Uprooted

Brindleton Bay gleamed under the morning light, its wealth quietly omnipresent—the kind passed through generations, reflected in stately homes perched on the cliffs and crisp white yachts lining the harbor. The cobbled streets were immaculate, leading to a downtown where exclusivity wasn’t just implied; it was enforced. Every storefront, every boutique, every artfully preserved colonial façade whispered legacy and refinement.

Maeve Cameron walked through it all, the measured click of her heels on pavement oddly hollow—a sad drumroll in a tragic play, underscoring the loneliness of its protagonist.

She looked the part.

The shimmer of chestnut hair catching bronze at the edges. The quiet elegance of understated tailoring, fabrics draped to perfection—expensive, but never loud about it. The warmth of her brown eyes, light in ways that hinted at something unreadable, ungraspable, thoughts too quick for words.

She smelled like amber and wild jasmine, subtle but lingering—something soft but unmistakably present, the kind of scent that stayed long after she left the room.

Her voice carried depth—husky, textured, lower than most women her age, but never heavy. It was the kind of voice that made people listen, made them turn just slightly, made them wonder if they’d heard something important.

She had lived among dazzling people—Del Sol Valley royalty, glittering in their limelight, their influence so effortless it shaped the way the world turned its gaze toward them. She had roamed among actual aristocrats, watched her older brother marry into that exclusive crowd.

But Brindleton Bay was different.

Here, power wasn’t flaunted—it was cemented. It wasn’t earned through recognition but through something far older, far more immovable—history, pedigree, permanence. The people here didn’t chase wealth. They inherited it. And Maeve—despite the acceptance her name and family’s fortune afforded her—would never truly be one of them.

She had moved too many times—first Del Sol Valley, then a fleeting stint in Willow Creek, then a suburb tucked just outside San Myshuno, then Brindleton Bay, then Henfordshire, and now, here again.

Always uprooted. Always adapting. Never belonging.

And Maeve was tired.

Yet, another change had already descended upon her. Her father, Gavin, and his so-called “chronic condition”—the one that ensured he never aged—had never been much of a problem before. Their family had always kept a low profile, slipping seamlessly into different communities, careful, calculated.

But Brindleton Bay was different.

Here, legacy was tracked. Lineage was scrutinized.

Her family wasn’t old distinguished wealth. her family was rumor and scandals, and there was no room for that in Brindleton Bay.

It was conservative, deeply rooted in legacy, and its upper circles had started noticing.

“We have to move. This doesn’t feel like home.”

No room for debate. And Maeve knew they were right. They had to.
But Maeve wasn’t leaving. Not again. Not this time.

So, instead she had rented a tiny beach house—a place that was finally hers. Free of expectations. Free of constant transition. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t opulent. Most of the decorating was nearly done, small touches transforming the space into something lived in, something that finally felt permanent.

But it was hers.

Her first home on her own. Her first home at twenty-eight—an age where others were already married, raising children, settled into lives that felt structured, predictable. An age where she should feel secure, should be sure of her path, but instead, she was experiencing a first most people had experienced nearly a decade earlier.

To most people her age it was old news. To Maeve it was a beginning. One she wasn’t sure she fully trusted yet.
Exciting. Terrifying.

Mesmerized

Today—she needed to get out. The weight of frustration, loneliness, and exhaustion pressed down on her, and she needed a change of scenery.

She turned toward her favorite café, Westport Roastery on Main Street, craving the quiet reprieve it offered from the rigid structure of Brindleton Bay’s social circles.

A place where she could sit, watch people move through their carefully curated lives, gaze out at the scenic harbor, observe the ebb and flow of marine wildlife—all while sipping something dark, strong, and grounding. Yes. That was exactly what she needed. But as she reached for the door, she froze.

Briar Rose.

Her cousin sat at one of the corner tables, effortlessly poised, her warm honey blonde hair framing a pretty face, radiant in a way that came not from effort, but assurance—assurance that she belonged. She always had. Briar Rose Cunningham, née Cameron, was born to belong, with every strand of her carefully coiffed hair and perfectly tailored coat cementing her place within Brindleton’s Old Guard. Across from her, another woman Maeve vaguely recognized, one of those born into the town’s legacy rather than having earned their place within it. Their conversation was bright, animated, effortless, and Maeve could feel the invisible wall between them—between the world she had been given and the one she had lost.

She didn’t dislike her cousin, just had never been close to Briar Rose—not even back when they were children. They grew up far from one another and were just too different, never gravitating toward one another. Bri had always been outgoing, bubbly even, while Maeve had always been more withdrawn, quiet. Yin and Yang, light and darkness. Now, as young adults, fate willed them into the same town. They both were aware of one another’s presence but never spent time together unless both attended family events. Usually out of state.

Maeve swallowed hard, then stepped backward, half turning—only to collide with someone.

Solid. Warm. Impeccably dressed.

Maeve blushed, half an apology slipping out before catching sight of him. He was the kind of man this town shaped, refined. Dark hair swept back in controlled disarray, a tailored navy designer coat that screamed money, sharp eyes like storm-lit seas.

“Apologies,” he said smoothly, voice deep yet unhurried, laced with faint amusement—like a man who never had to rush for anything in his life.

Maeve straightened, withdrawing instinctively. She could already tell from the way he looked at her—assessing, intrigued—that she was different. And in Brindleton Bay, different was rarely a compliment.

She gave a curt nod, moving to step aside, but he held the door open for her instead.

“Miss Maeve Cameron,” he mused, as though testing how her name felt on his tongue. She stiffened. Of course he knew who she was. In a town like this, everyone knew.

“And you are?” she asked, words clipped.

His mouth quirked slightly—not quite a smile, but something close to amusement.

“Pierce Lockwood,” he said, as if the name required no further introduction. And, of course, it didn’t.

Lockwood—a name that carried weight in these parts, woven into the very fabric of Brindleton Bay’s history. A legacy of influence that couldn’t be bought, only inherited.

There were names everyone just knew. Cunningham. Covington. Aldridge. Claiborne. Hayworth. Whitmore. And, of course, the Lockwoods.

The Camerons, too, had long been recognized—but never truly belonged. Their wealth came from the music industry—an empire of artistry, contracts, and sound. Not land. Not lineage.

Maeve’s parents had lived here once, drawn in by the town’s beauty when she was a toddler. But it had never been home. Years later, after Maeve’s broken engagement, they returned, thinking perhaps this time would be different. But Brindleton Bay wasn’t just picturesque—it was complicated. Influence here wasn’t earned, it was inherited. And the Camerons remained outsiders in a world that thrived on exclusivity.

Again, her parents lasted just over a year before leaving. Maeve didn’t.

Her cousin Briar Rose and her twin sister had been born here; their older brother had spent his teenage years in Brindleton Bay. Their family had been present, enough to be remembered, but never fully accepted. When the twins left for college, the last Camerons moved away as well, to San Sequoia. The name remained familiar, but its hold on this town weakened—diluted by distance.

Now, Briar Rose carried the Cunningham name, securing her place among Brindleton Bay’s highest ranks. And Maeve? Determined to stay. To make it here.

The last Cameron still standing.

Maeve’s pulse flickered briefly, but she silenced the reaction just as quickly. She had no interest in the Old Guard or its polished, pedigreed men. Especially not now. Not after everything she had been through.

Men she had loved. Men she had seen forever with.

Unfortunately, they hadn’t.

She took a steadying breath and stepped into the café, the warm aroma of freshly brewed coffee and vanilla greeting her like an old friend.

Pierce followed without hesitation—his presence unfaltering, as though he had already decided he belonged at her side.

At least for this moment.

“You looked as if you were about to leave,” he observed, tone casual but perceptive.

Maeve hesitated. The truth was, she had been. Not because she particularly feared Briar Rose, but because the sight of her—the way she fit seamlessly into this world—was just another reminder of how Maeve herself felt stranded. A relic from another life. She sighed, deciding against offering explanations, and instead walked up to the counter.

Pierce, seemingly unfazed by her silence, ordered without glancing at the menu—a man who knew what he wanted. A man used to getting it.

Then, with a glance that was both unsettlingly sharp and effortlessly smooth—eyes that truly pierced through her—he turned to the barista. “…and whatever the lady is having.” His voice was low, confident, the kind that carried weight simply because it could.

Maeve blinked, caught off guard, only for Pierce to turn back to her with a wink. “My treat.”

She should have refused. She should have insisted on paying for herself, on creating whatever barrier was necessary to keep this interaction distant, inconsequential. But she didn’t.

And then, somehow, they ended up seated together.

Maeve stared at the coffee in front of her, fingers curled lightly around the warm ceramic cup, the hum of the café filling the spaces between them. Across the table, Pierce leaned back in his chair, posture effortlessly relaxed, as if this had always been the natural outcome.

