Turning Points

Hey guys, yup, it’s Bri again, checking in. And man, do I have things to tell you. You better sit down with your beverage of choice.

I mean, if you had told me eight, nine months ago I’d be sitting here, staring at—well, this—I would have laughed, blocked your number, and moved on with my day. But here we are. Life comes at you fast, huh?

I run my fingers over the delicate metalwork, tracing the intricate details like I’m trying to commit every ridge and groove to memory. It’s ridiculous, really. Sentimental. Not very me, if we’re being honest. But something about holding it makes everything feel… real.

Let’s catch up, shall we?

So, remember how Brad and I said we were going to take things slow? Yeah. That lasted about five minutes. Somehow, everything just happened at warp speed. From the moment we ran into each other right here in Brindleton Bay to now, not even a year has passed. My divorce from Jackson was just over a year old—well, the last one, anyway.

And speaking of Jackson, that man always had the worst timing. After Briony and I returned from our first visit here, we decided, literally overnight, that Brad was the right choice for both of us. It was summer break, and he had connections—getting Briony into school after the move wouldn’t be a problem. So, what did we do? Started packing.

My parents barely had time to process it before—boom—Jackson showed up. Unannounced, as always, here to pick up Beau a few days early. And in true chaotic-child fashion, the kids spilled everything before I had the chance to do any damage control.

Jackson listened, his expression tight, barely containing whatever storm brewed behind his eyes. Then, without a word, he grabbed my arm and hauled me into my dad’s studio.

And then? He unleashed.

Every emotion imaginable poured out—regret, desperation, anger. He practically begged me not to do this, not to take his daughter even further away from him. He raged about his mistakes, how he still loves me, how he wants his family back. How this, what I’m doing, is just a knee-jerk reaction.

And on and on it went, his voice climbing in volume, breaking, pleading—until there was nowhere left for it to go.

Normally, my heart would have shattered into a million pieces. Normally, I would have felt something. But this time? Nothing. Not anger. Not sadness. Just nothing.

I let him vent, then asked if he felt better. And when he just stood there, glaring? I turned and left.

I wasn’t doing this anymore. Not with him. Not after everything.

Don’t get me wrong—I didn’t hate Jackson. He had his charms, and there would always be a place for him in my heart, if only because of the years we’d shared. But that place was distant now, untouched by the chaos, insulated from the worn-out promises and the endless cycles of guilt. I wasn’t the woman who fell for the poor-me, brooding cowboy act anymore. I wasn’t swayed by the storm in his eyes or the way he made rebellion seem like a personality trait.

At some point, his unpredictability had stopped feeling thrilling. It had just started feeling exhausting.

Girls, Gone

Within a week Briony and I moved to Brindleton Bay.

She and I settled in quickly. She was thriving. Sure, she missed Grandma and Grandpa and Uncle Connor but trust me—she was not afraid to use her cell phone to stay connected. Every day I caught her in a video call, showing them something she deemed life-altering.

She had her dad’s phone number and I know she sent him the occasional text but calling Jackson was mostly pointless. He had never been one to really ever answer. In part cos reception was hit and miss out in the boonies where he lived, and in part cos he didn’t hear his phone or simply forgot it.

Brad, meanwhile, was doing amazing with the change—more than that, he was blossoming. I had to think of the texts he showed me from Molly, always complaining he never smiled or if he did, he looked constipated. Guys, no. Brad looked like an ad for toothpaste half the time now.

Having us there, having this—a home, a family, a future—had brought out something in him, something I couldn’t help but adore. I still catch him staring at the kids and me occasionally, as if trying to gauge whether it’s all just a dream. And when reality settles in, when he realizes it’s real, a smile spreads across his face, slow and unguarded—one of those soft, utterly sincere smiles that make my heart squeeze.

And then? He usually makes his way over, touches me in that absentminded, affectionate way he does—a hand grazing my back, fingers brushing against mine, lips pressing lightly to my forehead.

Call him boring all you like, but to me? He is so much more.

Stable. Reliable. Predictable in the best way. If I asked him to do something, I could consider it done. No second-guessing. No wondering if he meant it. And sure, my pregnancy wasn’t a smooth ride—we had a few scares—but Brad being, you know, a brilliant surgeon, meant things never escalated. Not perfect, but nowhere near the chaos of my first pregnancy. I spent most of that on bedrest. No thanks.

It’s not just that he handles things—it’s that he handles me. My life. Our life. Like it’s his to care for, and in the best way possible, it is.

Brad’s kids were doing great too. It was still a process—learning each other’s rhythms, navigating the subtle shifts in routine—but there was something undeniable in the way they embraced it. They felt the change, the shift in their father’s life, and rather than resist it, they leaned in. They liked me and they liked Briony, so aside from the hiccups that could be expected, it went relatively smooth.

Brad and I were careful not to overstep when it came to each other’s kids, but before long, they started turning to us—the non-parent—for help. Like the day Brad was trapped on an endless work call, and Graham needed a ride to his sailing lessons—without hesitation, he came to me. And when Briony took a nasty fall, scraping up her knee, she ran straight to Brad, tear-soaked and sniffling. Graham, puzzled, asked why she hadn’t come to me instead. Through her hiccuping breaths, in her signature dramatic ways, Briony shot back, “I’m bleeding out and your dad’s a doctor. Duh.”

