate anklet glinted against her bronzed skin, just visible above her designer strappy sandals in soft metallic tones. Dangling hibiscus-shaped earrings framed her honey-blonde waves, enhancing her ethereal glow under the firelight.

Brad looked every bit the composed gentleman despite the casual setting. His blonde curls—soft yet meticulously tamed—rested neatly above his forehead, giving him the appearance of someone effortlessly in control. He wore an expertly tailored linen shirt in crisp white, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows for a relaxed yet elegant look. The open collar revealed a thin gold chain—a discreet nod to his wealth. His trousers, impeccably fitted yet breezy, were in a sandy beige that mirrored the surrounding beach, paired with soft suede loafers perfect for the sandy boardwalk and polished dance floor. The cooler undertones of his light-to-medium complexion seemed to reflect the bluish light spilling from the DJ’s station, his vivid blue eyes shimmering like captured fragments of the ocean itself. Despite his boyish charm, there was a quiet intensity in the way he carried himself, a reminder of the man who pulled an inherited empire into modern times yet somehow found himself undone by the woman laughing softly in front of him.

“Dance with me,” Bri urged, her melodic voice cutting through the pounding music like a sweet refrain. She extended a hand, her smile playful but confident, her light green eyes shimmering with mischief. The way she looked at him—head tilted slightly, her honey-blonde waves brushing her bare shoulders—made refusing her an impossibility. The tiki torches cast flickering shadows across her coral dress, the silver embroidery catching the light like scattered stars.

“Is that an order?” Brad teased, his lips quirking into a half-smile as he let her take his hand. His gold chain glinted faintly beneath the open collar of his crisp linen shirt.

“Definitely,” she replied, tugging him into the heart of the makeshift dance floor where the sand still felt warm beneath their feet. The crowd moved to the rhythm of the night, bodies swaying in time to the music’s hypnotic pulse, but Bri was a world apart. The tropical humidity clung to her skin, enhancing her glow, and her laughter spilled into the air like a cascade of wind chimes, mingling with the scent of salt and rum.

She moved like she was part of the melody itself, fluid and intuitive, every step perfectly attuned to the beat. Her dress rippled like waves as she spun, the anklet on her bronzed ankle catching the firelight. Her light green eyes sparkled as she reached for Brad, her hands finding his as she brought him into her orbit. For a moment, Brad forgot everything but her—the music, the laughter, the light. The sharp edges of his responsibilities and reputation blurred into nothingness, replaced by the warmth of her touch and the unguarded joy she summoned in him.

Brad followed her lead, his sandy beige trousers brushing against the sand as he moved. His vivid blue eyes, usually so composed, softened as he watched her, a rare smile breaking across his face. He caught himself laughing—a deep, genuine sound that felt foreign yet freeing. His fingers brushed hers, her skin warm, her laugh a melody, and he didn’t care that the crowd around them was watching.

As the music swelled, Bri leaned in, her lips brushing against his in a kiss that started soft but deepened with every passing second. The world around them seemed to dissolve, the crowd fading into a blur of light and sound. Her hands slid up to his shoulders, pulling him closer, and Brad responded in kind, his fingers tangling in her honey-blonde waves. The kiss was electric, a spark igniting into a flame that neither of them wanted to extinguish.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, Bri’s lips curved into a knowing smile. She leaned in, her voice a whisper against his ear, “Come with me.” Her fingers laced through his, and before he could respond, she was leading him away from the dance floor, away from the music and the lights, toward the shadowed path that wound back to their private cabin.

But what they didn’t know was who else was watching. Tucked into the shadows beyond the glow of tiki torches, a trio of paparazzi lingered like vultures. Their cameras, small and discreet, clicked away, capturing the stolen glances, the playful touches, and the kiss that sealed their secret. Each snapshot was sharper than any knife, and they knew just how to wield them.

The night, so full of promise, was unraveling into something neither of them could control. The music played on, the torches burned bright, but the air carried an unspoken tension—a storm brewing just beyond the horizon.

The Next Morning

The faint hum of waves rolling onto the shore blended with the symphony of birds greeting the sunrise. The cabin was still, bathed in soft hues of gold and pink as the morning crept in. Brad lay in the tangled sheets, his body sinking into the warmth of the bed and Bri beside him. Her honey-blonde hair spilled across the pillow, her face peaceful, her soft breaths marking time in the tranquil rhythm of paradise. It felt like a moment frozen in perfection, a slice of heaven where the world couldn’t touch them.

The air was cool against their skin, a reminder of the night they’d shared—a night unlike anything Brad had ever known. For ten years, intimacy had been a routine, a box to check, something confined within the rigid boundaries of his marriage to Molly. But with Bri, it was different. She pulled him into her world, a world where passion wasn’t planned or polite, but raw and unrestrained. It left him breathless, unmoored, and utterly alive.

Never once in his life had Brad gone to sleep without his silken pajamas, even in moments of closeness. They were his armor, his ritual, his way of maintaining control. But last night, he hadn’t reached for them. He hadn’t needed them. The man who had once clung to tradition and propriety had let it all fall away, leaving only himself—unadorned, unguarded, free.

Bri stirred slightly, her hand brushing against his arm as she shifted closer. He smiled, a quiet, private thing, as he watched the sunlight dance across her skin. This was freedom—not the kind you flaunted, but the kind you felt deep in your bones. The kind that whispered, “This is enough.”

Then, the buzzing started.

It was sharp and incessant, the vibrations rattling his phone against the polished wood nightstand, nudging a sleek watch and the remnants of last night’s half-finished cocktail in uneven intervals. Brad groaned, burying his face deeper into the pillow, willing the sound to stop. But the buzzing persisted, relentless, demanding his attention. He reached out reluctantly, blinking against the light from the screen as his groggy mind caught up with reality.

The flood of notifications hit him like a tidal wave. Missed calls. Texts. Emails. All spilling over each other in a chaotic deluge. He squinted at the screen, his stomach sinking as his attorney’s name appeared repeatedly in the swarm. The message was urgent: “Check the headlines.”

A heavy sigh escaped him as he sat up, leaving the cozy cocoon of their bed behind. He scrolled to the link embedded in one of the messages, and as the headline blazed across the screen, the pit in his stomach grew deeper: “Scandal Unveiled: Cunningham Heir’s Secret Paradise Escape with Singer Briar Rose Cameron—The Truth Behind Their Divorces?”

The images felt like a punch to the gut—Bri’s radiant laughter under tiki torches, their dancing silhouettes, the kiss that had felt like a sacred, stolen moment in the chaos of their worlds. It was all there, blown wide open for the world to dissect.

Brad’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t realized his hand had clenched into a fist until Bri stirred beside him. The sheets shifted as she leaned into him, still half-asleep, her ivory skin brushing against his cooler tone. “What is it, lover?” she murmured, her voice thick with sleepy warmth. But her light green eyes softened the moment they opened, her peace shattered as she caught the storm etched into his expression.

Before Brad could respond, a second buzzing began—lighter, sharper, coming from Bri’s nightstand. Her phone, now alive with its own deluge of notifications. Messages, calls, mentions—all pouring in, each one adding fuel to the fire Brad had already seen.

Bri woke instantly, her sluggishness evaporating in the face of the buzzing chaos. She grabbed the phone, scrolling through the headlines and mentions that mirrored Brad’s. Her lips parted in quiet dismay as a sharp inhale was followed by a flurry of outrage—colorful curses spilling out in an unmistakably unladylike tirade. The contrast between her refined appearance and the unexpected verbal explosion caught Brad off guard. He couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him despite the mess, his lips twitching into an amused smile as she muttered one final expletive for good measure. It was moments like these—the raw, unapologetic honesty—that reminded him why he couldn’t imagine his life without her.

Just as the weight of it settled on him, Brad’s phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen, his attorney’s name glowing amid the flood of notifications.

Brad exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his tousled curls before pressing the answer button and flipping the call to speaker. His voice came out low and clipped, steady despite the turmoil brewing around him. “Talk. You’re on speaker. Briar Rose is with me.”

The attorney didn’t waste a beat. “Brad, we’ve got a situation,” he began, his tone brisk and punctuated by urgency. “The story is everywhere—morning shows, tabloids, social media. It’s spiraling out of control. You need to act now.”

His voice softened slightly as he continued, addressing Bri with careful formality. “Miss Cameron, I hope you’re well under the circumstances. My name is Richard Grant, Brad’s lead counsel. I want to assure you that Brad’s team is prepared to handle this situation efficiently. However, we need immediate action to manage the narrative.”

Brad’s fingers tightened on the phone as he absorbed the gravity of the attorney’s advice. Beside him, Bri tilted her head slightly, her light green eyes narrowing in thought as she pieced together the ramifications. She sighed softly, her brow furrowing. “Thanks. I’ve had better mornings. So, what’s the plan? Guessing controlling the narrative before it controls us. What’s our best approach?”

Brad glanced at her, her words cutting through the fog in his mind. She wasn’t wrong—her instincts were sharp, grounded in years of navigating public scrutiny. And yet, the way she’d seamlessly entered the conversation, matching the attorney’s professionalism while asserting the matter, stirred something deeper in him. It was moments like these that reminded him why Bri wasn’t just his partner in love—but his equal in every other sense.

Brad’s stomach churned, the words reverberating in his mind like a harsh, relentless echo. The subtle crackle of the call punctuated the weighty silence, amplifying the tension in the room. The world outside remained untouched—a soft cascade of morning light filtering through the curtains, the faint whisper of waves licking the shore in an endless rhythm—but Brad barely registered any of it. Everything beyond the storm in his mind felt muted, inconsequential. His family’s legacy, his reputation, their fragile escape—it all hung in the balance, teetering on a knife’s edge.

Beside him, Bri was anything but still. Her honey-blonde waves swayed as she leaned forward, her brows pinched, her phone gripped tightly in her hands. She scrolled through the barrage of headlines and pictures with a growing urgency, her lips parting in mounting dismay. Every image—her laughter lit by tiki torches, their intertwined hands, their kiss—was like a flashbulb of their intimacy stolen and splashed across the screens of strangers.

The torrent of commentary that followed the photos was a different beast altogether. Speculation ranged from the cruel and cutting to the absurd, with far too much hitting uncomfortably close to the truth. Bri’s jaw tightened, her thumb pausing over a particularly vitriolic thread. Her pulse quickened, the warmth of the cabin replaced with the cold, crushing weight of scrutiny.