She frowned slightly. “Why did I just go along with this?” she muttered, more to herself than to him.

Pierce smirked, tapping his fingers lightly against his cup. “Because saying no to me isn’t as easy as people think.”

Maeve shot him a sharp look. “That’s a rather arrogant assumption.”

He didn’t look the least bit apologetic. “Maybe. But here we are.”

She exhaled slowly, hating that he had a point. Somehow, in the span of a few minutes, she had let him dictate the course of their interaction. And she wasn’t entirely sure how it happened.

Maeve had never been one to be swept along by anyone. But Pierce Lockwood—one of Brindleton Bay’s golden heirs—had a way of making things seem inevitable.

And that unsettled her far more than she cared to admit.

Maeve found herself unexpectedly engaged in conversation with Pierce. His charm, effortless yet deliberate, made the exchange frustratingly enjoyable. She didn’t want to like talking to him, but somehow, she did—his observations sharp, his humor dry but intelligent, making it impossible for her not to fire back with quick-witted replies. The flow of their conversation was dangerously smooth, almost familiar.

And that’s exactly why, the moment her coffee cup was empty, she knew she had to leave.

She set her cup down with quiet finality, straightening ever so slightly. Pierce caught the shift, his head tilting in vague curiosity.

“I should go,” she said simply, rising to her feet.

He followed suit, but just as he was about to stand fully, Maeve lifted a hand, palm out—just enough to stop him. “Stay put, Lockwood. I am not a damsel in distress, found my way here, I can find my way home. Thanks for the coffee and the chat.”

His brows lifted, amusement flickering in his gaze. He didn’t argue, didn’t push—just smoothly lowered himself back into his seat, watching her with quiet fascination.

Maeve didn’t wait for further comment. She turned on her heel, leaving the café with purposeful strides.

Behind her, she could feel his gaze linger, like a smirk she couldn’t see but knew was there.

Bound

The evening settled into a quiet haze, the sky bleeding deep into twilight.

Maeve stretched out on the weathered teak lounge chair, bare feet resting against the edge of the deck, the rhythmic crash of waves filling the silence. The salty breeze brushed over her skin, stirring loose strands of hair as she absently ran her fingers along the worn pages of her book.

The edges were softened from frequent handling, the cover slightly creased where she had tucked it into her bag too many times.

The Art of Not Settling.

It was self-help—sharp, unapologetic, forcing introspection she didn’t always want but somehow couldn’t put down. She liked it. Or needed it. Because for the first time, she was standing still.

For the first time—she was staying.
And she wasn’t sure what that meant yet, long term.

She exhaled, eyes skimming another paragraph, turning another page—then froze. A presence. Unmistakable. Confident. Deliberate. Maeve hesitated, fingers curling tighter around the book. Then, slowly, she lowered it—just enough to peer over the top.

And there he was.

Pierce Lockwood stood beyond the deck’s threshold, composed, calm, utterly unbothered by the wind-swept edges of her retreat. And then—he waved. Casual. Slow. Infuriating. Maeve inhaled sharply, brows furrowing, recovering just as quickly.

“You again!” she shot, exasperation sharp in her voice.

Pierce smirked.

“Miss Cameron.”

His voice carried effortlessly over the soft rush of the tide—low, deliberate. He nodded in greeting, the smirk widening.

“I hope your new home is to your satisfaction?”

Maeve sat upright, book lowering fully now, eyes narrowing.

“No offense, but… what’s it to you?”

Pierce’s smirk deepened slightly, his tone maddeningly smooth.

“I own this property,” he said, effortlessly matter-of-fact. “Consider this a courtesy visit. Making sure my newest tenant is settled in well… and comfortable.”

He was her landlord. Oh, gimme a million breaks! Of course he was. Because why wouldn’t fate play this cosmic joke on her?

“Comfortable. Ah. So that’s how you knew who I was at the café. And you couldn’t have sprinkled that fact in then?”

“I didn’t see a reason to. And everyone here knows who you are, Miss Cameron. You stand out in this crowd.”

“A-ha. Do I now? Care to elaborate?”

Maeve crossed her arms, waiting—expecting some smug explanation, something tailored just to aggravate her further.

Pierce didn’t answer—not directly. Instead, he let the silence stretch—just long enough to be deliberate. Then, with unhurried ease, he stepped forward, crossing onto the deck without hesitation, his gaze flickering toward the ocean view before landing on her book.

Then—he whistled, soft, amused.

“Ah,” he mused, eyes scanning the title, smirk deepening. “Self-help. That’s unexpected. I agree with the title though. Settling is below you.”

Maeve’s pulse spiked—not in surprise, but in irritation.

She snapped the book shut, gripping it tightly against her chest.

“And how, exactly, is that any of your business?” Her voice was sharp now, a deliberate contrast to his easy amusement. “Maybe you should read something on social graces and humility—personal space is a real thing, you know.”

Pierce’s smirk didn’t falter.

“Social graces and humility?” He let out a low chuckle, gaze flickering to her feet—noting how she had slipped on her shoes the moment he arrived. That detail pleased him. “Should I be flattered or insulted?”

Maeve scoffed, tightening her grip on the book. He was insufferable.

“It’s a tossup. Take your pick.”

He hummed, thoughtful, then nodded toward the cover again.

“So, this masterpiece of self-improvement—is it working? Or should I recommend one on anger management next?”

Maeve’s nails curled into the binding.

“You show up uninvited, impose your presence, and decide I have anger issues?” Maeve scoffed, tightening her grip on the book. “Interesting. Do you have a self-help recommendation for chronic arrogance? Or maybe something on boundary issues? I think you’d find it enlightening. Society would thank you.”

Pierce exhaled, amused.

“Not sure if you have anger issues, Miss Cameron, but clearly a uniquely sharp intolerance for things that annoy you. And right now, I appear to be one of them.”

Maeve huffed, exasperated.

“Don’t let that go to your head. You are just one of many. Pick a number, there’s a line forming.”

Pierce’s smirk deepened.

“Then I’m honored to be in such elite company.”

Maeve opened her mouth—ready to retort, ready to force him to leave—but he was already shifting the conversation.

“Join me for dinner.”

She blinked, thrown off. Dinner? What the hell?!

Pierce seemed unbothered by his abrupt invitation, speaking as if it had already been accepted.

“In lieu of a housewarming gift,” he added smoothly.

Maeve narrowed her eyes.

“Since when do landlords bring housewarming gifts? And you seriously think I’m going anywhere with you? I just met you! Wow, tell me you’re part of Brindleton Bay’s elite without telling me. Maybe you should buy yourself a book about human evolution, you Neanderthal! Let’s see how you like them apples then: No!”

Pierce leaned slightly closer, gaze unreadable.

“You could spend the night fuming about my oh-so outrageous and daring invitation… or let me make it worth your while.” He tilted his head, as though already sensing her resistance. “What’s the worst that could happen? You get a delicious dinner out of it. You have to eat, I have to eat—might as well eat together. And it might just help you form a more well-rounded opinion about me.”

Maeve lifted a brow, unimpressed.

“Oh, I already have an opinion about you, Lockwood. But since you are evidently my landlord, I’m going to keep all that to myself. Look, I will be a dream-tenant, clean up after myself, pay my rent on time, but I am not going anywhere with you. Final answer.”

Pierce studied her for a beat. Grinning.

“Okay.” He said softly.

“Okay!” she affirmed.

Then—without another word—he left.

Maeve blinked, staring at the empty space where he had stood moments ago. Gone. Awkward, but thank goodness. She let out a slow breath, pleased with her victory, settling back into the lounge chair, reclaiming the quiet—until thirty minutes later, it was interrupted again.

A knock. On the front door this time and the way the house was laid out, she couldn’t see who it might be from the back. She frowned, book lowering.

Pushing up from the chair, she padded toward the open door, inside, through the small hallway, towards the front door, brushing stray strands of hair from her face before swinging it open.

Pierce Lockwood.

Again.

Holding a takeout bag from a restaurant she knew for a fact had a six-month reservation waitlist. She stared at it, then back at him, not even pretending to hide her irritation.

“You gotta be shitting me. Has anyone ever told you that you are unbelievably persistent,” she said flatly.

Pierce smirked, holding up the bag slightly.

“Few times. A peace offering. Or a bribe. Whichever makes you feel better about it.”

Maeve opened her mouth to tell him to take his peace offering and shove it, but before she could—her stomach betrayed her.

Growling. Loud. Undeniable.

Echoing through the quiet space like a declaration of war. Pierce’s smirk turned smug.Maeve pressed her lips together, willing the universe to rewind five seconds. Just five.

Silence stretched.

Then—she laughed. Didn’t want to, couldn’t stop it.
Quiet at first. Then louder. Shaking her head, finally accepting that she had lost this round.
Pierce joined in—his laughter deeper, amused, edged with something too pleased for her liking.