It wasn’t perfect. Some days, the blending felt effortless—laughter over meals, easy conversations, a shared sense of belonging. Other days, the adjustment felt heavier, quieter, like they were still trying to figure out where they fit in the new equation. But even then, there was a kind of silent understanding, an unspoken agreement between all of us that this was real, that this was ours.

Somehow, we were becoming a real family.

Adjusting. Settling in. Growing together.

That summer, my parents and siblings visited a few times, bringing with them the comforting weight of familiarity in this new chapter of my life. When Connor, Chris, and my dad heard about Brad’s attempt at a treehouse, they wasted no time jumping in to help him and Graham. By the time they packed up and headed home, the treehouse stood finished—overlooking the Bay and the lighthouse. You know, the one where it all started.

Even Beau came back—this time of his own accord. He asked, and surprisingly, Jackson allowed it. His presence was grounding, a quiet reassurance that no matter how much my world shifted, some ties remained unshaken. He kept Brad on his toes with endless horse trivia and constantly begged him to take him riding along the beach and through the Bay. Beau was never easy to connect with, but horses had bridged that gap in a way little else could.

Not Jackson, though. No sign of life. No calls, no returned texts—just silence.

The only proof I had that he was okay came from Connor or Beau—brief updates, passing mentions, like fragments of someone who had once been central to my world but now existed just beyond reach. A specter of the past, significant once, yet no longer woven into the life I was building. Connor checked in on him often enough, so at least I knew he was fine.

High Society

Brad wasted absolutely no time throwing me into the deep end of Brindleton Bay’s elite. And when I say no time, I mean—

“Hey, come with me to my Gentlemen of the Bay meeting. No, wait, let me rephrase that. Dress up, you ARE coming with me.”

I didn’t even have time to argue. Brad choose one of my dresses and tossed it at me. Before I knew it, I was walking into a room full of men—all men—their tailored suits and polished shoes practically gleaming under the chandelier light.

The moment I stepped in, the air shifted. You know, in that gulp’ kinda way. Conversations paused mid-sentence, heads turned, and I swear, a few of them straightened their ties like they were suddenly under inspection.

It wasn’t hostility, not exactly. More like… discomfort. Surprise. Like they weren’t sure what to do with me, the woman Brad had just casually dragged into their sacred, testosterone-filled space.

And me? I wasn’t sure what to do with myself either.

I felt their eyes on me—curious, cautious, maybe even a little impressed—but Brad? He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care. He was too busy introducing me, his hand resting lightly on my back, his tone warm and confident, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Gentlemen, meet Briar Rose.”

The mother of his unborn son. His bride. His future. That was how he introduced me.

And just like that, I was there. In their world. Causing a stir without even trying.
Brad didn’t just introduce me to high society—he integrated me, seamlessly, effortlessly, like I had always been meant to stand beside him. Among the Old Guard, impossible to get in, even for a family like mine, affluent, famous. Yet, here I was, the performing artist among all those people.

It wasn’t just about showing up at events. It was the way he timed things perfectly, weaving me into conversations at just the right moment, sliding my presence into the dialogue without hesitation. No awkward interruptions, no forced transitions—just an expert maneuvering of social dynamics, making it feel as though I had always belonged.

And slowly, inevitably, we built something.

We went to events. Made connections. Established presence.

I built presence.

And oh, the drama. Chef’s kiss.

Like that one plot twist—where Robert Claiborne showed up at a charity event. Yeah, you know the name: Brad’s ex-wife’s infamous, long-term affair. That guy.

Only, the real shocker wasn’t even running into him. It was who was with him. Spoiler alert: wasn’t Molly.

The woman at his side was stunning, visibly pregnant, and effortlessly radiant. A renowned couture model by the name of Catalina Velasco, celebrated for her collaborations with high-end designers—Ralph Lauren, European fashion houses, the biggest names in the industry. She was tall, drop-dead gorgeous, of Selvadorian descent, with flawless caramel skin and the kind of commanding elegance that made her look like she belonged on the cover of Vogue.

So, I guess Molly didn’t claw her way into the Old Guard after all.

Whoops.

Well, what goes around … and good for me—she and I would inevitably cross paths and I had no illusions, it would be unpleasant. However, I dodged that bullet for now. At some point, our paths will cross. After all, I’m technically her kids’ stepmother.

Can’t say I’m looking forward to it. But… oh well.

Funny enough, I’d known Robert since school days—he remembered me well. We hadn’t really run in the same circles back then, but time had shaped him into the quintessential tall, dark, and handsome hedge-fund type—stylish, mysterious, effortlessly self-assured. Surprisingly pleasant company, too.

He had all the markings of a former player, but the glint of a rock on his date’s ring finger said those days were firmly behind him. I’d wager she’d be Catalina Claiborne before that baby was born. And I wouldn’t mind running into her again. I liked her.

And Brad? Zero grudges. You’d think they were old friends the way they talked—like nothing had ever happened.

The Lighthouse

And then came the day.

Brad and I—along with the kids—had spent weeks breathing new life into Rosebriar Haven, shaping it into a home that truly fit us all. But Brad knew when to pull me away, when to carve out time just for us. He always had a nanny on standby.

A late lunch—or maybe an early dinner—at Harbor Haute Cuisine, the place where our paths realigned, where the foundation of all this was quietly set in motion. Then, back to the little island. Up to the lighthouse.