She exhaled sharply, her voice cutting through Brad’s haze with sharp clarity. “Brad and… umm, attorney person whose name I didn’t catch, sorry…” she trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward the phone.

Brad’s lips twitched faintly, despite the tension. “Richard Grant,” he said evenly, meeting her glance. “And he’s not just an ‘attorney person.’ He’s the best lawyer in the business.”

There was a brief pause on the line before the attorney himself replied, his tone remaining professional but not without a hint of wry amusement. “Miss Cameron, a true pleasure. I appreciate the vote of confidence from Brad. Please, call me Richard.”

Bri nodded, her lips curving slightly as she responded, “Right, Richard Grant, you did say that, sorry, I just woke up and am useless before coffee. Well, you can call me Bri. Way I see it, the narrative’s clear for me—divorced singer finds happiness again, blah blah, insert romantic photos at the beach, yada yada. People eat that shit up, especially with the type of music I usually put out. Fits right in. Most of my work is upbeat love songs and the occasional dramatic ballad.” She paused, her light green eyes lifting from her screen to lock onto Brad’s with deliberate weight. “But Braddy, yeah… well… you kinda look like a total dick here. Yikes.” Her tone softened slightly, but the mix of sympathy and brutal honesty lingered. “They’re tearing you apart. You look like the world’s biggest douche.”

Richard wasted no time. “Yes, basically my sentiments as well. Briar Rose—Bri—for Brad’s reputation and your own, the best course of action is to publicly lean into the relationship. Frame this as a positive story—two people reconnecting after years apart. Play up the high school sweethearts angle and try to have it overshadow the divorce narrative. It’s relatable. People love redemption arcs. But the key is urgency. The longer this festers, the harder it will be to control.”

Brad’s stomach churned further as he absorbed the gravity of Richard’s advice. Beside him, Bri tilted her head slightly, her brows furrowed in thought as she pieced together the ramifications. Richard sighed audibly, the weight of the situation evident even through the phone. “I understand that you two might not have been quite ready to be so open about it just yet,” he continued, his tone measured but firm, “but unfortunately, we’re left with no choices here. I’d like to have PR draft up a sappy but believable statement about how love conquers all and such. But once it’s published, there’s no going back.”

Brad glanced Bri’s way, the attorney’s words cutting through the fog in his mind. He wasn’t wrong—his instincts were sharp, and both Brad and Bri knew he was right. Years of navigating public scrutiny had prepared them for moments like this, but that didn’t make it any easier. And yet, as Brad watched Bri abandon her usual childlike, happy-go-lucky demeanor and seamlessly enter the conversation, matching Richard’s professionalism while asserting her own stake in the matter, it stirred something deeper in him. It was moments like these that reminded him why Bri was and he are how it always should have been.

“Okay,” Brad said at last, his voice laced with newfound resolve. “Draft the statement. We’ll handle the rest.”

He ended the call with a decisive tap, setting the phone down as though closing the door on hesitation. Bri shifted closer, her warmth grounding him as she sat up straighter. Her bare shoulder brushed his, her presence steady and unwavering as she caught his gaze again.

“We should tell our parents first. Well, my parents and your mom, since your father is… well… ya know,” Bri said quietly but firmly, her voice tinged with just enough gravity to keep Brad’s attention. “We’ve gotta do something before they see this press-a-palooza and then your attorney’s statements and think we’ve completely lost our minds.”

Brad exhaled, dragging a hand through his blond curls. The motion was slow, deliberate, as though anchoring himself to the moment. His jaw tightened, the determination settling into his features. “We probably should,” he agreed, his tone clipped but resigned. Then, after a beat, his lips quirked into a faint, wry smile. “Though, I’m not really worried about my mom. She never liked Molly, so she might actually cheer this on—the juicier the better.”

Bri blinked at him before a small, incredulous laugh escaped her. “Cheer it on?” she echoed, her honey-blonde waves shifting as she tilted her head. “You think this BS will thrill her? We’re about to star in every tabloid’s ‘Scandal of the Year’ lineup, you realize that, right?”

Brad shrugged, the hint of a smirk lingering. “You didn’t really know her when Dad was alive since he just overshadowed everything and everyone. Mom spent half her life walking on eggshells around that man. Trust me, her definition of a crisis is very different now. I wouldn’t be surprised if she opened a bottle of champagne and told me, ‘Finally, you did something entertaining.’”

Bri’s expression softened, though her lips curved into a teasing smile. “So, your mom’s the wild card, huh? Maybe this won’t be as hard as I thought. Although…” She paused, leaning in just slightly, her green eyes glinting with mischief. “Does that mean she hated Molly so much she’s already rooting for me? Should I be flattered?”

Brad let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Oh, she didn’t hate Molly. Hate takes energy, and Mom saves hers for better things these days. But she never forgave her—not for the way she honeytrapped me when I was too naïve and sheltered to know better, and certainly not for the way she secured her place in the Old Guard by tying me to her with a child, knowing full well my father would force the marriage.

She had nicknames for her—plenty of them. Mom has a way with words—always precise, never without purpose. The Golden Noose. The Honey Trap. Velveteen Shackle. The Human Venus Flytrap. Not out of malice, just cold observation. Molly was effortless in the way she ensnared people, always soft enough to seem harmless, always tight enough to make escape impossible.

Mom never warned me outright. She doesn’t believe in warnings—too much like excuses, according to her. She knew my father had made his decision. A Cunningham wouldn’t leave a child without his name, and Molly’s parents had seized the opportunity without hesitation. She never fought it. But later, after he was gone—when nothing was holding me to that marriage except habit and exhaustion—she told me more than once to cut my losses. I almost listened. Almost walked. But Molly knew exactly when to play the fragile, heartbroken wife. Knew how to pull me back just long enough to make leaving feel like cruelty instead of freedom. And the second time—I didn’t even make it to the door before I let exhaustion win. Mom never said I told you so. She just sighed, poured herself a drink, and muttered, ‘I raised you to be a better chess player than this.’ Mom never once said ‘I told you so.’ She just exhaled, poured herself a drink, and muttered, ‘I raised you to be a better chess player than this.’

Then when I finally did—when I finally told her the divorce was happening for real—she was thrilled. She didn’t just nod in quiet relief; she hugged me, kissed me, then practically raised a glass to the moment, as if some long overdue balance had finally been restored. Mom pulled in every favor she was owed, every string to see my divorce fly through the system.”

Bri’s expression shifted, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “Well, not to be mean, but your mom stayed in her marriage with your dad, and you cannot tell me that was boundless passionate love. Puh-lease! I’d call bullshit. Did you tell her about me?”

Brad hesitated, exhaling slowly. “Mom would agree with you, always told me to learn from her mistakes, do as she said not as she did if is came to marriage. And I didn’t have to tell her about you. She just knew. She’s always told me you and I would get our second chance, I just thought it was a mother wishing the best for her son. Whenever you would come up in private conversations between us, she’d say ‘Que sera, sera’. Guess my mother really is a smart woman. She didn’t agree with my father when he broke us up that was one of the few times she fought him, but she had no chance, nobody ever did. She finally gave up, gave in and let him have his way, but she never forgave him for that, either. So, yeah. She knew. And for once, I think she approved.”

Bri leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper, even though they were alone. “Did you tell her about the baby?”

Brad’s gaze softened, his hand brushing hers. “Of course not! Not until we both decide it’s time. I figured letting her stew over Bri and Brad, Volume 2, was more than enough for now.”

Bri laughed outright this time, a sound so warm and full that it broke through the tension like sunlight splitting storm clouds. “Well, I guess that’s something,” she said, still grinning. “One less person to worry about. Now, if only my parents would just pour champagne and call it a day. Something tells me that while dad isn’t really touring anymore, he’s still very much in the public spotlight and this won’t look super-good on him.”

Brad exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as determination hardened his features. “I doubt we can beat the headlines to their doorstep, but at the very least we need to go and explain ourselves properly, so they know what to believe and what’s total nonsense cooked up just for clicks and reactions. We pack and leave. ASAP. I’ll have my assistant arrange a charter, hopefully it will be ready for tails up by the time we are dressed, packed and checked out.” His words were sharp, precise. Actionable.

He reached for her hand, his fingers brushing her wrist, pausing there as though the connection held a power of its own. “No more hiding,” he murmured, his voice low, steady, and unshakable.

Bri’s lips curved faintly, her gaze softening as she leaned into him. But just as the moment settled, she let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “Shit is about to hit the fan something wild now,” she said, her voice tinged with both humor and resignation.

Brad chuckled despite himself, the sound low and dry. “You’re not wrong,” he replied, his vivid blue eyes meeting hers with a flicker of shared understanding. “And I don’t think we’ve seen the worst of it yet. The moment Molly sees this .. oh boy!”

Bri sighed, her fingers tightening slightly around his. “Yeah, she’ll know what’s up. Well, if we’re going down in flames, at least we’re doing it together,” she said, her tone light but carrying an undercurrent of resolve. She tilted her head, her honey-blonde waves brushing his arm as she added, “And hey, maybe we’ll get a movie deal out of it. I mean, total chick flick material, right?”

Brad smirked, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “If they cast anyone but Ryan Gosling as me, I’m suing.”

Bri laughed again, the sound cutting through the chaos like a balm. “Deal. But only if Margot Robbie plays me.”

Her expression softened, a faint smile curving her lips despite the chaos pressing in on all sides. She leaned into him, her honey-blonde waves brushing against his shoulder, her gaze sparkling with humor that refused to be extinguished. “Oh Brad?” she added, her tone lightening as she tilted her head, teasing. “I’m kinda loving the take-charge attitude. Shame we’re in too much of a rush to enjoy it properly—or I’d show you exactly what that does to me.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him, her grin mischievous.

Brad’s lips quirked into a rare, playful grin, his vivid blue eyes glinting with newfound energy. “I’m sure you can show me in a really fast shower together. We both need to shower anyway, might as well multitask.”

Bri’s laugh bubbled up, light and genuine, cutting through the tension like a salve. Her cheeks flushed, but her smile widened as she shook her head in mock disbelief. “Dang, listen to you! You weren’t kidding—I really did create a monster with that first shower invite. Come on then, big guy. Scrubbing time! And no slacking, got it? Chop, chop, Cunningham.”

Brad smirked, watching her retreat before springing to his feet, the mischievous grin never leaving his face. “Ordering me around like that? Miss Cameron, you better run,” he warned playfully, his voice tinged with humor as he lunged forward. Bri squealed, darting toward the bathroom door as she laughed, her voice ringing out like music in the stillness of the cabin.