“Fiiiine,” she sighed, stepping aside to allow him in. “Whatever’s in that bag smells outrageously good, and frankly, I resent you for it.”

Then—another stomach growl. Louder this time.

Maeve closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, willing herself not to start resenting the universe along with him.

She exhaled.

“My body has officially sold me out for an unsolicited bag of delicious food.” She shook her head, giving up. “So now, I have to see what’s in there before I lose all dignity and start attacking innocent people out of pure starvation rage. But you are not fighting fair here.”

Chuckling, Pierce stepped past her, smooth, effortless—setting the bag on the counter, unpacking it with the comfort of a man who had already decided he belonged here.

“Didn’t know we were fighting, Miss Cameron.”

Maeve shot him a sharp look.

“Oh, what the hell, just call me Maeve.”

He met her gaze, calm, easy, unshaken.

“Pierce.”

Indulgence

San Myshuno pulsed with energy—a city alive in a way The Bay never could be. Loud, untamed, thriving with ambition.

Maeve had been here before, of course. But never like this. Never seated across from Pierce Lockwood, tucked into the corner of an exclusive rooftop restaurant where the skyline shimmered like polished gold.

Yes, he had been back to see her a few times—checking on her, supposedly. Inviting her to dinner again. And one time, against her better judgment, she actually accepted.

Now, here they were.

The restaurant sat atop a high-rise, its panoramic view stretching across the glittering cityscape. Every polished marble surface, every meticulously designed lounge chair radiated exclusivity.

The staff knew him.

They greeted him personally, pouring his preferred drink without needing to ask. This place wasn’t just a restaurant; it was a stage, built for men like Pierce Lockwood—men who didn’t need to announce their presence to be noticed.

Maeve, ever observant, rested her chin on her hand, eyes flickering toward him.

“Do you bring every woman you take to dinner here?”

Pierce smirked, lifting his glass.

“Would you like me to lie or tell you the truth?”

Maeve exhaled a laugh, shaking her head.

“Don’t answer that.”

He didn’t—just leaned in slightly, nodding toward the skyline.

“That’s where I live,” he murmured, gesturing toward a sleek tower standing tall among the illuminated skyscrapers.

Maeve watched it for a long moment, twirling the stem of her wine glass between her fingers.

“You only visit The Bay on weekends?”

Pierce hummed, swirling his bourbon absently.

“Give or take.”

She tilted her head slightly.

“Why not just move back? The drive isn’t that long, even during rush hour.”

His expression flickered—brief, nearly imperceptible. Then the smirk returned, effortless.

“And spend every waking moment suffocating under my father’s ever-mounting expectations? No, thanks.”

Maeve huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head.

“You have daddy issues. Go figure.”

Pierce raised a brow, amused.

“You don’t?”

“Nope.” She took a sip, letting the moment stretch. At least not the way you’d think.

After a pause, she let her gaze settle on the city.

“But really—why San Myshuno? It’s not just escaping your father, is it?”

Pierce took a slow sip, thoughtful.

“It’s the job. The work. The distance.”

Maeve arched a brow.

“You actually work?”

Pierce exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

“Everyone in The Bay has a title, a name, a legacy. Most of them just manage inherited assets, attend board meetings, sign off on deals without ever lifting a finger. But my father—he believes in control. He built his empire from the ground up, and he expects me to carry that weight properly.”

Maeve took a slow sip of wine.

“So what do you actually do?”

Pierce leaned back, the leather of the booth shifting beneath him.

“Real estate. Investment portfolios. Commercial acquisitions. I oversee new developments, negotiate contracts, cultivate relationships with international partners—essentially, I keep the family’s reach stretching further while my father, at 72, circles my head to make sure I don’t screw it up.”

Maeve hummed, watching him carefully.

“So, busy. Important. Powerful. Is that why the staff knew exactly how to pour your drink before you even sat down?”

Pierce’s smirk edged wider.

“Something like that.”

Maeve exhaled a soft laugh, setting down her glass.

“Dinner was nice, Lockwood. But I think it’s time I—”

Pierce leaned back, slow, unhurried.

“Come see my place.”

Maeve paused, studying him.

There was zero pressure, just that same easy confidence—the kind that told her he wasn’t trying to trap her, just seeing what she’d do.

He tilted his glass slightly.

“You’ll either say no and leave, or you’ll say yes and see something new. Either way, I won’t hold it against you.”

Maeve exhaled.

She stared at him for a long beat, weighing the offer, the ease with which he said it, the quiet certainty behind the words.

She could say no.

She could let him walk away, let this be nothing more than a fleeting conversation between two people who happened to cross paths.

Or—

She could step into something she wasn’t sure she fully understood yet. Something unpredictable. Something real. Something that would end with her finally feeling like a real woman again.

She picked up her glass.

And took another sip.

Pierce didn’t react—not outright.
Just a slow, knowing tilt of his head.

Like he had expected this outcome all along.

His car, a sleek black luxury sedan, hummed smoothly against the pavement, weaving through the neon-lit streets. Inside, muted lighting softened the space, the scent of leather and faint cologne lingering in the air.

Maeve stared out at the city as it flickered past—bright, alive, a thousand possibilities stretching beneath the skyline.

Pierce didn’t fill the silence with idle chatter. He didn’t ask if she was comfortable, didn’t push conversation—just let her sit with whatever thoughts ran through her mind.

For that, she was grateful.

Lion’s Den

Pierce’s building was understated in its prestige—no gaudy displays, no unnecessary opulence. Just quiet wealth. Confident wealth.

The doorman nodded knowingly. Clearly, Lockwood bringing young women here wasn’t unusual. Figures.
The elevator ride was silent, the hum of mechanics the only sound between them.

Maeve glanced at Pierce once—the way he stood, composed, hands in his pockets like this was just another moment in a string of predictable nights.

Yet when their eyes met briefly—she caught something else. Something unreadable. His grey eyes, cool and sharp, flickered toward her, watching without pressing, cataloging without revealing.

Then the doors slid open, revealing his world. Her heels clicked softly against polished floors.

Modern. Tasteful. Not sterile—woven with subtle touches of personality. Rugs softened the dark wood beneath her feet. Curated artwork hinted at someone who appreciated beauty beyond price tags.

But none of that held her attention.

The view did.

She drifted toward the expansive windows, the golden city stretching endlessly beneath her, breathing, alive.

Pierce watched her for a moment before disappearing into the sleek kitchen, returning with two glasses—deep amber liquid swirling inside.

“Bourbon,” he said simply, handing one to her.

She took it without question, fingers curling around the cool glass, her eyes still on the skyline.

When she finally turned back toward him, the glow of the city caught in her gaze—light brown, tinged with amber, almost golden, shifting in ways that made them impossible to pin down.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” His voice was lower now, quieter—like the city deserved reverence.

Maeve exhaled softly.

“It really is.”

Pierce took a slow sip, watching her instead of the view—studying the way the lights reflected in her eyes.

She wasn’t lost in thought. She was taking it in. Fully. Silently. And for the first time that evening—something about her made him pause.

The bourbon was warm in her palm, the glass smooth, cool against her fingertips. She took another sip, the heat spreading through her, pooling somewhere deeper than just the drink itself.

Pierce was watching her—not openly, not brazenly, but quietly, thoughtfully, like he was cataloging the way the city reflected in her eyes.

She had been in places like this before—luxury without excess, money without pretense. But something about his world felt different.

Curated. Controlled. She let out a quiet breath, turning slightly.

“You don’t live here full-time. This isn’t a home. This isn’t because you work here and don’t want to drive.”

Pierce hummed, shifting his weight, rolling his glass between his fingers.

“No.”

“You detach yourself here. And you bring women here.”

A slight smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, like he appreciated her ability to read between the lines.

“I prefer to withhold comment.”

Maeve nodded slowly, absorbing the space, absorbing the silence stretching between them. She felt the subtle scent of his cologne in the air—clean, rich, expensive but understated, something that didn’t impose itself but was impossible to ignore.

When she spoke again, her husky voice, deeper than expected, softened the quiet, filling the space with something tangible.

“You must like being alone.”

Pierce exhaled slowly, taking another sip of bourbon.

“I don’t mind it. Prefer it sometimes. What about you?”

She shrugged. “Has its moments.”

She wasn’t sure how long they stood there, wasn’t sure when the cityscape stopped being the most interesting thing in the room.

She glanced at him, caught the way his focus lingered on her lips for a fraction of a second too long, how he had barely moved but still somehow closed the distance between them.

Then—her eyes flickered, reading something beneath the surface, and suddenly, the energy shifted. Maeve set her glass down, slow, deliberate, tilting her head slightly.

“This is a routine, isn’t it? We are going through the motions, aren’t we?”