I was six months pregnant now, dragging myself up every single flight of stairs, cursing every last one of them. My complaints echoed off the walls, dramatic and relentless, but when I finally stepped onto that balcony—the world cracked wide open. The view was staggering, stretching out into infinity, the lighthouse standing guard over the place where our story had truly begun.

And yet, none of it compared to what happened next.

Not the kiss—though that kiss was something else. Like Brad had reached deep into my chest and grabbed hold of my soul, pulled me against him as if the moment might slip through his fingers. It made my knees weak. It made my insides swirl. But that wasn’t the moment that stole my breath.

That happened when he dropped to one knee.

Guys. I legit thought I was dying.

For half a second, I convinced myself it was a heart attack—or maybe the baby was kicking so hard that it knocked the wind out of me. But no. No, it was just Brad, waiting, looking up at me with this certainty. Like he had known from the start, known that this was inevitable.

I swear, I stared at him like a stunned rainbow trout, mouth slightly open, brain completely offline. He nudged me—gently, like he knew I wasn’t functioning properly—before I finally snapped back to life.

I said yes.

Of course I did.

And now, even weeks later, I catch myself staring at the ring he gave me—understated, elegant, chosen with me in mind. But let’s be real… it had to have cost as much as a small house.

How Did We Get Here?

Ha. A year ago, I was signing divorce papers, swearing off men entirely, telling myself never again.

Now? Now I was engaged. Pregnant. Standing on the edge of a life I never saw coming.

And in the midst of parading my ring around during a visit home—while taking Brad’s kids to see San Sequoia—we all just… decided.

Why wait?

As my mom so aptly put it, everything had happened at warp speed so far, so why slow down now? Right?

Sure, let’s throw together a Brindleton Bay-worthy wedding in a couple of weeks. Not like that’s difficult or anything.

Then again, with my legacy and Brad’s? Impossible was never really in our vocabulary.

Still—wild.

Not at all what I thought my life would look like seven, eight months ago. Not even close.

I barely had time to process that little revelation before—

Knock.

The soft rap on the door pulled me back to reality.

I was still here, still standing before the mirror, still staring at… her. A new Bri. A different Bri. A Bri on the cusp of something irreversible.

The door creaked open, and there she was. My mother. Familiar blonde waves. Sharp, knowing eyes.

“Mom,” I murmured, my grip tightening slightly around the object in my hands.

She stepped forward without hesitation, her gaze dropping to what I held. And in true Hailey fashion, she said nothing.

Instead, she took it from me, quiet and precise, and—

Placed it on my head.

The metal was cool against my scalp.

And that’s when I turned to the mirror—when I saw.

The tiara I had been holding. The veil. The dress. The bride. Me.

Oh. OH.

My mother pulled me close, hugged me the way only a mother can—warm, steady, grounding.

She kissed my cheek softly, like she had when I was little. And then, barely a whisper—

“It’s time, darling.”

The Big Day

This was not some rushed, slapdash wedding thrown together with reckless abandon.

No, this was an event.

Despite the whirlwind pace, Brad had secured the best wedding planner in the business—someone with the skill, the connections, the sheer audacity to pull off something magnificent in mere weeks. And they delivered.

Not a tacky little prairie chapel with uneven wooden floors and dim lighting. Not some hastily arranged elopement in Tartosa, dressed up to look effortless while actually just being cheap and uninspired. No—this was a wedding that mattered.

The kind where invitations carried weight. Where gold décor wasn’t just gold-colored—it was actual gold leaf. Where guests weren’t just invited—they were summoned, expected to arrive in nothing less than their absolute finest.

Everyone was going to be there.

The entire Old Guard.

My family, the ones who had shaped me, stood by me, witnessed every messy moment that had led to this one.

Brad’s family, his mother and her new husband.

Connor had even managed to rope in Jack and Stryker—with their families in tow, much to teenage Chris’ delight, considering he was still very much entangled in his long-distance romance with Stryker’s daughter, Indigo Blu.

Yes—everyone would be there.

Everyone except one.

Jackson.

He had done his part. He had dropped off Beau with my parents, ensuring my son could be here for my wedding, making sure he wouldn’t miss this milestone.

And then? Before my mom could so much as attempt to convince him otherwise, he was gone.

Straight back to his ranch.

No calls. No lingering goodbyes. No last words.

Just silence.

Oh well. I really still cared a lot about him and had hoped we could be something resembling friends. Guess not. Or maybe he needed more time. I barely had time to process that ache before the moment swallowed me whole.

Because suddenly, I was the bride.

And my gown?

It was everything.

Not just beautiful—a statement. A masterpiece designed for a woman who could own a room with effortless grace, for someone who moved with purpose, who carried herself with quiet power.

Somehow, I had become that woman.

This dress was not for a bride meant to be delicate, but for a woman who could command a room with quiet confidence. A woman who understood that beauty was not found in fragility, but in self-possession—in knowing exactly who she had become.

Rather than hide my undeniable pregnancy—thirty-two weeks and change now—the gown embraced it, molding to me as if it had been crafted for this very moment. It highlighted my bump in just the right way, accentuating rather than concealing, striking that balance between strength and softness.

A sleek mermaid silhouette, the satin clinging to every curve, structured yet fluid—commanding yet undeniably feminine.

The bodice—intricately embellished—whispered of fine craftsmanship, a delicate shimmer catching the light as I moved, as if stitched from fragments of starlight itself. Hand-placed crystals, subtle but deliberate, wove across the fabric—not just to shine, but to captivate.