He caught her with ease just as she reached the threshold, scooping her into his arms with a triumphant laugh. “Gotcha!” he declared, his grip firm but gentle as he spun her lightly. Bri’s laughter echoed through the small space, her arms looping around his neck as she tilted her head toward him.

“Brad Cunningham, who are you these days?” she teased, though her smile was soft, her light green eyes warm as they met his. “And what are you gonna do now, big guy? You look like the dog that finally caught the car. Now what?”

Brad chuckled, setting her down gently and nudging her toward the shower with a playful grin. “Now it’s scrubbing time, Bri.”

She stumbled into the shower cabin, turning on the water with a quick flick of her wrist. The sound of the spray filled the room as she tossed a sponge at Brad, her aim surprisingly accurate. He caught it with ease, his grin widening as he stepped in after her.

As the warm water cascaded over them, Brad reached for the soap, his touch gentle as he began to lather her skin. The intimacy of the moment was unspoken but palpable, a quiet reprieve from the chaos waiting just outside the bathroom door. “I have to say this,” he murmured, his voice low and tinged with amusement. “Today was the very first time I ever slept naked. And most definitely the very first time I spoke to my attorney — or anyone for that matter — without a thread of clothing on me.”

“Liberating, huh?” Bri giggled, her eyes sparkling as she tilted her head back to meet his gaze.

“I think that’s the keyword for me this year. Liberation,” Brad said softly, his tone buttery smooth and laced with emotion. “All because you decided to stop by Brindleton Bay one day for some nostalgia. And look what’s happened in just a few short months.” His voice grew even softer as his hand drifted down, his fingers brushing gently across the soft mound of her 19-week pregnancy.

His son. With her.

A dream he’d carried since he was sixteen years old, now finally coming true. At thirty-three, Brad felt like he was finally starting to live.

Seaglass Haven, San Sequoia

The private flight back from Sulani had been uncharacteristically quiet—charged with the kind of tension that hovers before a storm breaks. Bri had rested her head against Brad’s shoulder, her fingers lazily intertwined with his as if willing the fleeting tranquility to stretch just a little longer. He held the paperback novel in his lap, pretending to read, though his eyes never moved over the words. His thoughts had been elsewhere, just like hers.

Now, as their rental car cruised through the familiar streets of San Sequoia, the calm dissolved, replaced by a drumbeat of anxious anticipation. Bri’s heart thudded in her chest, its rhythm steady but insistent, like a low warning bell echoing through her entire body.

Brad’s hand rested on the steering wheel, his fingers gripping it with just enough force to betray his focus, his tension. His other hand remained on her thigh, a silent reassurance. It wasn’t just a touch—it was a tether, a grounding anchor in the face of the whirlwind they were about to walk into. Her fingers curled over his, clinging to that connection, as though holding onto him could steady the tremble she felt creeping beneath her skin. In that moment, they didn’t need to speak to understand each other. They both knew what lay ahead.

They were about to face everything—head-on.

The questions. The scrutiny. Her family.

The press storm was relentless. Brad had already heard from his attorneys again mid-flight—calls from reporters came in an unrelenting torrent, cascading like molten lava and scorching everything in its path. The media machine was in overdrive, unearthing every angle, every possible scandal. With nowhere left to go, his PR team had made the only move they could: they leaned in. Fully, unflinchingly.

Together, they’d crafted a narrative—a love story so potent, so raw it could crack even the hardest cynic. The official statement had been released hours ago: a tale of rekindled love, of defied odds, of “home” found in each other. It wasn’t a lie. Not really. But it was bigger than the truth they had been quietly piecing together between whispered late-night talks and cautious glances. Now the world had seized it, devouring it as if they’d been starving for it.

The statement hadn’t bought them reprieve—it bought them momentum. And now, the next step was unavoidable: telling her family.

This wasn’t about the media frenzy or PR spin anymore. This was about being honest with the people who mattered most. About revealing the tangled truth—the good, the bad, the messy parts neither of them were ready to face fully themselves. Yet the timing had been ripped out of their hands, and there was no more room for delay.

Bri’s pulse quickened, her stomach twisting as she thought of her parents’ reaction. They didn’t know yet—not the full story. What they thought might have happened was likely far removed from reality. This wasn’t something that could be passed off with vague reassurances or artful dodges. Her parents deserved the full truth.

Brad stole a quick glance at her, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. He looked as calm as ever—steely, composed—but she knew better. She knew that calm belied the weight pressing down on him. He wasn’t just navigating his own uncertainties. There was his legacy back in Brindleton Bay, the career he’d built, the children he was raising with his ex-wife, the life he’d carefully constructed around him like walls of armor.

Now there was Bri. Their love. And the unborn child whose tiny heartbeat already echoed as a promise in both of their futures.

Neither of them had real answers about what came next. San Sequoia had become Bri’s sanctuary, the place where she was rebuilding her life. Brad’s life was rooted miles away, firmly tied to the place he’d always known—Brindleton Bay, where his family’s influence cast long shadows. Then there were the practical complications: Bri’s son, who lived full-time with his father in Chestnut Ridge, visiting frequently. Bri’s children needed stability. Brad’s children deserved stability. And now their mutual child, waiting quietly for a world neither parent had quite yet figured out how to build.

They had meant to inch toward solutions, to talk, to plan, to find their footing slowly. But life had decided otherwise, and now they were left to scramble, to patch together pieces of a future in fast-forward, under a magnifying glass, with the whole world watching.

Yet, as they turned onto the main street and the stately whitewashed estate her parents owned and which Bri and her daughter had called home for the past 4 years with brief interruptions, she felt her chest tighten. This wasn’t just about facing her family, who had always been her support through every storm. It was about unveiling a truth that felt both monumental and raw, a laughable cliché at first glance but so much deeper beneath the surface.

The statement released earlier that day had set the stage. Brad’s PR team had woven their story into a masterpiece—a love story so tender and evocative it could move even the harshest critic to tears. But behind the carefully crafted words was an undeniable pressure. The media storm hadn’t slowed; it raged on, louder than ever. And as breathtaking as the estate was, its high white walls couldn’t shield them from the questions, the scrutiny, and the inevitable judgment waiting inside.

As the car came to a smooth stop outside the expansive multicar garage, Bri’s gaze shifted to the estate’s grand entrance. The massive front doors stood proud and stately at the heart of the sprawling house, framed by pristine whitewashed walls and the manicured gardens that stretched endlessly toward the harbor. Those doors had always been more than just an entrance to her—they had been a sanctuary, a portal to another world, where wealth and legacy were intertwined with warmth and familiarity. It was the kind of safety that wrapped around her like a mother’s hug, comforting and protective.

Today, though, that feeling eluded her. The stakes were far higher now. This wasn’t a casual visit, nor was it a return to the familial embrace she’d always known. This was an unmasking—a moment of raw vulnerability, where truths and uncertainties would collide, and the weight of their love story would either withstand scrutiny or crumble under it.

Brad’s hand rested on her thigh, the warmth of his touch grounding her amidst the swirl of her thoughts. He didn’t speak, but the quiet squeeze of his fingers was a reassurance—an unspoken message that she wasn’t stepping into this alone. She curled her own fingers over his, holding him there, drawing strength from the silent connection as her breath hitched slightly in her throat.

She turned her head and met his gaze. His vivid blue eyes, steady and unwavering, were filled with unspoken understanding. Brad wasn’t just there beside her; he was with her, sharing the weight of the moment. He gave her that familiar, almost imperceptible nod, the kind of gesture that had come to mean so much between them—a quiet affirmation that he’d stand with her, no matter what waited beyond those towering doors.

Bri inhaled deeply, her chest rising as she soaked in the fleeting comfort of his touch before unclasping her seatbelt with deliberate precision. This was it—time to step forward, to face everything, beginning with the people she loved most. The knot of uncertainty tightened in her stomach, but she swallowed it down, her resolve strengthening in the wake of his silent support.

Brad’s voice broke the quiet, soft yet sure. “Ready?”

She nodded, her voice calm but resolute as she replied, “Ready.”

Ambushed

The sunlight glinted off the hood, crisp and bright, as he turned off the car. His movements were calm, deliberate, even as Bri busied herself gathering her belongings—her purse, sunglasses, stuffing the pashmina from the flight deeper into her bag. The tiny moments of preparation steadied her nerves, each motion a small comfort.

Brad pushed open his door and slid out with practiced ease, slipping on his aviator sunglasses as he stood. The sharp sunlight glinted off the frames, reflecting his composed exterior even as his jaw subtly tightened. He moved with purpose, rounding the car to Bri’s side and pulling her door open for her.

As she stepped out, her sunglasses now perched on her nose, she barely had a chance to steady herself before the sound hit—a cacophony, harsh and jarring, slicing through the quiet of the coastal estate. Flash. Flash. Flash. The unmistakable staccato of cameras firing, the blinding bursts cutting into the daylight.

And then came the voices, shouting over one another in a chaotic blur: “Briar Rose! Are you the reason behind Brad’s divorce?” “How long have you been having the affair?” “Are there wedding plans?” “Brad! Does this mean you’re moving to San Sequoia?” “Bri! How do you feel about being labeled a homewrecker?” “Brad, have your kids met Briar Rose? Do they like her?” “Briar Rose! Is it true you are planning to abandon your music career to chase after Brad? Is that why you postponed the tour?” “Brad! How do you respond to claims this is all a PR stunt to gain media relevance?” “Briar Rose! Is this your way of promotion your upcoming album?” “Brad! Are you trying to replace your ex-wife with Briar Rose?”

The questions sliced through the air, sharp and invasive, the volume escalating with every second. Their voices overlapped, a cacophony of judgment and speculation that came at them from every angle. The flashing cameras were relentless, their blinding bursts cutting into the daylight and making it impossible to focus.

The mob surged forward like a tidal wave, pressing forward toward them. Bri froze, her pulse hammering in her chest, her hand instinctively gripping Brad’s arm as if to brace herself against the onslaught. Her sunglasses shielded her eyes, but even behind them, the anxiety prickling through her was unmistakable.

Brad shifted slightly in front of her, his frame a deliberate barrier as he raised a hand. “Back up,” he said, his voice firm, calm, but with an edge that demanded attention. “This is private property. Enough already! Call the press offices for commentary.”