Pierce lifted a brow, barely reacting, but the tension in the air thickened. She gestured vaguely to the apartment—the understated elegance, the view, the effortless luxury.

“The pickup lines, the charm, the dinner, the penthouse. The bourbon. The city stretched out like a curated masterpiece. A script. You bring them here. Because this is how that works, isn’t it?”

Pierce took a slow sip, considering her words, not confirming, not denying. Maeve let out a soft laugh, shaking her head.

“You must have a full program. A certain number of drinks, a certain number of well-timed pauses, a perfect transition before the inevitable. It’s methodical. Practiced. Your doorman confirmed it without saying a word. I am onto you, Lockwood.”

Pierce watched her, saying nothing.

Then—her eyes locked onto his, and she let the silence stretch, just enough before she spoke again.

“So, are we going to fuck, or do you need to run through your full program first to get going? If not, let’s get to it, hard liquor makes me drowsy.”

Pierce choked—actually choked—his smooth control cracking for half a second before he coughed, setting his glass down with sharp precision, exhaling through his nose.

Then—he laughed. Deep. Genuine.

Maeve smirked, leaning against the counter, watching him compose himself.

He ran a hand down his jaw, amusement shining through his sharp grey eyes, shaking his head slightly.

“You,” he murmured, voice lower, rougher now. “Are a piece of work, Maeve Cameron.”

Maeve picked up her glass again, swirling the amber liquid, eyes glinting beneath the city lights.

“No, I am single and I have needs, and let’s be honest, it’s obvious why you brought me here. And I knew it full well when I agreed. Because you,” she replied, effortlessly, “are predictable. But you are also handsome and I wouldn’t mind getting me some of that.”

Pierce exhaled, watching her carefully, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze.

“Predictable, huh?” His lips curled, amused—but there was something else now. Sharper. Interested. He leaned in slightly, eyes lingering. “Then tell me, Maeve—if I’m so predictable, what exactly am I going to do next?”

He wasn’t even trying to flatter her by playing into it—he meant it. She wasn’t like the others. She wasn’t prey. Not even close.

She took a slow sip, watching him over the rim of her glass.

“Well,” she mused, voice husky, tone laced with amusement. “I will tell you the spiel, cos I am a Cameron, after all. My ancestors wrote the book on all this, Pierce.”

Pierce tilted his head slightly, listening.

“We’re more than well-known for a lot of things that seem to be genetic for my lineage,” she continued, setting the glass down, fingers lingering against the smooth surface. “A talent for music or theater. A blunt way of calling out bullshit. A gutter mind and a potty mouth—to varying degrees, of course.”

Pierce let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head, amused but fully engaged now.

Maeve leaned in slightly, elbows resting against the counter, voice dropping just enough to be felt.

“And, as you may have noticed, a pronounced appreciation for the joy of the flesh. Booze, dancing, sex,”

Pierce exhaled, shaking his head slightly, running a hand down his jaw—not thrown, not unsettled, but undeniably intrigued.

“Yes, I am beginning to see that,” he murmured again, slower this time, testing the weight of the words.

Maeve smirked.

“And yet you clearly still have no idea, Pierce. Not even begun to scratch the surface with me.”

Pierce watched her for a beat, then reached for his glass, taking a slow sip—like he needed the bourbon to steady himself before whatever came next.

She let him drink. Let him sit in the moment. Let him think he still had control.

Then—her voice dropped lower, raspier, sinking beneath the hum of the city lights.

“But to answer your question, let’s see…” she mused, slow, deliberate, the sound of it curling at the edges. “What part comes next in your usually scheduled program?”

Pierce’s expression didn’t shift—but she felt something change in the air.

She didn’t pause.

“Let me guess. The tour. The part where the wolf—you—takes his newest Little Red Riding Hood around, showing off his expensive shit. Which, too bad so sad, we both know won’t impress me, so…”

She smirked.

“We’ll skip that part.”

His grip on his glass tightened just slightly.

“Then comes the long gazes—lingering, heated—followed by the quiet, deliberate brush of fingers…” she ran her fingers across his hands sending a hot shiver running down his spine.

Maeve’s voice dipped lower, throatier now, the husky edge curling beneath her words.

“Maybe a tucked strand behind her ear for effect, maybe a slow, knowing smile…”

She leaned in slightly—running her hand through his hair, creating waves of heat washing over him, as he felt the shift in the air between them.

“That’s the moment you start leaning in…” Her words dragged, stretching just enough to make him hold his breath. “She starts thinking maybe—just maybe—I am different than the ones before. Maybe he really wants me, loves me,”

Her gaze flicked over him—assessing, teasing, dissecting his usual tactics like a well-worn script. Pierce’s fingers flexed slightly around his glass. Not much. Just enough.

Maeve’s smirk deepened, satisfaction curling at the edges.

“But of course you don’t. You nail them until it becomes redundant and then you move on. You should really update your program, Pierce,” she murmured, voice dark velvet, sinking under his skin like it had always belonged there. “You might get girls in the sack with this BS, but not a real woman. So what do you want, Lockwood. Girls or a woman?”

Maeve let her hand drop just as smoothly as it had lifted, studying him like she was waiting for confirmation.

But he said nothing. Did nothing. So she didn’t wait.

“Nothing? Speechless? Oh well, I answered your question, clearly your usual horse and pony show bores me, but I am here, all hot and bothered now, so let me save you the trouble and get right to it,” she murmured—and lunged forward, kissing him before he had the chance to react. In a way that would make any heterosexual man putty in her hands.

Once she pulled away, he was clearly affected—she saw it in the way his breath hitched, the slight clench in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed against the glass in his hand.

Maeve smirked like a cat who got the canary, turning smoothly, letting him watch her hands search for the zipper of her dress, the subtle scrape of her fingertips against fabric breaking the silence.

She found it—pulled it down, somewhere between painfully slow and too fast, making him swallow hard.

When it was down, she glanced at him over her shoulder, the daring look in her eyes sharp, knowing, challenging, as she kicked off her heels.

Then—she let go.

The dress slipped from her frame, sliding down her curves, pooling at her feet like liquid fabric, pooling in the dim glow of the city lights filtering through the glass.

Pierce swallowed hard, loosened his tie. Then tore it off completely, tossing it aside as she turned to him, her silhouette bold, effortless, unapologetic. Unclothed aside from delicate lacy breaths of lingerie.

She stepped out of the dress pooled at her feet and closer to him—gracefully, teasingly, but with purpose, gaze locked onto him like she was rewriting the very script he thought he was following.

And when he still didn’t react, still just watched her, still let the silence stretch—she reached for his collar.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

She smoothed a hand over the fabric, fingers curling at the seam, holding him there just long enough for him to feel the weight of it.

Then, with quiet precision, she unfastened the first button.

Pierce exhaled, slow, sharp—the sound almost lost beneath the hush of the room. She could feel his pulse—steady, strong, but undeniably reacting. Still, he didn’t move.

Maeve’s smirk deepened.

“You better stop me,” she murmured, her voice lower now, barely above a whisper, warm against his jaw, thick with suggestion.

“I can’t,” Pierce answered, gravel thick in his tone.

Maeve hummed, satisfied with that answer.

Then—with one fast move, she tore open his shirt, buttons snapping free, scattering against the floor, fabric sliding off his shoulders with an unmistakable finality.

She didn’t hesitate.

Her fingers worked fast, slipping the belt from his loops with one smooth motion, the leather hissing as it slid free before she tossed it aside without a second thought.

Then—his button, his zipper.

A flick of her wrist, a slow pull—his slacks slid down his legs, pooling at his feet, leaving him standing there, unraveled, outpaced, thrown completely off script.

Pierce barely breathed.

Maeve’s gaze traced him, measured him, tested him, the way men usually looked at women when they expected them to fall into line.

Then—she grabbed his wrist.
Looked around briefly.
Saw the hallway.
Pulled him forward.

Pierce stumbled along, unusual for a man who had always been in control.

She tried the first door.
Not the bedroom.
An office.

It didn’t matter where it led—because the second she pushed through it, Pierce woke up.

Reacted.

Snapped out of whatever trance she had thrown him into.

And without hesitation—he picked her up, effortlessly, like it was the only logical conclusion, and with long, fast strides carried her to the right door, kicking it open.

The inevitable one.

Awake

Morning arrived softly, filtering through sheer curtains in muted gold, casting the room in warm light.

Maeve stirred, blinking into consciousness before realization settled in.

Pierce’s bed.

His sheets, impossibly smooth against her bare skin. His scent lingering in the air—rich, clean, unmistakably him.

She inhaled sharply, sitting up too fast.

The room remained still—only the soft hush of the city outside, the measured sound of his breathing behind her. He was still asleep, half-shadowed in early light, arm draped lazily across the mattress.