Sleeveless, it framed my décolletage with elegant precision, sculpting the lines of my body and revealing just enough skin—neither too bold nor too modest. A nod to timeless elegance, touched with modern edge.

And then, the skirt.

It did not drown me in tulle, did not force me into excess. Instead, it wrapped me, then flared with precision, cascading behind me in liquid silk—an extension of movement, of presence, rather than ornamentation.

This was not a dress for delicate bows and whispered vows.

It was meant for grandeur.

For a bride who stepped forward without hesitation, who did not shrink but stood taller, surer—who met the future on her own terms.

I was Briar Rose Cameron.

I was stepping into my next chapter as someone unforgettable.

As Mrs. Briar Rose Cunningham.

Descending the grand staircase, I walked arm in arm with my mother, her warmth steady, grounding, an anchor in the midst of this whirlwind.

Gasps met us.
Applause.
Then—pride.

My dad, Chase, stepped forward, emotion thick in his eyes. Connor and Keira exchanged a knowing glance, their son Chris visibly awestruck—though he’d never admit it. Iris, my twin, grinned through pregnancy exhaustion, clutching Jasper’s hand as he balanced their toddler, Anastasia, on one hip.

And the kids—all four of them—stood wide-eyed.

Transformed.

This was their moment, too.

As everyone scattered toward their respective rides, my parents and I were led to the sleek, black limousine awaiting us.

But just before I could step in—

A quiet throat-clearing.

Whitaker.

Brad’s butler. His loyal butler. The one who had been there before I ever entered the picture.

He stood just a step away. Still. His usual composure faltering—just barely.
“You look…” He exhaled, shaking his head, as if words couldn’t quite capture the weight of this moment. “…absolutely beautiful.”

His voice was quiet. Steady. Filled with something just shy of reverence.
Then—another pause. His expression softened.

“I have known Master Brad since he was a boy. It hasn’t always been easy for him. But you…” He stopped, studying me. “You’re good for Master Brad. I never thought I’d see him like this. It’s like he’s… new. A better version of himself.”

The silence stretched—not empty, but full.

Then, with a respectful nod, he gestured toward the open limousine door.

“Go,” he said, voice gentle, certain. “Make it official. Be the Mrs. Cunningham who will change the course of this family for good.”

I hugged him.

You’re not supposed to. But he let me.

Because this wasn’t just a wedding.

This was a turning point.

For all of us.

Going To The Chapel

The drive led us through winding roads, past towering oaks, the world shifting with each turn—until we arrived.

The chapel stood before us, steeped in legacy, its whitewashed walls stark against the dark roof, a contrast as striking as the history within. Time had shaped it, cradled it, refused to let it decay. It was pristine—not with hollow perfection, but with the weight of years, of stories carved into stone, of whispered prayers sealed into its very foundation. Sunlight fractured through stained glass, sending ribbons of color sprawling across polished pews, dancing with the flickering glow of candlelight.

It was perfectly adorned—soft white florals draped in elegant arrangements, candelabras burning with an almost holy warmth, an ambiance woven with prestige, tradition, reverence.

And then—the music began.

“Here Comes the Bride.”

The first chords spilled into the air, rich and full, swelling through the chapel like something ancient, something ordained. It was more than ceremony—it was declaration, a call to witness, a cue that the moment had arrived. The strings carried the melody in perfect precision, an echo of tradition, a thread woven into generations of love stories before mine.

My father extended his arm.

I took it.

And as my foot touched the aisle, the world shifted.

Every pair of eyes turned toward me.

My old friends. The Old Guard. My family.

I took them all in. But when I lifted my gaze to Brad—

The universe stilled.

Everything. Fell. Into. Place.

The ceremony itself—classic, timeless, sacred—unfolded like something suspended in time. Every vow, every word, rose into the vaulted ceiling, stretching outward before settling deep into the stillness.

Nothing rushed. Nothing lost.

Each promise carried. Reverberated. Filled the chapel, wrapping itself around me, weaving into me, into us, like something eternal.

“For as long as we both shall live.”

The words lingered, folding into the silence, sealing themselves into memory.

“With all that I am, and all that I have, I am yours.”

I stared into Brad’s blue eyes—depthless, unwavering, steady.

I had never doubted him. Never questioned that he was mine, and I was his.

But here—here—with the echoes of our vows settling into the very bones of this place, with his hands clasping mine, his voice giving weight to words meant only for me—it felt like the last puzzle piece slipping into place.

A vow. Not just spoken. But felt. Breathed. Irrevocable.

My husband.

Mine.

Forever.

We kissed.

And this time—it wasn’t just real.

It was absolute.

This was going to be my last wedding ever.

The Reception

And then—the reception.

A grand event hosted at The Silvercrest, the city’s most elite indoor-outdoor country and yacht club, renowned for its pristine waterfront views, sprawling ballrooms, and terraces that overlooked the marina like something out of a dream.

This was not a wedding where guests sat stiffly at banquet tables, making polite conversation over lukewarm champagne.

This was a celebration.

Elegance. Luxury. Laughter.

Everything my first two weddings to Jackson had not been.

Brad, forever the avid dancer, wasted no time pulling me into the center of the floor for our first dance—a moment that didn’t feel like the beginning of something new but rather a continuation of what had always been.

The music swelled.