But the paparazzi weren’t listening. Their cameras continued to snap furiously, their questions relentless and cutting.

Bri had spent her life under the glare of stage lights. Crowds, cameras, screaming fans—they were part of the rhythm she’d always known, a pulse she normally thrived on. But this? This wasn’t the controlled chaos of a sold-out concert. This wasn’t a performance. This was raw, invasive, and suffocating in a way she hadn’t anticipated. A violation of her most private moments in a way.

And the secret growing inside her—their child—made her feel exposed in a way she never had before.

Her breath hitched, the panic clawing up her throat before she could stop it.

“Stop!” she yelped, her voice cracking. “Please stop! Brad, make it stop!” she yelped, and started hyperventilating.

Her plea cut through the chaos, raw and desperate.

Brad’s jaw clenched, his hand tightening protectively around hers as he turned back to the crowd, his frustration boiling over.

“I said, enough!” His voice thundered, commanding, as he stepped forward, shielding her completely. His eyes burned with frustration as he scanned the crowd. “Can you not see you’re frightening her?! Have a heart, for once!”

But his plea achieved absolutely nothing. Bri clung to his arm, her breath shaky, her fingers trembling against his sleeve.

Then—Chase stormed out. Briar Rose’s father.

Chase was a force of nature, and the paparazzi quickly learned that lesson the hard way.

The rake gleamed in his hands, held with the confidence of a man who had wielded guitars and microphones like weapons in his prime. His scowl was thunderous, his voice cutting through the air like a battle cry.

“You’ve got three seconds to get off my fucking property. After that, everyone and everything here is fair game.”

The hesitation was brief—just long enough for Chase to take a single, deliberate step forward.

That was all it took.

The reporters scattered like startled pigeons, cameras clutched tightly to their chests as they stumbled over each other in their haste to escape. One tripped on the edge of the driveway, another dropped their lens cap in the grass, but none dared look back.

Chase didn’t chase them—he didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough to send them scrambling, their retreat punctuated by the sound of hurried footsteps and the occasional curse.

He stood there, rake in hand, watching them flee with a grim satisfaction. The industry’s parasites had met their match, and Chase wasn’t about to let them forget it.

The driveway was quiet again, save for the faint hum of the wind. Chase exhaled, lowering the rake, his expression softening as he turned back toward the house. His daughter was safe—for now. But he’d be damned if he let them come back for more.

And then—Bri wavered. Brad saw it before she said a word. Her posture stiffened. Her breath caught. Pain.

And then—she crumbled. Brad surged forward before she hit the pavement, catching her instantly.

“Something’s wrong! Brad, I—help!” Her voice was faint, trembling, barely audible.

He didn’t wait for her to finish. He scooped her into his arms, his grip tightening as if sheer will could keep her conscious.

Hailey was already there, running from the house, her cardigan half-on, her worry spilling into frantic action. She helped Brad steady Bri as they moved toward the car. Hailey slid into the backseat, cradling her now writhing daughter, trying to soothe her.

Brad jumped into the driver’s seat. Camera flashlights flicked up again.

Chase turned toward the paparazzi, rage flashing through his expression like lightning. “BACK THE HELL OFF! I see one more flash, and I swear—your life will flash before your eyes one final time!”

The paparazzi flinched—some stumbling back. Nobody took any photos.

“I swear to God,” he growled, pointing a finger at them like a loaded weapon, “you vultures better hope I never see your faces again!”

Without missing a beat, he flipped them off, pivoted, and barely managed to throw himself into the passenger seat as Brad tore out of the driveway.

Brad’s foot crushed the accelerator, the tires screaming in protest as the car lurched forward, kicking up loose gravel that scattered like shrapnel. The engine roared, the frame shuddering under the sudden force, but Brad didn’t ease up—not for a second.

“Left!” Chase barked, gripping the dashboard with one hand and bracing himself with the other.

Brad yanked the wheel hard, narrowly missing a delivery truck. The horn blared, deafening, as the truck swerved to avoid them.

“Watch it!” Chase shouted, his voice sharp with panic.

From the backseat, Hailey’s voice cut through the chaos, trembling and urgent. “Brad! Bri’s unconscious!”

In her mother’s arms, Bri lay limp, her head resting against Hailey’s shoulder. Hailey whispered reassurances, stroking Bri’s hair, her fingers gentle but frantic.

Brad’s heart dropped, his grip tightening on the wheel as his eyes darted to the rearview mirror. Bri’s head lolled to the side, her face pale, her body limp.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, his knuckles white as he clutched the steering wheel.

“Hailey, keep her head elevated!” Brad instructed, his voice steady despite the panic clawing at him. “Talk to her—keep her stimulated!”

Hailey obeyed, her voice trembling as she murmured to Bri, her fingers brushing against her cheek, her panic barely contained.

His gaze lingered too long on the mirror, his mind racing.

“Eyes on the road, kid!” Chase bellowed from the passenger seat, his voice sharp and commanding. “You want us all in beds next to each other at the morgue? Focus, Brad!”

Brad snapped his attention back to the road just in time to see the massive truck barreling toward him.

Instinct kicked in—he yanked the wheel hard, narrowly avoiding impact as the tires screeched in protest, the frame rattling under the force of the swerve.

The chaos inside the car was suffocating, but Brad forced himself to breathe, to focus. He couldn’t lose her. Not again. Not like this. No!

The Urgency Begins

Brad barely threw the car into park before he was out, pulling Bri into his arms like his grip alone could keep her together.

Too limp. Too cold. Too quiet.

Her breathing was uneven, shallow. Her skin clammy, leaching warmth from his own as he held her tighter than he ever had before.

Behind him, Hailey and Chase sprinted after him, their footsteps heavy with desperation, fear thick in the air.

The hospital staff reacted instantly.

They knew him—Dr. Bradford Cunningham, the man who not only owned this medical center but was one of the best surgeons to ever pass through its halls.

Whatever was happening to Bri took absolute precedence.

The gurney’s wheels squeaked against the tile—one sound in a storm of controlled chaos.

A stretcher appeared within seconds. Nurses moved in coordinated urgency, the beeping of monitors quickening as Bri was wheeled through the pristine, brightly lit corridors.

Brad stayed close, shadowing every movement, his jaw locked, pulse hammering in his ears.

Behind him, Hailey and Chase followed, their steps faltering as they tried to keep up. Chase’s face was set in a grim mask, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, while Hailey’s trembling hand hovered near her mouth, her eyes wide with fear.

Inside the private emergency suite, the air buzzed with purpose, words exchanged in clipped tones as Bri was lifted onto the bed, vitals tracked, wires fastened around her wrists.

Her breathing remained fragile. She was fading in and out of consciousness.
Her face was pale, too pale.

Brad’s fingers laced with hers—grounding her, or maybe grounding himself.

Hailey and Chase hovered near the threshold, their presence heavy with worry but careful not to interfere. Hailey’s gaze darted between Bri and Brad, her lips moving in silent prayers, while Chase stood rigid, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on his daughter.

And then—Connor arrived.

Connor’s presence filled the room with a commanding energy, his stride deliberate, his expression unreadable as he took in the scene.

Brad locked eyes with him, falling instinctively into their shared medical language, his tone clipped, controlled, thick with restrained emotion.

“Patient presents with severe lower abdominal pain, sudden in onset. Pain localized primarily to the pelvic region with intermittent waves of nausea and dizziness. Near-collapse following acute stress exposure. Skin is cold and clammy, signs of diaphoresis present. Breathing is shallow, responsiveness minimal but present—patient appears lethargic. No obvious signs of internal bleeding, but tenderness upon palpation suggests possible ischemic changes. Guarding noted. Possible autonomic instability, though vitals remain stable. Gestational age estimated at approximately nineteen weeks, with fetal biometrics consistent with second-trimester development. Cervical length markedly reduced, increasing risk of premature rupture or fetal distress. Urgent imaging and surgical consultation recommended.”

Connor processed the words instantly, but this time—something shifted.

His posture straightened, but his eyes snapped to Brad, wide, sharp, questioning.
Brad held his gaze, unwavering, unreadable. He swallowed.

Connor’s voice dropped, low and clinical, but there was an edge beneath it. “Paternal genetic contribution confirmed?”

Brad’s jaw tightened slightly, but his tone remained steady. “Paternity verified. Paternal contributor is here—present and accounted for.”

Connor’s eyes flicked—fast, calculated—toward Hailey and Chase, standing frozen near the threshold of the emergency suite. Their expressions were carved with worry, fear curling at the edges, but they hadn’t reacted. They didn’t understand the conversation Brad and Connor were having about the secret baby.

Connor looked back at Brad, the silent question burning in his stare: Do they know?
Brad barely moved—just a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

Everything clicked.

Connor’s jaw tightened.

His fingers curled at his sides, frustration threatening to boil over, but he crushed it, forced himself to steady. Now wasn’t the time. Not here. Not like this. He straightened. His voice cut through the room—sharp, commanding, all business. Moving to the nearest sanitizer, he pumped a measured amount and briskly worked it over his hands. “Lab coat. Gloves. Now. I’m taking over.”

He paused, his eyes locking on Brad, assessing him with the precision of someone used to making life-or-death calls. After a beat, he nodded, the decision made. “Get him scrubbed in too,” he said, the words clipped but resolute. “We’re going to need every set of hands we can get.”

Connor’s voice cut through the room like a scalpel, sharp and commanding. The staff moved instantly, their urgency palpable as they scrambled to comply.

The hospital staff moved with practiced urgency, wheeling Bri’s bed down the corridor toward the triage room. Connor and Brad ran alongside, their faces set in grim determination, barking orders to the team as they navigated the maze of sterile hallways.

Outside the room, Hailey and Chase stood frozen, worry etched into their features, shadows playing against the fluorescent light. The air felt heavy, oppressive, as if the weight of their fears had seeped into the walls. Connor slowed just enough to turn to them, his voice softer but steady, carrying the authority of both a doctor and a brother. “She’s in good hands. We’ll update you the moment we know more. Just stay calm—I got this.”

Chase nodded stiffly, his jaw tight, his hands clenched at his sides. But Hailey couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Her trembling hand pressed against her chest, her eyes fixed on the doors as they swung shut behind Connor, Brad, and Bri. Her children—her son and her daughter—disappeared into the unknown.