Maeve moved carefully, slipping from the bed, gathering scattered fragments of her clothing. She needed to leave. This wasn’t—this couldn’t be—why had she done that? A hand, firm and warm, caught her wrist.

She turned—And there he was.

Breathtakingly unbothered. Unclothed. Unapologetic. Heat rose up her neck. Instinct. Reaction. Pierce stood there, watching her with an unreadable expression.

Then—without preamble—

He kissed her.

Not careful. Not tentative. A kiss that stole the breath from her lungs and scattered every thought she was trying to hold onto. It reminded her—without question—She was a grown woman. Single. Alive.

His fingers laced effortlessly through hers. No words, no coaxing—just an unspoken invitation.

He led her toward the sleek bathroom. The shower. And Maeve—against every reason she should resist—let him. Her grip loosened.

Her clothing slipped from her grasp. Forgotten. Steam curled into the air as water drummed against marble. Time blurred.

Cleansed

They emerged later, freshly dressed, remnants of heat still clinging to their skin despite the crisp morning air outside the wide balcony doors.

Maeve lingered near the kitchen island, fingers curled around a mug of coffee, wandering idly through his space.

Pierce stood at the stove—effortless, as though nothing about this moment surprised him. Eggs flipped with precision. Toast crisped golden beside them. Bacon sizzled.

His kitchen was sleek, curated—like everything about him. She drifted toward the window, drawn again to the view that had captivated her the night before. San Myshuno stretched endlessly beneath them, gilded in morning light. Its pulse steady. Endless.

Something felt different.

She couldn’t name it, but it lingered—in the quiet spaces between her thoughts, in the way her body had settled into the morning as if it belonged here.

They ate together.

An easy rhythm, effortless in its quiet simplicity. Maeve hadn’t shared breakfast with a man since Liam Hawthorne.

Oh, sweet, kind, wonderful Liam—the dreamer. The boy-turned-man who could paint the most beautiful futures with his words alone. Liam, with his quiet steadiness. The one who had traded titles for simplicity. The forever-stableboy-at-heart who had once been her future. But that future had always smelled of horses, hay, straw, and manure. A man who would wake at any hour to tend to a sick or birthing horse. A man who would wince when she planned beautiful vacations he could never truly enjoy—his mind full of feeding schedules, training regimens, the never-ending cycle of care.

She had loved him.

But they had grown apart before either could stop it. And he had fallen again, for someone else, and there had been nothing Maeve could do to stop it. And then—there was the man after Liam.

Marco Ricci-DeLuca.

The one she had convinced herself she loved, even though it was too soon, too fast, too wrong. The one who—in retrospect—paled in comparison to what she now understood about real connection. The one who had taught her that trust—when given too freely—could be weaponized. She had ignored the warnings. The hushed voices of people who saw what she refused to see. Marco was charming, successful, magnetic in a way that felt effortless. A playboy. Womanizer. He had known exactly how to make her feel like the only thing that mattered. And she had believed him. Repeatedly. Until the night she stormed to his house, prepared to forgive him yet again. Ready for the cycle—the apologies, the pleading, the carefully constructed lies.
But this time— He hadn’t pleaded. This time— He hadn’t been there at all.

His home was empty.

A For Sale sign swayed lazily in the front yard. Gone. No fight. No goodbye. No closure. Just silence. A carefully orchestrated disappearance. Marco had left like their relationship had been nothing more than an investment gone stale.

And in doing so—

He had taught her a lesson she would never forget.

She would never let herself be that gullible again.

And yet—

She glanced at Pierce. He was scrolling through his phone, thumb moving with measured precision over the screen, coffee cup resting against his palm. His mind had shifted—business mode settling over him effortlessly, like second nature.

Maeve watched him.

Watched the easy elegance of his posture, the cool certainty in his movements. And suddenly—She knew. She was thinking dangerous thoughts. Thoughts that put her heart at risk. And she had no idea how to stop them.

Undone

It began with stolen evenings, quiet dinners downtown San Myshuno, tucked away from the prying eyes of Brindleton Bay’s Old Guard.

At first, Maeve told herself it was nothing. Just fun, nothing more. A man who fascinated her. A man who made her heart race in ways she wasn’t willing to acknowledge.

The first time he appeared at her beach house, it was unannounced. She had been curled up on the porch, the salty breeze tangling her hair as she read—until his voice interrupted the silence.

“More self-help books?”

She had looked up, pulse stammering slightly, expecting the usual arrogance. But instead—just a smirk, easy and knowing, like he had somehow decided this was inevitable before she had, while he handed her a single red rose.

She told herself it was casual when he kissed her that night, when she let him pull her inside, the tide whispering against the shore beyond the patio.

She told herself it was casual when he came back the next night. And the one after.

The way he lingered at her kitchen counter, pouring her coffee exactly how she liked it. The way he peeled an orange absentmindedly, handing her a slice without looking, as if it was second nature. The way he reached for her hand at the farmers’ market without thinking, before realizing where they were—who might see.

And yet, he still squeezed her fingers before letting go.

The illusion cracked when he started taking her out—real restaurants, real places where people could see them.

“You could have booked the private room,” she mused once, raising a brow as they settled into a low-lit booth.

Pierce had leaned back, swirling his whiskey. “I could have.”

But he hadn’t.

She told herself it was casual when he touched her—a hand on the small of her back, a thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. But her body betrayed her, heart skipping each time, breath catching in ways it never did before.

And then there was the gown—the sapphire blue, the one he loved on her.

She had worn it once before, in a moment bathed in candlelight and whispers. He had traced the fabric, eyes dark, lips brushing against her shoulder as he murmured, ‘this is your color’.

That night, she had kept the dress.

And on the night of the gala, she had worn it again.

Illusion

The gala at the Rosebriar Estate, Maeve’s cousin’s home, shimmered with opulence—gold chandeliers casting fractured light over polished marble floors, murmurs of old money drifting through the air like the scent of champagne. But here, in this moment, Maeve wasn’t lost in the grandeur. She was with them.

Briar Rose stood beside her, glowing in candlelight—the kind of beauty that felt effortless, like she’d been born into golden hour itself. Her long honey-blonde hair, kissed by soft waves, framed a face too striking to be overlooked. Those pale green eyes—warm, inviting—held the kind of quiet magnetism that made people lean in when she spoke. And her voice was a soft, melodic lilt that carried weight despite its sweetness. She was a singer, a songwriter, a woman who existed as effortlessly onstage as she did at grand soirées like this.

Bradford was the contrast—sharp, quick-witted, and just a touch too boyish for the level of responsibility he carried. His blond curls, always slightly unruly, gave him an air of youthfulness that softened the authority he otherwise radiated. He wore his success well, in the tailored lines of his suit, in the way he stood—CEO and surgeon, husband and father, too brilliant to be anything but in control. But beneath it? Warmth. His blue eyes held an honesty rare in men of their circles, the kind of quiet understanding that made Maeve forget, at least for a second, that she was keeping secrets.

And secrets were what made this moment feel precarious.

Briar Rose tilted her glass toward Maeve, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I have to say, moving out on your own suits you, Maeve. You look—what’s the word? A little less… constipated?”

Maeve blinked, taken aback. “Excuse me—what?”

Bradford let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned in, murmuring something into Briar Rose’s ear. She stilled, listening—then suddenly burst into laughter, nearly choking on her drink.

Maeve narrowed her gaze suspiciously. “What? What did he say?”

Briar Rose, still laughing, wiped at her eyes. “My lovely husband just alerted me to my Freudian slip. I—I cannot believe I just said that in public.”

Bradford, ever the doctor, grinned as he straightened, swirling his drink, winking at Maeve. “My gorgeous wife meant to say constrained, not constipated. Just for the record, as a licensed physician, I can confidently say—you do not appear to be suffering from gastrointestinal distress, judging by visual cues. In case that was weighing on your mind. I’d be happy to schedule you in for a check-up though.”

Maeve scoffed, shaking her head. “Oh, thank God. I was deeply concerned and will keep your offer in mind. However, I am thrilled to announce there is no reason to worry, and I can TMI that if anyone needs more details.”

Briar Rose nudged her arm. “Gurl, I am all about details, but in this case, no thanks, pass. But you legit look better than I have ever seen you. Less Wednesday Addams and more single young hot chick living her best life in the Bay. Almost happy-like. And yes, I am so taking credit for it.” Her smirk returned full force. “Which means—you must let me fix the rest. A full Briar Rose transformation package. I’ll turn you into a legit Bay-chick.” She lifted a finger, ticking off items like she was laying out a royal decree. “Spa days, shopping, yoga, Pilates, absolutely meditation—because your stress levels are tragic—and, obviously, high-quality trash-talking while people-watching. I’ll update you on the skeletons in everyone’s closet, I got the dirt on almost everyone in the Bay. Because that is my definition of self-care. Yass, Maeve. Yass. You will have handsome bachelors running down your door and be all like ‘Liam and Marco, who?”