Sinatra. Of course. Brad’s love for oldies, which I fully supported as it somehow suited him well.

“The Way You Look Tonight.”

Some day, when I’m awfully low
When the world is cold
I will feel a glow just thinking of you
And the way you look tonight

Yes, you’re lovely, with your smile so warm
And your cheeks so soft
There is nothing for me but to love you
And the way you look tonight

With each word your tenderness grows
Tearin’ my fear apart
And that laugh wrinkles your nose
Touches my foolish heart

Lovely, never never change
Keep that breathless charm
Won’t you please arrange it? ‘Cause I love you
Just the way you look tonight

His voice, smooth, timeless, filled the space, weaving into the glow of candlelight, the shimmer of gold accents, the hum of conversation fading into quiet reverence.

And as we moved—effortless, like we’d done this a thousand times before—I knew, with absolute certainty.

Somewhere in the background, Frank Sinatra’s crooning slipped away, fading into something softer, something even more intimate.

A familiar melody.

Dean Martin’s “You Belong to Me.”

“I’ll be so alone without you
Maybe you’ll be lonesome too and blue
Fly the ocean in a silver plane
See the jungle when it’s wet with rain
Just remember til you’re home again
You belong to me…”

The shift was subtle, yet undeniable—like the night itself was leaning in, listening, setting the stage for something even more profound.

And as we moved, as the music wrapped around us, it was a dream.

This wasn’t just a wedding.

It was our wedding.

So perfect.

Ahhhhhh.

And then—

It happened.

At first, just a twinge. A deep, curling pressure low in my belly that made me inhale sharply. I brushed it off, ignored it—until it struck again.

Harder.

I stumbled, gripping Brad’s arms as my knees threatened to buckle.

His brows furrowed, concern flashing in his eyes. “Bri?”

A wave of nausea crashed into me. My pulse hammered. Before I could form words, heat bloomed between my legs.

A hot gush.

And then—

Panic.

I froze, staring at Brad, his voice distant, I could see his lips move, the concerned glances of everyone around us, my family’s wide-eyed stares, I could hear Brad speaking without understanding what he was saying, muffled, as if it came from behind thick cotton wool. The room tilted, faces blurred.

A collective gasp rippled through the space as I lifted the hem of my gown.

And saw it.

Blood.

Brad’s expression changed instantly—concern snapping into sharp, full-blown fear.

“Bri,” he said again, tighter, voice edged with urgency.

The pain surged, gripping me like a vice, forcing a choked breath past my lips. A rush of movement surrounded me—guests rising, voices clashing, someone calling my name.

And then—

Connor. My brother.

Donovan Banks, my cousin—my neighbor now, ever present in our new life by the beach.

Both doctors. Both seeing exactly what was happening.

“Brad, we need to move—now.”

Connor didn’t wait. Didn’t hesitate. He scooped me into his arms, muscles taut with urgency, started running.

And that—

That was the last thing I remembered before darkness took me.

The Emergency – A Race Against Time

Chaos.

The ride to the hospital was a blur of flashing lights, rushed words, and the crushing grip of uncertainty.

Brad’s hold on my hand was tight, unyielding, his voice a steady murmur against the storm.

“Breathe, sweetheart. Stay with me. I’m right here.”

His palm brushed my cheek, grounding, urgent—trying to pull me back, trying to keep me present.

But I was fading, slipping, caught in something bigger than me.

The contractions—relentless. Too soon. Too fast. Too wrong.

The moment we burst through the ER doors, everything ignited.

Doctors. Nurses. Urgency crackling in the air.

Everyone knew Brad. Donovan worked here. And Connor—Connor wasn’t leaving. They had no choice but to let him stay.

I caught fragments—snippets of conversations slipping through the haze—

“Placental abruption.” “Rapid fetal distress.” “Prep for emergency C-section.”

Brad. Connor. Donovan. Already scrubbing in, expertise overriding everything—family ties, emotions, fear.

One mission.

Save me. Save Nathaniel.

I barely managed to whisper it—

“I love you.”

To Brad. To the last thing I could hold onto.

Then—

Darkness.

The Awakening

Soft murmurs. The rhythmic beep of monitors. A warm haze of light filtering through the room, softened by sheer curtains, casting a gentle glow that seemed almost otherworldly.

I stirred, my mind slow, heavy, wrapped in fog.

The first thing I saw—my mother.

Hailey. Sitting beside me, book in hand, her posture calm, her expression serene. The light fell around her like a halo, framing her in a way that made her seem less like a woman and more like an angel, sent to watch over me.

She was too composed for someone who had just endured this nightmare, her strength radiating in quiet waves.

And in that moment, I felt it—the unshakable bond between us. The love that had carried me through every storm, every turning point, and now, this.

“Mom…” My voice was a rasp, strained, barely mine.

She looked up immediately, the quiet rustle of pages breaking the silence as she closed the book, her gaze steady, reassuring.

Then, she leaned in—kissed my forehead, her touch impossibly soft, lingering with quiet strength.

Her thumb brushed over my cheek, familiar and warm, followed by a small, knowing smile.

The book rested beside her now, but her hand found mine, pressing gently, anchoring me before the panic could pull me under.

“Hello sweetheart.”

But the fog was lifting too fast. Too sharp, too sudden.

And then—panic.

It clawed up my throat, twisting, gripping.

“Mom—my baby?”

I reached down, my breath catching.

Felt it instantly.