Hailey’s knees buckled, her breath hitching in sharp, uneven gasps. Chase reached for her instinctively, steadying her with firm hands as he guided her into his arms. Her trembling fingers fisted into his shirt, desperate for something solid to hold onto as the storm of emotions crashed over her. He pressed his lips to her temple, his voice low but resolute, “Patches, we’ve got to believe in them. In Connor, in Brad—and in Bri. She’s strong. Strong like her mom.”

Hailey let out a broken sob, her tears soaking into his shirt. Chase tightened his grip around her, his hand cradling the back of her head as he rocked her gently. “Connor won’t let her go. Not on his watch. You know how protective he’s always been. And Brad? I don’t even have to say it, right? They’ve got her.”

Her shoulders shook as she clung to him, the ache in her chest spilling out in muffled cries. Chase held her close, grounding her with his quiet strength. His presence was a lifeline—a thin thread tethering her to hope.

“We’re going to get through this,” he murmured, his voice rough but steady. “She’ll fight this. Just like her mom always does. And when she’s out of there, we’ll be ready to bring her home.”

A Race Against Time

The private emergency suite buzzed with controlled urgency. Bri lay pale and motionless on the bed, monitors humming softly beside her. Wires snaked around her wrists, tracking vitals that were far too fragile for comfort. Her breathing was shallow, her skin clammy, and the faintest furrow of pain lingered on her brow even in unconsciousness.

Brad stood at her side, his hand wrapped around hers—grounding her, or maybe grounding himself. His jaw was tight, his vivid blue eyes fixed on her face, but his mind was already racing ahead, piecing together possibilities.

Connor entered briskly, his presence sharp, his focus immediate. He didn’t waste time—didn’t need to. Without a word, he stepped beside Brad, the two falling into unspoken synchronization as equals.

“Status?” Connor asked, his voice low but clipped.

“No improvement,” Brad replied, his tone tight, his eyes never leaving Bri. “Vitals are unstable. BP’s tanking. Fetal heart rate is dipping intermittently.”

A nurse handed Connor the latest results, but rather than taking them outright, he flipped the file open between them, holding it steady so Brad could scan it alongside him. Together, they leaned over the medical data, their gazes locked onto the fluctuating vitals displayed on the screens.

“Something else is putting strain on the pregnancy,” Connor muttered, half to himself but fully expecting Brad’s input. “Let’s figure it out.”

He moved to the ultrasound screen, his fingers tapping the controls to bring up the latest imaging. The room fell silent as the grainy image flickered to life, the faint outline of the fetus appearing on the monitor. Brad leaned in closer, his brow furrowing as he studied the screen. Connor’s expression mirrored his, the weight of the moment pressing down on both of them.

Brad’s eyes narrowed as he pointed at something on the screen. “There,” he said, his voice grim. “Look at the blood flow.”

Connor leaned in beside him, their shoulders nearly touching as they both analyzed the data. His face darkened as realization dawned. “Shit,” he cursed, his voice sharp.

“Yeah,” Brad confirmed, his tone clipped. “Ovarian torsion. The remaining ovary’s twisted. Blood flow’s compromised. It’s cutting off circulation and putting strain on Bri’s system and the pregnancy.”

Connor exhaled sharply, his tone heavy with frustration. “Damn it. That ovary’s already scarred. If we have to take it out …”

“We’re not losing it,” Brad interrupted, his voice firm, his gaze steady. “We untwist it. Relieve the pressure. If we act fast, we can save Bri and the ovary and stabilize the pregnancy.”

Connor nodded slowly, his jaw tightening. “It’s the right call. But this is delicate. One wrong move, and we risk losing both.”

Brad’s gaze didn’t waver. “We don’t have a choice. She doesn’t have time for specialists to get here. We do this now.”

Connor hesitated, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Brad, this is Bri. My sister. I’m not supposed to operate on family, let alone attempt something this high-risk.”

Brad’s voice was calm, but there was an edge of steel beneath it. “We have to. I’ve done this procedure before. I know the anatomy, the technique. And I trust you. Help me save her. Help me save our son.”

Connor stared at him, his expression a mix of disbelief and hesitation. “You’re sure about this?”

Brad didn’t flinch. “I’m sure.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken urgency. Connor exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as resolve replaced the flicker of hesitation. Turning abruptly, his voice rang out—sharp and commanding, slicing through the chaos like a blade.

Connor glanced at Brad, weighing skill against protocol. A beat of silence passed before he nodded. “Alright, Cunningham.”

He turned sharply, his voice slicing through the tension like a scalpel. “Get me and Dr. Cunningham scrubbed in—prep the OR and have a full team ready, STAT! I’ll lead, Dr. Cunningham assists.”

Then, a pause—brief, but deliberate. His gaze flicked toward the nearest nurse. “And someone escort my parents to a private waiting room. No updates until we have something concrete. Just tell them—” he inhaled, steadying himself. “Tell them we’ve got this.”

The staff sprang into action, the room exploding with purpose and movement. Medical personnel rushed to obey, their coordination seamless and swift, a well-oiled machine responding to Connor’s authority. Connor and Brad exchanged a fleeting look—a shared understanding passing between them—before they stepped forward, ready to take control of the storm ahead.

“Let’s move,” Connor said, his voice steady now, the weight of the moment clear in his eyes.

The Procedure Begins

The operating room buzzed with activity—bright lights overhead, the hum of monitors, and the steady rhythm of voices calling out vitals and instructions. The surgical team was smaller than usual for such a high-stakes procedure, but every member moved with precision, their focus absolute. Nurses handed off instruments, adjusted monitors, and ensured every detail was accounted for.

Brad stood across from Connor at the table, both men fully scrubbed in, gloved, and masked—ready. Beneath the surgical drape, Bri lay still, her vitals fragile but holding steady. Her remaining ovary was the focus, the thin thread tethering her to a chance at recovery.

The tension in the room was palpable, a current running through the air as every person in the operating room moved with calculated precision. The stakes were impossibly high, but no one dared acknowledge it aloud.

Connor exhaled sharply, his voice cutting through the controlled chaos with quiet authority. “Ovarian torsion. Small incision. Untwist the ovary. No margin for error.”

Brad nodded, his focus locked on the monitor. “Slow, controlled movements. Blood flow’s compromised, but the tissue still looks viable.”

For a fraction of a second, Connor’s gaze lingered on Brad, doubt flickering beneath the surface. Brad had always been the underestimated one—the quiet surgeon whose presence rarely commanded a room. But as Brad stepped forward to make the incision, Connor saw something shift. Not just competence, but control.

The scrub nurse stepped in, her voice steady. “Incision site prepped.”

Connor gave a single nod. “Localized anesthesia administered. Let’s begin.”

Brad gripped the scalpel, his hand steady and confident as he made the first incision—a precise cut, just large enough to reveal the twisted ovary. Connor moved in beside him, their synergy unspoken but seamless. Each action was deliberate, each movement driven by the shared goal of preserving what little they had to work with.

Brad threaded the laparoscopic instruments with meticulous care, his focus absolute as he navigated the twisted mass. The grainy image on the monitor painted a grim picture: blood flow dangerously restricted, the ovary on the brink.

For years, Brad had been dismissed—the forgettable one, overshadowed by those louder or flashier. But today, here in this room, there was no denying the truth. His hands moved with a surgeon’s unwavering precision, his choices confident, deliberate. Connor’s skepticism dissolved as he watched. This wasn’t the Brad he thought he knew. This was the Brad Bri had always believed in.

Brad Cunningham was no longer a man to overlook. He was a force to be reckoned with.

Minutes stretched into tense silence, broken only by the occasional directive. Suddenly, a monitor blared—a sharp, urgent alarm. Bri’s vitals dipped.

Connor swore under his breath, snapping to the anesthesiologist. “BP dropping—vasopressors, now! Increase fluids. Stabilize her!”

The anesthesiologist moved swiftly, adjusting the IV and administering medication. Connor didn’t realize he was holding his breath until the vitals began to level out.

Brad didn’t flinch. His hands remained steady, his focus locked on the monitor. “Untwisting now,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

Connor hesitated for a fraction of a second. He wasn’t used to letting anyone else take control in moments like this. But as he looked at Brad, something clicked. This wasn’t the boy he remembered. Brad wasn’t following. He was leading.

Connor adjusted his movements to mirror Brad’s, the two working in perfect synchronization. Slowly, carefully, Brad untwisted the ovary, restoring blood flow. The monitor showed the tissue regaining color, the signs of viability returning. As the ovary stabilized, Bri’s vitals steadied. The baby had a fighting chance. As did Bri—without losing her only remaining ovary.

A soft murmur rippled through the room as the team acknowledged the turning point. Connor finally stepped back, letting Brad finish the procedure. His hands moved deftly as he ensured no complications remained before signaling the surgical nurse.

“Close her up,” Brad instructed, his voice firm yet calm. The nurse stepped forward with practiced efficiency, stitching the incision with measured precision, ensuring every movement was as clean and careful as the surgery itself.

The anesthesiologist monitored Bri closely, adjusting her fluids to ensure stability. Another nurse began cleaning the surgical area while Brad and Connor stripped off their gloves and gowns, their roles complete but the tension still lingering.

Bri was carefully transferred to the recovery bed, the team wheeling her out under constant supervision. Connor caught a glimpse of her pale face beneath the oxygen mask, but her vitals were holding steady.

Brad leaned back against the table, exhaling deeply as he ran a hand through his hair. His expression was calm but weighted—relief and exhaustion warring beneath the surface. Connor was silent for a moment, watching him. Then he clapped Brad on the back with the force of a linebacker.

“Hell of a job, Cunningham,” Connor said, his voice gruff but carrying a note of genuine respect.

Brad met his gaze, unreadable for a moment before nodding back. “We did it.”

Connor let out a breath, shaking his head. “No, YOU did it. I at best helped, and you saved two lives just like that. I wanna kiss your mouth right now, Cunningham.”

Before Brad could react, Connor grabbed him and planted a big, unapologetic kiss on his forehead.

Brad burst out laughing, struggling free as he wiped his forehead with exaggerated disgust. “Think of my reputation! I cannot be the owner of this establishment and have my Chief Medical Officer smooching around on me while my girlfriend and son just fought for their lives behind us.”

Connor grinned, unrepentant. “Sure you can. If you can’t, who could? I don’t care, Cunningham. We saved Bri and that baby, and I am fucking happy.”

Brad chuckled, shaking his head as he glanced around the room. The weight of the surgery still hung heavy, but the relief was palpable. “Fine. But next time, keep the declarations of love and happiness to yourself until we’re in a more private setting, okay?”