Maeve rolled her eyes, still laughing. “Let’s not go there, and let’s be mindful of my door as for one my door is not really mine since I am renting  and I don’t want to have my landlord up my ass about breaking his property. Also, this is becoming suspiciously aggressive. For months you two have been up my rear about hanging out, burying me in invites, and then I finally show up and … this. Give you the little finger …”

Bradford sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “Yeah, my sweet angel Bri is quite relentless when she’s on a mission, always has been. Word of advice, Maeve—just surrender now. Less suffering that way.”

Briar Rose tossed her hair over one shoulder, triumphant. “Brad gets it. I am unstoppable.”

“Brad’s been on the receiving end too many times not to have learned his lesson.” He winked at Briar Rose, who stuck out her tongue at him, so he pulled her in and kissed her briefly.

Maeve laughed again—but this time, the warmth lingered. “Must have been traumatic, seeing how you speak about yourself in the third person, Brad.” She nudged him, making him laugh, while Briar Rose snuck a kiss on his cheek, making him glow.

Maeve halted, watching them.

These two. So effortlessly in love, so easy, so comfortable. Making her so deeply jealous. She wanted this, a big healthy heaping helping of this. Just, obviously, not with Brad, no offense. Nice guy, but just not her type. But she wanted a man she could smooch around on in public, teasing, knowing so much about each other and still being in love. Sigh.

And besides that, who knew they could be so much fun? Maeve hadn’t.

She had thought they would be two arrogant, self-absorbed bores. Instead, in the brief time she had been standing here with them, they had made her laugh more than she had in years—plural.

Maybe she should stop blowing off their invites. Maybe she should let them pull her into their world, instead of keeping them at a polite distance like she had been for weeks. Maybe… she needed this. Them. Her only real allies now, with her parents gone. Better than being all alone all the time, not fitting in anywhere.

Brad chuckled, eyes warm with the kind of gentle honesty few men in their circles possessed. “I have to say, though—the fresh salty sea breeze is very becoming on you, Maeve. You’re sporting an almost freshly-in-love glow.”

His grin turned teasing.

“I should introduce you to some of Brindleton Bay’s finest eligible bachelors, to make that glow real and ensure you stay here permanently. Let’s see…” He tapped a finger against his chin, mock-thoughtful. “Who do we have that isn’t ancient or creepy…? Oh, yikes. Slim pickings.”

Maeve rolled her eyes, laughing. “Yeah, your filtering system sounds riveting, Brad. Aim low, right?” She shook her head, still smiling. “Let’s just… not. Okay? Shockingly, I do still have higher standards than ‘not ancient or creepy.’” She exhaled lightly, shifting her weight, voice dipping slightly. “Besides—kinda over dating. Still licking my old wounds … but thank you for offering. Very thoughtful and sweet.”

She wrapped an arm around Bradford, squeezing him briefly—comfort, friendship, distraction.

But the thought that followed was one she couldn’t say aloud. ‘Plus, I am already busy with a new tall, dark, handsome inflicting fresh ones, because I just never learn.’

Bradford gave her a knowing look but didn’t press—just grinned.

“Oh, come on, you know I wouldn’t sell you short.” He nudged her playfully. “I do know a few unattached younger brothers about our age. They might not be the heirs to empires or estates, but hey—you’re wealthy in your own right. So, we don’t need that anyway, right, Maeve?”

He shot her a cheeky look.

“Say, what’s your type? Tall, dark, mysterious? Or more boyband member? Hard to tell from your previous dating habits.” He leaned in slightly, smirking. “Any hobbies or features that are a hard no for you? Any other things that make you cringe which I should be aware of?”

Maeve’s breath hitched—not because of what Brad was saying, but because she knew exactly why she had that glow. And what her type was.

Pierce.

She had picked this dress—a deep sapphire blue—just for him. The color had come up once in the middle of a fleeting moment, whispered under the hush of moonlight and silk sheets. This, he had murmured, fingertips tracing the edge of her shoulder, is your color. You should wear it more often.

And so she had. For him.

Now, standing here,  the weight of expectation pressing down, she scanned the crowd, heart thrumming in anticipation. And then, as if in cue …

He walked in.

Maeve’s pulse quickened.

She straightened, smoothing her hands down the fabric of her gown—as if perfection could change the reality unfolding before her.
Their gazes met.
But something was wrong.
Pierce didn’t smile. Didn’t stride toward her with his usual certainty. No teasing smirk. No spark of possession. Instead, he was stiff—like a man caught in something inevitable.

And then—she walked in.

Linking her arm through his. As if they belonged. Maeve’s stomach dropped.

The woman wasn’t attractive—not in the classical sense. But she had something else. A presence. A quiet, ruthless certainty. Her features were severe, as if chiseled rather than grown—sharp cheekbones, an angular face stretched long and thin, unsoftened by time or indulgence. Her nose was too narrow, too severe, adding to the impression of careful control rather than effortless grace. Hair, the color of drained gold, sat sleek and polished—but under certain lights, the ash undertones made it appear almost grey. She was thin, but not in the way that suggested allure or even health. It was a calculated thinness—controlled, disciplined, deliberate.

Precision, not beauty. Control, not warmth.
And possession.

That was the difference. Maeve had never been allowed that with him. But this woman? She claimed the space beside him effortlessly. Pierce stood frozen, his movements too careful, too calculated—not the man Maeve knew. No spark. No easy arrogance. No smirk.

Just trapped.

The couple approached, since Maeve was standing with the gala’s gracious hosts.

The woman now greeted Briar Rose and Bradford first, her voice smooth, controlled, perfectly calibrated for charm—but when she turned to Maeve, her smile was polite. Nothing more.

“Maeve, meet Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood. Katherine, Pierce, this is Bri’s cousin Miss Maeve Cameron,” Brad introduced, his hand came to rest against Maeve’s back—a warm, casual, friendly touch.

Pierce’s gaze snapped to it.
Just for a second—a flicker—something sharp, dangerous.
Jealousy.

It vanished fast. But Maeve knew better.

Bradford kept talking.

Maeve heard none of it. The same words echoed over and over again in her head. Mrs. Lockwood. Mrs. Wife. Married.

Maeve felt herself nod—felt the shape of her own lips as she forced out something polite, something generic. Then she excused herself with feigned grace, claiming the need for the restroom. But as soon as she was out of sight, she ran. Outside. Away from here.

Her heels clicked against the marble of the foyer, then the pavement outside, silent beyond the gala’s grand estate which turned into sandy ground when she reached the pathway down towards the public beach off which her home was located. She ran like she could outrun the weight of it—the unbearable betrayal of it all. Her heels became impossible, the terrain too unstable, so she kicked them off mid-stride, barely registering the sting of the cold sand beneath her feet.

Until she heard footsteps behind her. Fast-paced. Running.

She didn’t have to look she knew it was him.
She ran faster, the sharp sting of heartbreak fueling her movement. But his stride was longer. He gained ground.

“Maeve—”

She didn’t stop.

“Maeve, stop!”

Maeve kept running—because what else was there to do?

But he was still behind her.

Pierce was faster, gaining ground, even as she tore up the back patio steps to her rental, her breath ragged, fingers fumbling at the key. She managed to shove the key into the lock, but her shaky hands and tear-filled eyes made unlocking an impossible feat.

Then—his footsteps.

She stiffened, turning sharply to face him. He was just feet away, chest rising and falling, his presence overwhelming even in the dim glow of the patio lights. In his hand—her abandoned heels.

He lifted them slightly. A peace offering.

She didn’t take them.

So instead, he placed them on the patio table, his movements slow, deliberate. And then—he reached past her and opened the door.

Maeve didn’t hesitate. She shoved him aside, hard. He stumbled back a step, catching himself, but followed anyway.

Once inside, she turned, fury burning in her chest. “Your wife? WIFE? Guess there’s a little something you forgot to mention.”

He raked a hand through his hair, frustration simmering beneath his perfect exterior. “It’s… complicated.”

Maeve let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Oh, complicated. That’s rich.”

Tears shot out, hot, unwanted, but she didn’t stop—she wouldn’t let him smooth this over. Not this.

He stepped forward. She stepped back.
Silence fell.
And then—he had the audacity to say it.

“You look ravishing tonight.”

She stared at him, something inside her snapping.

Without thinking, she reached for the zipper of her gown—his color, the one he loved on her, the one she had picked for him—pulled it down and nearly ripped it off herself, throwing it straight at him.

“Fuck you! You like it so much, YOU wear it then!”

He caught it, effortlessly, eyes darkening, lips curving in that insufferable, knowing way as he stared at Maeve standing before him in lacy undergarments. Just like that first time he had taken her to his penthouse in San Myshuno.

He stepped toward her.
She stepped away.
He closed in.