The change.

The absence.

The weight that wasn’t the same.

Mom’s features softened, warmth flooding into her expression like a balm, soothing even before she spoke.

She slid her hand over mine, steady and sure, an anchor in the storm.

“Calm, sweetheart. He’s fine. And soooo handsome. A tiny little heartbreaker.”

Relief crashed into me, so fast it stole the breath from my lungs.

A gasping inhale. A shaky exhale.

Tears burned behind my eyes, threatening to spill over.

She knew—I could feel her knowing, the deep, unspoken understanding only a mother could offer.

She leaned in, wrapped me in careful arms, just tight enough to tether me, to hold me here in the safety of her presence.

And I let it settle.

Just for a moment.

“Mom, where’s Daddy?”

She exhaled, shaking her head with fond exasperation, her lips pulling into a knowing smile.

“Oh, he was here until half an hour ago. I sent him home with Connor—he was up pacing all night, driving me nuts with it. He needed a nappy and a binkie.”

A small, tired laugh slipped past my lips.

“He’ll be back, you better believe it,” she added, amusement lacing her tone. “The moment I text him you’re awake, he’ll show up like the Roadrunner.”

Then—

Something caught my eye.

A plastic bag.

Tucked into the corner.

And peeking out from inside—

A ruined mess of blood-stained ivory.

My stomach twisted.

I swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper.

“Mom… is that my wedding gown?”

She paused, exhaling slowly before nodding.

“Yeah. They had to cut it off. There was no time to be careful. Sorry, baby, it’s a goner. But we have all the precious photos of you in it.”

I said nothing.

Just stared.

The moment weighted itself across my chest—thick, suffocating.

My beautiful gown.

The last thing I wore before everything unraveled.

But the truth settled quickly, with a quiet kind of clarity.

It was never meant to be passed down through generations.

It wasn’t that kind of dress.

It was a statement, a reflection of love and belonging, of second chances, of how life throws curves, and how it’s always our choice what to do with them.

It had served its purpose.

And now—it was gone.

Not lost, not taken, just… done.

Like an unspoken closure, stitching the past into something final.

And maybe, just maybe, that was how it was always meant to end.

Because life had a way of proving you wrong.

When I was sixteen, they told me I couldn’t have kids.

And now—I had three.

Two unexpected pregnancies.

Twins.

And now, Nathaniel.

But even that wasn’t the full truth.

Because it wasn’t just three.

It was five.

Brad’s children—two more lives entwined with mine, two more hearts that had somehow found their way into my world. They still called me Bri, not Mom, but the bond was there, felt, understood in ways that didn’t need words.

Five children.

A family I never imagined.

Life didn’t follow straight lines. It curved, it twisted, it threw you into the unknown.

But maybe that was the point.

Maybe it was never about predicting the future.

Maybe it was about embracing it.

A pause. A squeeze. A knowing, motherly smirk.

“It’s gonna be okay, sweetie. Everything is going to be just fine.”

And somehow, despite everything, I believed her.

Yes. Everything was going to be fine. Better than fine.

Then—

Mom cleared her throat.

“So, there is more to tell. Iris had her baby too. I’m sure Brad can take you over to say hi later. That entire family was sleeping, last I heard. Long night, for all of us.”

I blinked.

“That’s why nobody had time to worry about your gown and why Daddy and everyone is dead-tired. Your dad and I, and your brother were practically tearing ourselves in halves trying to be by two delivery rooms at the same time. This was quite the night, baby. Your sister is fine, already feisty, I had to wrestle her damn cell phone away from her. The baby is fine, another handsome heartbreaker, and the baby daddy is just as obnoxious as ever. If Jasper weren’t so friggin’ adorable I would have kicked him in the rear several times, I tell you what.”

I let out a soft, tired exhale, the words curling around my thoughts, layering themselves into everything else.

I leaned back to let that sink in. Iris had been in town for my wedding—not to have her baby. But she’d been so close to full term, maybe the excitement of seeing her sister collapse triggered something, and now, she had Tate.

Born the same day as Nathaniel.

Iris and I were real twins. Our sons, birthday twins.

Nate and Tate.

Funny how life works.

I could already hear Jasper, Tate’s dad, whining about how his precious son had been born in Brindleton Bay and not Del Sol Valley, where they lived—like a birth certificate could rewrite destiny. Jasper was an actor, and I just knew he was dreaming of his two kids following in his footsteps.

Two lives beginning at the same time, yet unfolding into completely different worlds.

I didn’t say anything, just let it settle—the quiet weight of it.

Maybe it wasn’t coincidence.

Maybe it was just how life worked—throwing curves, shifting timelines, intertwining paths in ways no one expected.

Maybe it was never about choosing who was meant to be connected.

Maybe it was about accepting that, sometimes, we just are.

Mom squeezed my hand—a pause, a knowing, motherly smirk.
“It’s gonna be okay, sweetie. Everything is going to be just fine.”

And somehow, despite everything—despite loss, change, and the breathtaking chaos of this night—I believed her.

Yes. Everything was going to be fine.

Better than fine.

Meeting Nathaniel

Brad arrived not long after, his presence instantly grounding, steady in a way that made it easier to breathe. His eyes—red-rimmed, exhausted—overflowed with sheer love.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead.

I let out a weak, breathy laugh.

“Scared myself too.”