“Is that a new policy? Private kisses for my boss whenever a surgery goes well?”

Brad scoffed, peeling off his surgical gown. “No, it is not. I am almost ready to demand a framed certificate stating it was purely medical affection by my potential future brother-in-law.”

Connor groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Ah, shit, way to ruin the moment. Well, guess that cat is long out of the bag, but sounds like a conversation you should be having with my parents. Speaking of, let’s go tell them the good news.”

Brad nodded, exhaling as he ran a hand through his hair. “If you promise to keep your hands and lips to yourself.”

Connor snorted, leading the way down the hall toward the private waiting area. “Why? You didn’t. Along with other body parts, or my sister wouldn’t have graced me with her presence today on such short notice. Seriously, dude. I think we all need to have a good long talk.”

Brad sighed as they stepped out into the hall, rubbing his temple. “I take it you saw the headlines?”

Connor snorted, leading the way toward the private waiting area. “Dude, I have a 17-year-old with a phone growing out of his hand. Keira and I were awoken at an ungodly hour by said teenager bouncing into our bed, plastering his phone onto our eyeballs with the headlines of your sweet Sulani sunset moments with my sister and all that tabloid drivel—probably truer than any of us would like. And all that before my first coffee.”

Brad sighed, “If it’s any consolation, hasn’t been a cakewalk for us either.” Connor smirked, his tone lighter despite the exhaustion pulling at him. “Well, be strong Cunningham, there will be an interrogation awaiting you once the relief wears off that Bri’s fine.”

The corridor outside the waiting room was quieter now, the weight of the past hours settling into the walls. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, sterile and cold, as if unaffected by the chaos that had unfolded within these walls. The air smelled of antiseptic, fresh linens, and the distant aroma of burnt coffee from the nurses’ station.
Brad and Connor stood just shy of the entrance, neither moving, the moment thick between them.
Connor exhaled, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off invisible tension. “We should go tell my parents.”
Brad hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the opposite hallway—the one leading to recovery. “Wait. Bri first.”
Connor’s brows lifted slightly, his tired eyes scanning Brad’s face, searching for the reason behind the detour. He didn’t argue, just tipped his chin. “You think she’s even awake yet?”
Brad rubbed a hand over his jaw, exhaustion creeping in. “If she is, she’ll want to see us. And if she isn’t… we’ll at least see for ourselves that she’s okay.”

Connor sighed, shaking his head but already stepping toward the recovery ward. “Yeah. Recovery first. Then we handle my parents.”

They entered the room quietly, the dim lighting casting soft shadows against the pale green walls. The steady beep of monitors filled the space, a rhythmic pulse that felt almost too loud in the hush.

Bri stirred, her fingers twitching slightly against the blanket before her eyelids fluttered open, unfocused and glassy. She blinked sluggishly at them, then let out a dramatic exhale. “Oh there you are! Say, is my hair okay? My makeup smeared? I didn’t use waterproof today. I should get highlights. Or lowlights. Some sort of lights.”
Brad bit back a surprised laugh, trying for a serious face. “You look ravishing as always, with and without any sort of lights.”

Bri squinted, lifting a sluggish hand toward her messy waves, then gasped, eyes widening as if she had just remembered the most critical thing in the universe. “Wait—coffee. I need coffee. And cookies. I want cookies.”

Connor leaned against the bed rail, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ll be your barista today.” He scooped a small cup of shaved ice from the tray beside her, sliding it toward her with a knowing grin. “Here, Grande triple-shot oat milk vanilla cold foam latte with one pump of caramel and a dusting of cinnamon.”

Bri stared at the ice, scandalized. “No whipped cream?”

“No Ma’am, fresh out, this is a skinny latte today. Here are your cookies to make up for it.”
Connor plucked a few shavings, planting them into her mouth before she could protest.
She blinked twice, chewed, then gasped dramatically, pointing at Brad. “Those cookies taste horrible. Totally flavorless!”
Brad huffed a laugh. “I bet, Bri.”
Bri shook her head—slowly, like she was floating through water. “No. No, no. I ordered cookies. Good cookies.”
Connor rolled his eyes. “They are good-for-you-cookies, refreshing cookies. So effervescent, huh? Yumm!”
Bri opened her mouth—probably to issue a decree—but the words got tangled, so Connor added a few more ice shavings. She giggled instead, fully losing her train of thought. Then, just as quickly, she refocused. “Coffee, Connie. Braddy, coffee.”
Brad barked out a laugh as Connor stiffened beside him, a warning finger aimed in his direction.
“Connie?” Brad echoed, thoroughly amused.
Connor huffed, grabbed Brad’s hand, and slapped the small cup with ice shavings into it.

“Zip it, Braddy! Here, feed our loopy bunny here her fancy latte and then give her a kiss so she’ll go beddy-bye, because someone needs actual rest.”
Brad smirked, shaking his head. “Ordering me around again, Connie? What if I don’t? You’re gonna kiss me again?”
Connor scoffed, already pivoting toward the door. “I just might! Get cracking.”
Brad chuckled, feeding Bri another spoonful before leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead.
Bri sighed happily, eyelids drooping, voice sleepy but still insistent. “Coffee, Conn—”
“Go to sleep, Bri,” Connor interrupted, shaking his head as he pulled the blanket higher around her.
Bri hummed lazily, her words slurring. “M’kay. But someone wake me up for brunch. Mimosas. Oh! Braddy—tell the chef I want soufflé.”
Connor groaned, rubbing his temples. “Yeah yeah  Bri, Braddy and Connie are gonna go and put the order in right now.”

Before Connor finished talking, Bri’s breathing had become soft and even then turned into light snoring.

Chuckling, both men left the room.

They rounded the corner together, the hallway stretching out before them in stark fluorescent light. Every step felt heavier as the adrenaline of the surgery ebbed, leaving the weight of the moment to settle on their shoulders. Connor nudged the double doors open with his elbow, his words dropping into the air like a warning.

“Ready, Cunningham?” Brad exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not really. But let’s do this.”

Spreading the News

The waiting room hit them like a wall—too bright, too sterile, too silent. The heavy hush hung in the air, amplifying the collective anxiety of those inside.

Hailey sat stiffly in one of the plastic chairs, her hands twisting together in her lap. Beside her, Bri’s nine-year-old daughter perched cross-legged, a coloring book spread open, though her crayon hovered idly, forgotten. Her wide eyes flicked up every few seconds, darting between the adults with quiet worry.

Chase stood by the window, his arms crossed tightly, his gaze fixed on nothing, as though the view outside could hold his unraveling thoughts at bay. Keira sat nearby, her calm presence a quiet anchor, while Chris leaned against the wall, his tall frame slouched in a way only a teenager could manage.

The doors swung fully open, the sound startling as Connor and Brad stepped into the room. Exhaustion etched into their faces, surgical masks pulled down, their movements weighted by the gravity of the last few hours.

Hailey shot to her feet, her breath catching audibly. Chase turned slowly, his brow furrowed, his stance stiff with tension.

Keira stood next, her sharp eyes locking onto Connor’s, silently demanding answers. Chris straightened, his curiosity sparking despite the practiced teenage nonchalance clinging to his features.

Bri’s daughter looked up sharply, her crayon clattering to the floor.

Connor spoke first, his voice steady but softer than usual. “Bri’s fine. Brad did an outstanding job. She made it through perfectly. The surgery was successful, and she’s stable. She’s in recovery now, waking up—still a bit loopy but already getting obnoxious, asking us how her hair is and demanding coffee.” He let out a breath, shaking his head slightly. “She’s going to be okay, 100%, but she’ll need to stay here for four or five days so we can monitor her and make sure everything stays stable.”

Hailey exhaled sharply, pressing her hand against her chest. “Oh, thank God.”

Chase’s frown deepened, lines pulling tight across his face. “If she’s stable, why does she need to stay for so long? What the hell was wrong with her?”

Connor hesitated, his gaze flicking to Brad. “Well, I did my part,” he said, his tone dry but edged with something heavier. Then, turning to Brad, he added, “This one’s on you, Cunningham. Have fun explaining.” He clapped Brad on the shoulder and stepped back, leaving him standing there—holding the weight of what was about to come.

Brad exhaled, grounding himself as his gaze locked onto Chase’s. There was no room for ambiguity, no softening of edges. The facts had to come first. “She collapsed because of ovarian torsion,” he began, his voice measured, steady. “Her remaining ovary twisted, cutting off its own blood supply. It’s rare, but pregnancy increases the risk due to hormonal changes and the shifting positions of organs. We managed to untwist it in time—saved it—but the strain on her body, combined with everything she’s been through, is why it happened so suddenly. She needs rest and close monitoring for now.”

The words hung in the air like a thick fog.

Hailey blinked, her lips parting in muted shock. Then, in a voice that barely carried, she asked, “I’m sorry. Did you just say—pregnancy?”

Chase stiffened beside her, the weight of the revelation knocking his frustration clean out of his posture. His arms fell to his sides, and his expression shifted—shock overriding every trace of anger or disbelief.

Brad kept his voice calm, though there was no masking the intensity of the moment. “Yes. Bri is pregnant.”

A stunned silence swallowed the room. Time seemed to stretch unnaturally in the aftermath of those words, the pause almost tangible.

Hailey’s hand fluttered to her chest, her breathing unsteady as she struggled to process what she’d heard. “Pregnant?” she echoed, almost to herself. Her voice broke slightly as she added, “But Bri… she was told she couldn’t… after the twins…”

Brad’s stance softened, his tone careful yet resolute. “I know. She thought so too. We all did. But the pregnancy is real, and it’s the reason the torsion happened. Bri is going to recover fully. The baby is stable. Bri’s ovary is intact. Now it’s just about making sure Bri and baby stay safe.”

Hailey’s eyes welled, a conflicted mix of disbelief and fragile hope rising to the surface. Chase shifted beside her, his jaw tightening as he fought to find words. None came.

Hailey swayed slightly, catching herself against the chair as she processed his words. Her daughter—the one who had battled every fertility challenge imaginable, who had suffered and struggled and been told she wouldn’t have another child—was pregnant.

Chase opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again—before finally settling on a sharp breath through his nose. “Jesus Christ. Assume that is your handiwork?”

Brad stepped forward, his shoulders squared, his voice calm but firm. “It is. As you probably all figured out by now, Bri and I… we’re back together. Secretly. For almost five months.”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words sinking in.