She ran—up the stairs, breathless, desperate for distance, for anything to break whatever magnetic pull kept reeling her into his orbit.

But the moment she reached her bedroom, his grip caught her wrist, and then— Passion.

A collision of lips, hands, whispered promises and half-finished apologies, their bodies moving as though trying to erase every ounce of pain in desperate, reckless fervor. Passion and pain united into a climax of emotions.

And then—afterwards—a moment of quiet.

Moonlight spilled through the windows, mingling with the rhythmic flash of the lighthouse beyond the bay. Pierce lay beside her, gaze steady, heavy with something that wasn’t just desire, but regret.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he murmured. “I didn’t want to lead you on. I thought you knew.”

Maeve’s throat tightened.

She shifted, facing him fully now, the sheets pooling at her waist, the weight of heartbreak pressing against her ribs.

“But you did lead me on, and I didn’t know. You knew I wasn’t from here, you knew I wasn’t involved in your society here, and you knew that I had my heart broken twice before you,” she whispered. “Twice. By men casting me in the role of ‘the other woman’ against my will. And I told myself I wouldn’t let that happen again. And yet, you did. Again.”

Pierce inhaled slowly, his expression unreadable as he held up his hand with his wedding band. “No Maeve… you did. Again. I didn’t,” He wiggled his hand with his wedding band. “I never hid anything from you. I never take off my ring. You deliberately chose not to see it. Not to ask. Not once have you asked me about my relationship status. I would have told you the truth, just like I always have. But I wasn’t going to flaunt it. I want this, just as much as you do.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with everything unsaid.

Then, voice quiet, raw—he apologized.
Not for hiding the truth, as he hadn’t.
Not for hurting her.
But for the fact that, somehow, despite everything, he had lead her to believe he was different.

And maybe—just maybe—she had wanted to believe it too.

“You may not have known, for whichever reasons you had to want to ignore the blatantly obvious truth, but I did. I should have brought it up. I lied to myself, thinking this is just another affair. Yes, there have been plenty of those. But, come to find, this is different. And then I didn’t want it to end,” He put his hand on her face, turning it for her to face him. “You are different to me. You are not just another affair to me, Maeve.”

Decide

Morning arrived softly, filtering through the sheer curtains in muted gold, casting the room in warm light. Maeve stirred, but she didn’t move.

She was awake, but something in her refused to fully surface—refused to face what last night meant.
Pierce lay beside her, breaths slow, deep, utterly unconcerned.

Maeve had spent years believing she knew what self-preservation looked like. She had told herself she wouldn’t do this again. She knew better.

And yet.

She glanced at his hand—the one resting idly against the pillow, fingers relaxed, the wedding band still there. Always there. It had been there the whole time. She should have noticed. She should have asked.

But she hadn’t.

Because she hadn’t wanted the answer.

Later they ate breakfast together, but this time—Maeve wasn’t fully present.
She stirred her coffee absentmindedly, weighing options she didn’t want to admit she was considering.

She didn’t want to be some man’s affair. But she did want Pierce.

Not once had he lied to her. She had never asked, and he had never volunteered the truth, but he had never denied it either. And when he had told her, standing in the dim glow of her rental’s living room—he hadn’t made excuses.

She had run from the truth, but the truth had caught up to her anyway.

And now, sitting across from him, watching him drink his coffee as if nothing had changed—she knew.
Last night, he had chosen her. She didn’t know what he had told his wife about where he went, and frankly, Maeve couldn’t’ care less. Fact was, he had chosen her over his wife. So, she was going to choose this. Him.

Knowing full well it was reckless. Knowing full well it would end in ruin. Knowing full well she couldn’t resist him anyway.

So she chose it. She chose him. Deliberately.

And over the following weeks, they continued.

Secret evenings at her beach house. Stolen weekends in the city. Pierce, knocking at her door without warning, stepping inside without hesitation. Maeve, letting him. He reeled her in deeper with gestures that shouldn’t have meant anything—but somehow did. The way he reached for her hand without thinking, only realizing afterward and letting go. The way he listened. Truly listened. Not with expectation, but with understanding. The way he remembered things—tiny things—things he shouldn’t remember.

Confront

The knock was sharp. Deliberate. Not Pierce’s usual rhythm—his was always easy, familiar. This knock held intent. Purpose.

Maeve frowned. Few people ever knocked. Pierce knocked in that effortless way—two quick raps, then a pause, like it was second nature—before stepping inside without hesitation. Bri and Brad usually texted first. Oddly, she had befriended them, after all, they were her only true allies here and immediate neighbors. Besides, Maeve knew having the Cunninghams in her corner was a clear advantage.

She opened the door.

Katherine Lockwood stood there—poised, cold, impossibly composed.

Maeve shouldn’t have been surprised. But she was.

“Mrs. Lockwood,” she said evenly, gripping the doorframe with just a little too much force.

Katherine smiled—not warm, not cruel, just polite. A formality, nothing more.

“May I come in?”

Maeve hesitated. The Lockwoods owned this rental house—owned most of Brindleton Bay, really. Saying no wasn’t really an option.

So she stepped aside.

Katherine entered like she had done this before. Because, maybe, she had. She walked to the window, admiring the view as if she wasn’t here to dismantle Maeve’s reality. Knowing he has a wife and actually seeing her, talking to her, were two very different pairs of shoes. And then, without turning—without inflection—she said it.

“You’re not the first, you know.”

Maeve’s stomach tightened.

Katherine turned, still composed, still poised, but now her gaze carried something else—something subtle, something cutting.

“You won’t be the last.”

Maeve didn’t react. Not immediately. Because the way Katherine said it—it wasn’t cruel, it wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t vindictive. It was a fact. A truth.

Maeve inhaled carefully, spine straightening. “Thanks for the update.”

Katherine’s lips parted slightly—something close to a smirk, but never quite reaching full amusement.

“Ah, I heard rumors that you are a feisty one. Of course you would be, it’s his type,” she said smoothly. “It wouldn’t do for Pierce to get too comfortable now, would it?”

Maeve felt the weight behind the words, the quiet, subtle warning. This was a game. And Katherine Lockwood was letting her know—without raising her voice, without losing her poise—that Maeve was merely another piece.

Katherine’s smile never faltered. It was polished, effortless—the kind reserved for women who never lost.

“You understand, don’t you, Maeve?” Her voice was smooth, lacking bite, yet somehow sharp in its carefully measured control.

Maeve stood still, gripping the edge of the counter like an anchor.

Understand what, exactly? That she was just another affair? That no matter how many times Pierce laid beside her, whispered things that felt real, she would never replace Katherine?

“Pierce belongs to me.” Katherine’s gaze was steady, unyielding. “His name, his legacy, his loyalty. You might hold his attention for now but make no mistake—he will always come back home. And he always moves on. You are temporary.”

Maeve swallowed, something cold curling at the edges of her chest. Shame crawled up her spine, unwanted. Katherine continued speaking, painted a picture so flawless, Maeve almost believed it—almost saw herself as nothing more than a fleeting indulgence, a distraction in a world she would never be part of.

And when Katherine continued, it only worsened.

“I know you think you are very special, and maybe you are, I know whom you are related too, and I know you are not part of Pierce’s usual array of young overzealous impressionable secretaries and poor little baristas he picks up along the way. You are a different caliber, but ultimately, it doesn’t matter. This is Brindleton Bay. This is the Old Guard. You have to play by our rules,” Katherine mused, never cruel, never outright vicious, but always cutting. “You have to have what it takes—be strong enough to keep up, to last. And you, Maeve?” A pause, perfectly timed. “You don’t have it.”

Maeve’s pulse hammered.

“Here, in the Bay, you will never amount to anything more than what you are now—a cheap affair, a little girl trying to play dress-up in a world that will never be yours.”

It hurt.

Maeve wanted to yell at her. She wanted to throw every heartbreak back in Katherine’s face, wanted to scream that she had already been burned by reckless men, that she had knowingly agreed to this affair just to keep Pierce close, even when it meant breaking every promise she had made to herself.

But instead—

Something else crossed her mind. Something small, something unspoken, something Maeve had meant to ask Pierce about before—but now, now, she asked Katherine.

Her gaze sharpened, voice deceptively soft.

“If your marriage is so perfect…” Maeve murmured, her voice raspy, measured, deliberate.

“Why don’t you and Pierce have kids? He’s the sole heir, after all. Even I know how that goes.”

She paused—just enough to let the weight of the question settle.

Then, the final strike.

“And no offense, Katherine, but at your age? That biological clock must be deafening.”

The impact was instantaneous. Katherine froze. Subtle—but Maeve saw it. The flicker of tension in her jaw. The way her fingers gripped her coat just a fraction too tightly.

Bullseye.

Thought so.