Despite the heaviness in my body, I reached up, curling my fingers into his shirt, anchoring myself to him, to something solid.

“My baby,” I whispered. “I need to see him.”

Brad nodded, already prepared.

With Mom’s help, he guided me gently, hands careful, controlled—helping me sit up, easing me into the wheelchair despite my frustration at the pace.

“Slow, sweetheart. You’re still healing.”

I barely had the strength to argue.

But every ounce of impatience vanished the second we entered the NICU.

And there—small, fragile, but strong in ways I couldn’t fathom—lay Nathaniel.

My son.

Our son.

I sucked in a breath, heart twisting with a love so overwhelming I could barely contain it.

Brad crouched beside me, watching my every reaction.

“He’s perfect, Bri. Just like you.” His voice was steady, sure, but soft—reverent.

“He needs to rest, but he’s strong. He’s breathing well with a little oxygen support, and his doctors are happy with how he’s doing. He just needs time to grow.”

I barely heard anything past “strong.”

Brad stood beside my wheelchair, watching the way I ached to reach for Nathaniel.

“Okay, sweetheart, here’s the deal.” His voice was low, warm, trying to steady me. “Nathaniel will be here for a few weeks, just until he’s a little bigger, but he’s doing well.”

I swallowed, pulse loud in my ears.

“Can I touch him?”

Brad exhaled, a soft smile flickering at the corner of his lips.

“Actually, yeah. Just gently, through the incubator for now. And soon, we’ll let you do skin-to-skin with him—means holding him, it’s good for both of you. He’s stable enough that we want him to feel you close.”

My breath shuddered.

“Can I hold him now? Just once? Just a little moment?”

“Not quite yet,” Brad admitted, brushing his fingers lightly along my arm. “But soon. And when he’s ready, it’ll be the best thing for him. He’s strong, Bri. He’s going to be okay.”

Tears burned behind my eyes, but this time—they weren’t just fear.

They were relief.

“And then?”

Brad’s smile deepened.

“And then, when he’s big enough, we take him home, Mrs. Cunningham.”

The words settled around me, warm, certain.

“Oh my God! I am the worst mother ever! Where are my kids!?”

Brad chuckled, shaking his head.

“Relax, Bri. Your family’s got them. They’re at the estate with mine, having fun. Connor, Donovan, your parents and I explained everything. They know you’re okay.”

I exhaled, tension easing.

Because even in all this uncertainty—I wasn’t alone.

And that mattered more than anything.

Brad crouched beside me, his hands steadying the wheelchair as he spoke, his voice low and calm, the way only a doctor could manage in moments like this.

“Okay, sweetheart, before you touch him, we need to make sure everything’s perfect. NICU rules.”

He rose up and reached for the small dispenser mounted on the wall, pumping a generous amount of hand sanitizer into his palms. The sharp, clean scent filled the air as he rubbed it in with practiced precision, his movements quick but thorough.

Then, he turned to me, his blue eyes softening as he held out his hands.

“Your turn.”

I extended my trembling hands, and he gently pumped the sanitizer into my palms, his fingers brushing mine for just a moment—a grounding touch.

“Rub it in, all the way up to your wrists,” he instructed, his tone warm but firm. “We’re keeping him safe, Bri. Every little step matters.”

I followed his lead, the cool gel tingling against my skin as I worked it in. Brad watched me closely, his gaze flicking between my hands and my face, as if gauging whether I was ready.

When I finished, he reached for a box of sterile gloves on the counter.

“No. You’re his mom. It’ll be fine,” he decided.

He wheeled me closer to the incubator, his movements slow, deliberate, as though he understood the enormity of what was about to happen.

And then—there he was.

Nathaniel.

So small, so impossibly delicate, his tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm that seemed almost too fragile for this world. His skin was pink and soft, his little hands curled into fists no bigger than my thumb.

“Go ahead,” Brad whispered, crouching beside me again. “Just touch his hand. Let him feel you.”

I hesitated, my fingers hovering just above Nathaniel’s tiny fist. My breath caught in my throat, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure Brad could hear it.

“It’s okay,” Brad said, his voice steady, grounding. “He’s ready for you, Bri. And you’re ready for him.”

I exhaled shakily and lowered my hand, brushing the tip of my finger against Nathaniel’s.

The moment our skin connected something inside me shifted.

His tiny fingers twitched, curling instinctively around mine, and I let out a soft, broken laugh, tears spilling over before I could stop them.

“He knows you,” Brad murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “He knows his mom.”

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t do anything but stare at my son, my heart swelling with a love so fierce it felt like it might break me.

Brad’s hand rested lightly on my shoulder, his presence steady, grounding, as I sat there, connected to Nathaniel in a way that words could never capture.

In that moment, the world outside the NICU faded away.

It was just us.

Brad, me and our son.

And for the first time since everything had unraveled, I felt whole.

The hospital walls had become familiar—the rhythmic beep of monitors, the sterile scent of antiseptic, the quiet shuffle of nurses moving through the halls. It wasn’t home, but it was safe, holding me in this space between past and future as my body worked its way back to strength.

Days Later…

And today, finally—after days of waiting, days of aching—I could hold him.

Really hold him.

No wires, no barriers, no nurses guiding me through the fragile caution of NICU care.

Just me. My baby.

Brad wheeled me closer, his movements careful, practiced, his voice gentle.

“He’s ready, Mom. Let’s get him in your arms.”

Mom.