Brad’s voice softened, but his resolve didn’t waver. “And that’s exactly how old our son is. Bri’s 19 weeks pregnant. She’s carrying our baby. That’s why she collapsed—it was the torsion. We acted in time. She’ll recover, the ovary’s intact, and the baby is stable. She’ll be fine—both of them will.”

Then, from the side, Chase rubbed his jaw, still coming to terms with what he’d just heard. “Boy or girl?” His voice was rougher now, quieter.

Brad exhaled. “A boy.”

Hailey let out another breath—this time a true laugh, small but full. “I can’t believe this.” Her eyes lifted to Brad’s, something shifting in them now. “Have you picked a name?”

Brad smiled now, just a little. “Nathaniel.”

Silence settled for another beat. Then Chase finally sunk into his chair, leaning back, shaking his head slowly. “Well. That’s one hell of a way to find out we’re getting another grandson, huh Patches?”

Hailey’s knees buckled slightly, and she sank back into the chair next to Chase, her hand still pressed to her chest.

Keira let out a soft breath, her hand brushing Connor’s arm as she settled into one of the waiting room chairs. Connor remained standing beside her, his tall frame exuding a quiet intensity, his arms crossed in a stance that was equal parts protective and professional. Their son Chris flopped into the chair next to Keira, his lanky frame sprawling in the way only a teenager could manage. Despite his best attempt to look unimpressed, his wide eyes betrayed his curiosity.

Briony’s coloring book slipped slightly from her lap as she blinked up at Brad, her small voice breaking the silence. “Mommy’s having a baby?”

Brad crouched down, meeting her at eye level with a gentle smile. “Yeah, sweetheart. You’re going to be a big sister. Your mom’s okay, and so is your little brother. She’s going to want to see you first. You ready to go say hi?”

Briony’s eyes widened even further, her hands clutching her coloring book tightly. “A baby brother?” she whispered, her voice tinged with awe. “Like, a real one?”

Brad chuckled softly. “A very real one. And he’s going to need his big sister to show him the ropes.”

She nodded slowly, her lips pressing together as if she were trying to hold back a smile. Then, unable to contain herself, she blurted out, “Can I tell him about my unicorns?”

Brad’s grin widened. “I think he’d love that.”

Chris leaned back in his chair, shaking his head as a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “This is wild. Totally messed up!”

Connor glanced down at his son, his eyebrows lifting in a silent, pointed rebuke before his tone sharpened slightly. “Chris.”

“What? I’m just saying—this is crazy.”

Keira reached over and swatted Chris lightly on the arm. “Yes, we’re all aware. No need for commentary. If you want to be useful, go grab your aunt some flowers from the shop downstairs!”

Chris groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “Flowers? Why me? Have Brad go—he just said they’re dating. Sounds like a perfect task for the loverboy. OW!” He yelped as Keira and Connor both shoved him in unison.

Brad ignored the exchange, his focus shifting to Hailey and Chase. His voice softened, carrying a note of regret. “I’m sorry. We were going to tell you everything today. We just needed time to clean up another mess. I’m sure you’ve heard all about my divorce.”

Chase shot him a glare “That is going to be a talk you and I will have at some point, kid! What the fuck, Brad? You KNEW about her condition. You are a fucking doctor, and you had to go and knock her up!?”

“Gump! There are kids present!” Hailey called her husband to order.

“Chris curses better than my dad did and Briony grew up around Jackson so give me a fucking break Patches. And you, Cunningham, do not dare come at me with ‘wasn’t planned’. I want to hear NONE of that!” Chase argued back.

Hailey finally looked up, her eyes glistening as she reached for Chase’s arm. “Baby, get off Brad’s back, will you? You heard Con-Bear—he saved her life. And our grandson’s.”

Chase leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting heavily on his knees. His jaw tightened, and his breath came in uneven bursts. “Well, he fucking better!” he snapped, his voice rough with emotion. “He got her into that mess to begin with!”

The words were barely out of his mouth when his expression faltered. His shoulders sagged, and his hands flexed against his thighs as if trying to ground himself. Slowly, he rose from his seat, his eyes shimmering with unspoken emotions. Before Brad could react, Chase stepped forward and pulled him into a fierce embrace, his hand landing on the younger man’s back with a resounding slap.

When Chase pulled away, he wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his hand, his voice gruff but softer now. “Where are you staying? Assuming you’ll be in town. You better be.”

Brad hesitated, caught off guard. “Oh, we didn’t get that far yet. I’ll probably get a room at the usual hotel… umm…”

“The usual hotel you meet Bri for your screwing?” Chris interjected, his tone dripping with teenage audacity.

“CHRISTIAN CAMERON!” Keira’s sharp voice cut through the room, her glare pinning her son in place.

Chris shrugged, unrepentant. “What? He admitted to having a secret relationship, and Aunt Bri’s pregnant by him. How do you all think that happens, huh?”

“Ignore the idiot kid,” Chase said, his voice carrying an edge of irritation before softening again. “You’re staying with us.”

Brad opened his mouth to protest, his hands coming up slightly. “Oh, that’s very kind of you, Mr. Cameron, but—”

“But? But?” Chase interrupted, his voice rising as he stepped even closer. “There is no but, kid. I wasn’t asking. Did it sound like I was asking? I wasn’t asking.”

Chris groaned, ever the teenager unwilling to let the moment slide. “Hey, I’m sure Aunt Iris, Jas, Maddie, and Colton are on their way here. Where are they supposed to sleep?”

“In the guest house, as per usual,” Chase shot back, his tone a mix of exasperation and authority. “Maddie and Colton half-live with us anyway when they aren’t helicopter-parenting Jas and Iris around DSV, so they have their rooms in the main house. Are you new? Or is that teen amnesia—the same kind you get when someone asks you to do chores?”

Chris leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated shrug, a mischievous grin lighting up his face. “Memory’s fine, Grampa. Probably better than yours—you know, that selective hearing kind you get whenever Gramma asks you to do something you don’t wanna do.”

Chase narrowed his eyes, his mock glare unwavering. “Watch it, kid. I’ve got more than enough hearing—and plenty of voice to yell at you.”

Chris smirked, undeterred. “Sure, sure. Anyway, so where’s Brad supposed to sleep? In between you and Gramma? Or maybe curled up next to Snuffins on the doggie bed? Seeing how Gramma had the brilliant idea to remodel half the bedrooms into that office she saw in some fancy magazine and who even knows what else the other ones will become, cos she was bored one day. Or are you pawning him off on us now? No offense, dude, but I don’t even know you. And after all those headlines we don’t want the hordes of press at our house!” Chris directed the latter at Brad.

Chase bristled, straightening as he snapped back. “Are you daft, kid? He’ll sleep in Bri’s bed, where he belongs! He’s the father of her baby, you nitwit, and obviously they are in a relationship! What’s gonna happen? He knocks her up double? Pretty, but hollow, your child, Con-Bear and Keke!” He shook his head in mock despair before turning back to Brad, his tone firm. “Settled. You’re staying with us then.”

Brad barely opened his mouth to respond before Chase barreled on, his tone shifting slightly. “Wait – and what headlines?” But before he could press further, Chris pounced.

“Oh my GAWD, Grampa! Did you and Gramma literally crawl out from a cave or something?” Chris groaned theatrically, holding out his phone after a few quick taps. “Seriously. Welcome to 2025.”

Chase leaned in with a suspicious squint, muttering under his breath. But the second he caught a glimpse of the screen, his expression hardened, and he yanked the phone from his grandson’s hand. “Gimme that!”

Hailey leaned over his shoulder, her curiosity impossible to mask. “Let me see, baby,” she murmured, though her tone left little room for argument.

Brad, meanwhile, stood frozen, his arms crossed tightly as his head spun from the sheer chaos of everyone talking at once. As an only child, he wasn’t used to this level of noise—or the relentless volley of opinions being hurled his way.

“Surprised Iris hasn’t been calling,” Hailey said, patting herself down. “Oh, that’s why. I don’t have my phone. Do you, Gump?”

Chase pat himself, shaking his head when as if on perfect cue Iris burst in, followed by Jasper carrying their daughter and Jasper’s parents Maddie and Colton Hargrave, while Iris immediately ranted. She was also pregnant, a very noticeable 6 months now.

“What the actual FUCK everybody?! So, YOU again? Jas told me. But, seriously now, Brad?”

Chris leaned forward, arms unfolding as he jabbed a finger toward Brad, his expression a mix of disbelief and teenage bluntness. “Gets worse. That Brad-dude knocked Auntie Bri up. That’s why all this. Ovarian Torsion, twisted ovary, but the tissue was still circulated enough and could be saved. Plus, that guy saved the baby he made, and Dad helped.”

Iris’s eyes narrowed. “How do you even know what they did?”

Chris smirked, lifting the file Connor was holding, still open to a page he and Brad had been discussing on their way over. “Uh, hello? They told us and I can read. My dad’s the Chief Medical Officer here, I’ve helped out every summer since I was like thirteen, and I applied for med school. Thanks for knowing that, Auntie Iris. I feel so loved.”

Connor snatched the file back, slapping it lightly against Chris’s chest before shutting it with a snap. “Don’t you be reading patient files, you brat, you know better! And that gentleman over there is not ‘that Brad-dude’, that is Dr. Bradford Cunningham, who owns this here clinic and many others and therefore, technically is my boss and if you ever want to work as a doctor yourself, if you can focus long enough to make it through med school, you will likely work in one of his facilities so I would watch your tone, son!”

Iris crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll love you later, Chris—assuming I don’t trade you for something more useful, like coffee, first.” She turned sharply to her husband, her eyes narrowing. “Wait, what? Jas! You didn’t say anything about a baby. What else haven’t you told me? Do I have to have someone here pay me a retainer and go into lawyer-mode? Help me out here. Update please!”

Jasper’s tone was dry, his expression unreadable as he huffed. “That’s because I didn’t know anything about a baby, Iris.” He let the words hang for a beat, then added with deadpan precision, “I know I’m amazing, but X-ray vision isn’t one of my skills. Yet. Neither of them said a word, and Bri isn’t even showing, so how exactly was I supposed to know? The only thing Cunningham ever said to me was ‘ouch’ when I whooped his ass.”

Brad scoffed, crossing his arms. “Whooped my ass? That’s interesting, Jas, because last I checked, we both threw hands like toddlers and then walked away looking like we got mauled by an angry squirrel.”

Jasper smirked, leaning casually against the wall. “I was clearly at an advantage over you, you pussy.”