It still caught me off guard sometimes.

And then—he was in my arms.

Warm. Small. Perfect.

I pressed my cheek against the delicate softness of his forehead, inhaling the quiet, precious scent of him. Felt the rhythm of his breath against me, the faint weight of his body finally resting where he belonged.

Brad sat beside me, his hand resting over mine, his presence felt, grounding me in the silence.

And suddenly—

Everything made sense.

Every twist.

Every curve life had thrown at me.

When I was sixteen, they told me I couldn’t have kids.

Now—I had three.

Five, really.

Because Brad’s children were mine, too—not by blood, not by name, but in every way that mattered.

And as I cradled my son against me, as his fingers twitched in his sleep, as the weight of him became real in my arms—

I knew.

Life wasn’t meant to be predictable.

It was meant to be lived.

Six Weeks Later

The house had settled.

The first day of school for the kids.

The intensity of the hospital stay had faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of family life—a new normal that was louder, messier, and somehow even more full than before.

Nathaniel was thriving, growing stronger by the day.

And I, somehow, had learned how to do everything one-handed while holding a baby.

The scent of marinara and garlic butter lingered in the air, entwining with the crisp bite of fresh basil from the estate’s greenhouse—a quiet indulgence that had long since become second nature here. Cooking with Brad was a tradition, rooted in the warmth of our teenage years. He was the reason I once took lessons—an earnest attempt to impress him at sixteen, despite coming from a lineage of women for whom domestic mastery was an afterthought.

Now, in our thirties, it’s more than habit. It’s ritual. Cherished. Ours.

The polished mahogany dining table gleamed beneath the chandelier’s golden embrace, its crystal adornments scattering light like stardust. Fine bone china—Cunningham heirlooms, monogrammed with generations of history—stood meticulously arranged, a silent testament to time and tradition.

Brad leaned against the window frame, his silhouette outlined by the golden light, watching me with that too-confident, too-pleased-with-himself grin.

“Put the boobie away, baby—here they come. The hurricane has arrived home from school. In three, two—”

The door slammed open, Butler Whitaker barely managing a polite greeting before three voices crashed into the house all at once.

“Starving! Hi Dad, Bri, Nate! What’s for lunch?”

I had just pulled my shirt back down and was carefully burping Nathaniel when Graham barreled into the kitchen first, all energy, all middle school intensity, already eyeing the food like he hadn’t eaten in months.

Lauren followed close behind, her backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, rolling her eyes.

“You just ate, Graham.”

“I ate a Snickers. That’s nothing. My body is growing. I am becoming a man.”

“Snickers clearly are false advertising. You’re still grumpy. And delusional.”

“You would be too if you suddenly had two sisters. Can’t wait for Nate to grow up into actual help with the testosterone imbalance in this house! Speaking of, my 13th birthday is coming up, and I want Beau here. Can someone try calling or sending smoke signals or carrier pigeons or whatever works for his dad to agree?”

Briony, bringing up the rear, slid into the chair next to Lauren, her movements deliberate, her expression thoughtful.

“Maybe Graham has a tapeworm,” she joked, the girls giggling.

Graham scoffed, grabbing a buttered dinner roll from the gold-trimmed serving tray.

“I don’t have parasites inside of me, just across the table from me.”

Nathaniel stirred, squirming slightly against my shoulder, making his tiny, protesting baby noises—his own version of an announcement.

“And him?” Graham asked, already shoveling food into his mouth. “Does he get lunch?”

Brad smirked, pulling up a chair beside me.

“He just had his, kiddo. Unlike you, he doesn’t stuff his face randomly with unhealthy food options like Snickers.”

Lauren sighed.

“Graham has been eating all day. Might be pregnant.”

“Not the way he approaches girls. That was soooo sad, Graham, you trying to be smooth with Brittney. Ouch.”

“I wasn’t trying to be smooth. Just … polite. Like Dad.” Graham grumbled, his ears turning awfully red again.

Briony swallowed her bite, already switching the conversation tracks before the debate could fully spiral.

“Mom—Brad—can Nate come for school pickup tomorrow? I want to show him off.”

I huffed a tired laugh, adjusting Nathaniel against me as I finally sat down.

“Sweetheart, he’s not exactly ready to do a school tour. We need to limit exposure for a little while longer.”

Brad leaned in, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

“We’ll bring him by soon,” he promised, winking at Briony. “Let him get a little bigger first, then he can meet all your friends.”

Nathaniel let out a tiny hiccup, his entire little body twitching slightly with the effort.

Graham, watching closely, tilted his head.

“Did… did he just flex?”

Lauren sighed again.

“Oh my god.”

Brad laughed, shaking his head.

“Welcome home, baby Nate. You’re officially in the madness now.”

And as I finally took a bite of my own food, Brad gently rocking our son while entertaining the kids, I was surrounded by laughter, ridiculous conversation, and the feeling of absolute completeness.

I realized—

This was exactly what life was supposed to feel like. This felt like meals with my crazy family.

I had managed to bring the Cameron-crazy into this Cunningham household, and everyone was the better for it.

A perfect fusion.

And as if the universe itself knew what kind of moment this was—

“At Last” hummed softly in the background over the ambient speakers, filling the space with something timeless, something perfect.

Brad met my gaze across the table.

A slow, knowing grin.

A wink.

And in that instant, with music weaving through laughter, with home settling around us, everything felt—

Exactly right.