Brad rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah? Tell that to Bri, who had to step in and referee two bleeding idiots who couldn’t throw a decent punch to save their lives.”

Jasper shrugged, his smirk widening. “We’re gonna have to agree to disagree. In my recollection, I mopped the floor with your limp ass.”

Brad snorted, his tone dry. “And in my profession, we call that a case of severe delusional psychosis. You should get that checked out.”

Connor sighed, rubbing his temples as he stepped between them. “I swear, if you both don’t shut up right now—if I even suspect either one of you trying to throw hands in this room—I’m sedating you and leaving you drooling and loopy on a park bench. And trust me, I’ll enjoy it.”

Chris leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Wow, Dad. Way to show respect to your bossman. Super professional.”

Connor shot his son a sharp look, his tone dry. “I’m speaking as Bri’s big brother—not in my professional capacity—and as someone who’s known Brad since he and your aunt were kids. Also, I do not need my life choices microanalyzed by my teenage son. Keep it up, Chris, and you’ll be riding shotgun on that park bench with Brad and Jasper.”

Colton, Chase’s lifelong best friend and former bandmate and also Jasper’s father, chuckled from the corner. “We all support that. All of it.”

Maddie groaned, throwing her hands up in pure exasperation. “Oh. My. GOD! How the fuck am I supposed to spin this?” She rounded on Brad, practically radiating frustration. “Guys, I’m supposed to be the FIRST to know about these things so I can prep—make it look deliberate! How am I supposed to turn Bri and Brad: The Sequel into anything other than a full-on soap opera? Two marriages and a baby incoming as collateral damage?! Does anyone here think that helps sell music? Because I’m not seeing it!”

She shoved Brad lightly, the motion just shy of theatrical.

Brad winced, looking every bit the sheepish teenager he’d once been. “Sorry, Mrs. H,” he muttered, his voice quiet. For a moment, it was like he’d been transported back in time—sixteen years old, walking into the estate in the Bay to pick up Bri for a date, catching flak from everyone in the house. Back then, Chase, Hailey, Colton, and Maddie had all lived together, raising their children in a chaotic but creative communal setting. Unconventional, sure, but not unheard of for artists of their caliber.

Chris, ever the instigator, couldn’t resist. “Damn, if you look up ‘maternal imprinting’ and ‘positive assortative mating’ in a medical textbook, you’ll find Uncle Jas’ picture. Marrying Aunt Iris was basically marrying his mom—just younger and brunette!”

Grinning, he bolted from his seat as Jasper—unfazed—dumped his infant daughter into his father’s arms before giving chase.

“Permission to have my husband drown my nephew in the harbor!” Iris snarled, her glare sharp as a blade.

“Permission granted,” Connor replied dryly, not missing a beat. “Just make it look like an accident so we can collect on his life insurance.”

Dodging between chairs in the waiting room, Chris called out, “Wait—you have life insurance on me?! What now?!”

Jasper caught him in a clumsy but triumphant headlock, grinning like he had just won an Oscar.

Chris barely struggled—he didn’t need to. Instead, he reached up and aggressively messed up Jasper’s carefully styled hair.

Jasper immediately released him with a horrified gasp, shoving him away like he was contagious. “What the—CHRIS! You little fucker!”

Without missing a beat, he whirled, snatched a random phone straight from his mom Maddie’s hand, and flipped the screen toward himself.

Brad, arms crossed, smirked as he watched the chaos unfold. “Wow. Truly a masterclass in combat. The sheer dominance. I’m in awe.”

“Screw you, Brat-fart!” Jasper snarled, his glare sharp enough to cut steel.

“Oh wow. Now you’ve really shown me,” Brad chuckled, his tone dripping with mock admiration.

Connor wrapped an arm around Brad’s shoulders, his own laughter bubbling up. “Careful, Jas. Our Brad here has really grown up. I wouldn’t screw with him.”

Jasper’s retort was immediate, his grin sharp. “How could you? That dude is too busy screwing your little sister anyway.”

The words barely left Jasper’s mouth before Chase turned, his expression darkening as he planted a well-aimed kick to Jasper’s rear, sending him stumbling forward. “Bri just almost died, and you’re cracking jokes? You better start running!”

Jasper didn’t argue. He bolted for the door, Chase hot on his heels, still aiming kicks at him as his voice echoed down the hall.

Hailey shook her head, her tone sharp but calm as she addressed Maddie. “On that very mature note—and to answer your earlier question—Maddie, our daughter just had life-saving surgery, after which we found out we’re going to be grandparents again. Nobody here, literally nobody, gives a flying fuck about PR right now. It is what it is. I couldn’t even care at gunpoint.”

The double doors with glass insets swung open, revealing Chase as he reentered the waiting room, his movements deliberate, his expression brimming with controlled irritation. He paused just inside, crossing his arms and planting himself firmly in front of the doors.

Behind him, Jasper’s face popped comically into view through one of the glass insets, his features exaggerated like a guilty teenager testing the waters. The mischievous glint in his eyes suggested he thought he might pull off slipping inside unnoticed.

Without turning, Chase shifted slightly, blocking the doorway just enough to halt Jasper’s progress. “Don’t even think about it,” he muttered, his voice low but brimming with barely concealed amusement.

Jasper leaned around the edge of the doorframe, clearly undeterred. “Aw, c’mon, Chasenator. You wouldn’t shut out your bonus son, would you?”

Chase sighed, struggling to suppress the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll shut out anyone who tries sneaking in like a raccoon in a trash can. You included. You can come back in when you can behave like a grown adult.”

Before Jasper could reply, Chase whipped the door open with deliberate speed and snagged Jasper by the arm, yanking him inside with minimal effort. “But knowing you, we’d be waiting an eternity for that. Come on, get in here.”

Jasper stumbled forward, catching himself with a dramatic flair before straightening up. A sheepish grin spread across his face as Chase shut the doors behind them. “Goddang! Now that’s what I call love with feeling! Dayum, old man, still got some fire in you!”

While the group bickered, Keira turned to Connor, her voice soft. “You look tired, baby.” She wrapped her arms around him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Chris groaned loudly, throwing his head back. “Ugh, gross. Can we not? You have a big bedroom with walls and a door at home for this.”

Connor shot his son a look, though a faint smirk tugged at his lips. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to deal with you right now.”

Chase added with a grin, boxing his grandson’s arm lightly. “I’m not.”

The moment of levity broke the tension, and for the first time in hours, the room felt lighter.

Brad had stepped back, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold before him, shaking his head, chuckling under his breath. His life was nothing like this. Minutes ago, he had been performing life-threatening surgery—every movement precise, every second critical. And now? Everyone had pivoted effortlessly back into being silly, unfiltered, utterly ridiculous. And yet, the love between them was palpable, woven through the laughter, the bickering, the utter chaos.

He was going to be part of this world so different from his again—somehow — and the thought thrilled him.

A small tug at his coat pulled Brad from his thoughts.

Wide blue eyes blinked up at him, bright with expectation. “’Scuse me, Doctor? You said I could see my Mommy.”

Her voice was sweet but firm—like she had already decided Brad was responsible for making this happen.

And for a split second, he almost believed he had fallen through time.

She looked exactly like Bri had when they’d first become friends—same expressive face, same effortless certainty, even the same tone in her voice. She was a mirror of the girl he had known, the girl who had shaped so much of his life.

Had it not been for the betrayal—the color of her eyes, the right shape but the wrong shade—he might have let the illusion consume him completely.

Bri’s had always been an ethereal shade of pale green. But this girl? Her eyes were brilliant blue. Jackson Kershaw’s eye color. Briony.

Brad hesitated for just a second, then wordlessly scooped her up.

He hadn’t planned to—it just happened. Instinctive. Natural. Right.

As an icebreaker, Brad let out an exaggerated groan, pretending to struggle under her weight. “Ooof! What did you eat for breakfast, bricks?”

Briony gasped, her mouth forming a perfect little ‘O’ of indignation. “Nooooo! Pancakes with blueberries and whipped cream! Gramma made them. And they were amaaaaazing.” She finished off with a comical ‘Chef’s kiss’ gesture.

Brad smirked. “We have that in common, then. I like those best too. Yum!”

Her arms spread wide in delight. “I can eat soooo many of them! Like, a whole mountain.” Then, like it was important evidence, she added, “And Uncle Con-Bear says I’m too light anyway, so I’m allowed!”

Brad shifted her against his side, feigning another struggle. “Tell that to my biceps. You’re clearly hiding bricks under all those pancakes.” He gave her a suspicious look. “Or are they in your pockets?”

Briony giggled, her earlier seriousness melting into something lighter, brighter. “You’re funny! I like you.”

Then, without hesitation, she nestled in slightly, her small fingers curling into the fabric of Brad’s sleeve—a simple, trusting gesture. “But I wanna see Mommy now. Can you take me?”

Brad’s chest tightened—not in hesitation, but in something quieter, deeper. He hadn’t expected this.

His gaze flicked up to Connor, who was watching closely.

Bri’s older brother wordlessly handed Brad the patient file. No commentary. No teasing. Just quiet acknowledgment. This was Brad’s moment.

Brad returned his attention to Briony, offering a warm smile, then winked—just enough to coax another tiny giggle from her.

She barely knew him. Didn’t know how much he had loved her mother, how long he had waited, how much had been stolen from them. And yet, her laughter felt like a bridge. Something uncomplicated, instinctive, right.

He shifted his grip just slightly, securing her against him—not just physically, but in a way that said, I’ve got you.

Then, with steady steps, he turned through the double doors and carried her toward Bri’s room.

Hailey and Chase stood nearby, watching Brad disappear down the hall with their granddaughter. Concern lingered in Chase’s furrowed brow, Hailey’s fingers twisted together as she glanced after them.

Connor exhaled, his voice even, reassuring. “I okayed it. It’s all good. Briony needs to see her mommy, and probably should start getting used to Brad cos I don’t think he’ll be going anywhere anytime soon. Mom and dad, you two will go in next.”

His gaze swept toward the others still lingering around the waiting room, his tone shifting to something firmer. “LISTEN UP, EVERYONE! The rest of us should give Bri a day. Let her recoup. The more she rests, the faster she can go home. If you’re looking for something to do, start planning a party—a welcome home, a baby shower, or whatever the fuck you want to call it. You plan it, and I’ll make sure Bri’s gonna be there for it. You got a few days to plan, she should be going home just before the weekend.”