Katherine’s breath remained calm, measured—but now too controlled, as if she were forcing steadiness. Her next words came slow, calculated—like steel wrapped in silk.

“You’ve made a mistake now,” she said quietly. A warning. “I suggest you reconsider your position before the choice is made for you.” Her eyes flickered with something cold, assessing, ruthless. “Don’t underestimate me. I tolerate Pierce’s toys, but there is a limit to my patience.”

Maeve exhaled sharply.

“Same here!” She stepped forward, gaze locked. “And you just about stretched my patience too thin, Mrs. Lockwood—thinking you can come to my home, insult me, threaten me.”

She shook her head, slow, deliberate.

“I was gonna let this go—I get it, can’t be easy knowing your husband strays—but let’s be honest, there’s no love lost between you and Pierce. I was gonna let you vent, get it out of your system. Take the brunt. But I won’t be insulted in my own home.”

The air tightened between them.

“And here’s more truth for you—I am a Cameron.”

Her voice dropped, cutting through the space between them.

“I’m sure your little research project into my background showed you exactly what that means. So, let’s make one thing very clear—I am not going anywhere.”

Maeve’s smirk returned, but colder now.

“You already noticed—I’m not some cheap floozie. And you might have friends in high places, but I have friends and family everywhere. Literally.” Her gaze hardened. “We are like rats, Mrs. Lockwood. Everywhere, multiplying steadily. And just like rats, we are not above fighting dirty. So pick your battle wisely, Kathy. “

She let the silence stretch—just long enough. Then—she exhaled, lips curving, voice deadly smooth. “Take my word for it… or fuck around and find out. I dare you.”

She turned, effortlessly dismissing her, by stepping towards the door, opening it. “Thank you for stopping by.”

And then, with the same elegance she had entered with—Katherine turned and left.

Maeve stood frozen, pulse roaring in her ears, heart beating against her ribs.
She had expected many things. Threats. Ultimatums. Even cruelty. She hadn’t expected to wound Katherine. And that terrified her more than anything.

Who was she these days? An affair with a married man? Insulting his wife, even threatening her? Good grief. That was some next level career-hussy shit now.

Question

The wine glasses were nearly empty, plates pushed aside, the last embers of candlelight flickering against the dim glow of the kitchen. Maeve leaned back in her chair, watching Pierce sip his drink with effortless confidence.

She had made him dinner tonight—something simple, something quiet, something deliberate.

And now, as he swirled his wine, she decided.

She would ask.

“Why don’t you have kids? No offense, but you and your wife are what—45ish?”

Pierce let out a short, quiet breath—not quite a laugh, not quite irritation.

“Forty-four,” he corrected, swirling his wine. “Katherine is forty.”

Maeve tilted her head, watching him carefully. “Either way. You’re not exactly in your Spring Chicken stage—prime baby-making years are behind you, aren’t they? I know I’m not part of the exclusive Brindleton Bay club, but even I know a man like you—a sole heir—should have had kids by now. You’re married, so what’s the hold up? My question stands.”

Her tone was still sort of light, teasing—but the question itself wasn’t. It was deliberate. Pressing.

Pierce exhaled softly, fingers brushing along the stem of his glass before wrapping around it fully.

“That’s what they say, isn’t it?” he murmured, swirling the wine absentmindedly. “That at my age, I should have a son by now. A Lockwood heir, perfectly molded, trained, prepared to inherit all of this and carry on the name—because that is very, very important, isn’t it?”

He gestured vaguely, like all of this encompassed more than just the estate—more than just wealth, more than just legacy.

“And yet, here I am. According to you, past my prime—without an heir. Without a family. Just another bitter old rich man pretending his money makes up for the rest.” His gaze flicked to her then—sharp, assessing, something unreadable settling behind his eyes. “That’s why I have you—to make me feel young again.”

It was meant to sound playful, teasing—he even tried to smirk. It didn’t quite land. Maeve just gave him that look telling him it just didn’t do.

“You’re what? Twenty-four, twenty-five?” he asked.

Maeve let the silence stretch just long enough before answering.

“Twenty-eight,” she said, lifting her glass. “And I take that as a compliment to my skincare routine.” She intended it lightly—but the truth of it lingered between them anyway.

The age gap between them was real, stark even. He was far closer to forty-five than twenty-five, a lifetime removed from anything resembling youth. And yet, here he was. In the middle of this anyway. Somehow. Then, slowly, his eyes lifted to hers.

“Katherine was here, wasn’t she?”

Maeve blinked, surprised, but nodded.

“You are deflecting. Answer me,” she pressed.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then—his voice was low, quiet, carrying the weight of something buried.

“I wasn’t supposed to be the heir. My older brother Victor was. But he was different. He tried to get out, to live his life on his own terms—and in the end, he lost it. Car accident. Some say it was suicide. No one knows for sure.”

A beat of silence.

“And then it was suddenly on me. That’s why I married late—I thought I was home free. My brother would carry the load. Until he wasn’t there anymore.

“So, I procrastinated, delayed—held off for as long as I could. Until my parents got tired of my nonsense, arranged my marriage, expected perfection, and guilted me into playing along. And eventually I did, because it was easier. Because I was tired of fighting them. Tired of the never-ending guilt trips. I chose the path of least resistance. Katherine is the daughter of a former senator. She never loved me, just as I never loved her. She knew exactly what she was signing up for—power, status, control. Pushed into it by her father, just as I was by mine. Noblesse oblige.”

Pierce exhaled slowly, swirling his wine, watching the deep red liquid move but never drinking it. His voice remained level—calm, practiced—but beneath it, something darker lingered.

“I married because it was easier than fighting my parents on it. Easier than enduring the stares, the whispers, the inevitable questions—about my motives, my masculinity, my sexuality, my place in the world. A Lockwood without a wife? That was unacceptable. That was suspicious. And suspicion in Brindleton Bay is a disease no one survives.”

He leaned back slightly, gaze shifting—distant now, as if recalling something long past.

“Nobody of certain standing gets out of a marriage here—no matter how bad it is. If you do, you might as well put your estate on the market and find a new home elsewhere. That’s just how it works. Divorce is for people who can afford to start over somewhere else, somewhere far away, where the whispers don’t reach. But for the rest of us? Leaving isn’t a choice—it’s an exile. And most of us don’t survive it.”

Maeve remained silent, listening.

“The only man I’ve ever seen get out of it unscathed is our good Doctor Bradford Cunningham. And make no mistake—I doubt that was all strategy, it was mostly sheer luck. The Cunninghams have always held power that made them untouchable, and even then, Brad barely made it out. A decade in a loveless marriage, trapped just like the rest of us, shoved into it by his father the same way mine forced me into this.”

Pierce exhaled softly, gaze cooling.

“He managed to claw his way out. Found something real with your cousin. Good for them. But at first, they tore Briar Rose apart—behind their backs, of course—but then, once they realized Brad wasn’t backing down, once his mother—a judge, no less—had his back… everyone just fell into line. Brad seems harmless. Nice, even. But he showed all of us exactly what he’s made of when properly motivated. He’s all Cunningham. He didn’t just leave his ex-wife behind—he threw her to the wolves. Stepped over her proverbial carcass to get out. Worked well for him and Briar Rose. Not so well for Molly and her family. They all had to flee the Bay, and I haven’t seen any of them here since before the divorce. I don’t know how—or where—she sees her kids. But it isn’t here. Make no mistake, though—Brad is the exception that proves the rule. Divorce in Brindleton Bay is lowbrow. And always will be. It’s society suicide. It stains your name permanently. Plenty of former Old Guard members never recovered. Some had to leave entirely. Did you know that Brad’s father has a sister? I know all we ever hear is how Brad was the last Cunningham before he had all those kids, but that is a lie. There are more Cunninghams, though not in name but in blood. I doubt even Brad knows. I mentioned it in passing once and he thought it was the best joke he heard. I wasn’t joking, but I am not going to open that can of worms with him.”

His fingers tightened slightly around his glass, his movements slow, deliberate, calculated.

“Either way, I know the truth about what all this is and isn’t.” His voice was lower now, rougher. “My marriage was dead before it began. But duty never dies. And I refuse to bring an innocent child into a world where they’d be raised as nothing more than another legacy piece—another name on an estate, another carefully crafted image meant to maintain power, meant to serve something that isn’t real. I have no doubt that Katherine and her family would use that child, just as much as my parents would. I won’t do that to a child. I won’t bring them into something I can’t protect them from.”

He exhaled softly, like the words had cost him something.

“The rest of us?” His lips curled slightly—bitterness laced into his voice. “We adapt. We survive. Katherine has affairs, I have affairs, nobody is bothered as long as we are discreet, and the cycle continues. That’s how this works. That’s how it has always worked.”

He looked at Maeve then, gaze unreadable, voice steady.

“Love has no place in it—only legacy, only duty. And you, Maeve? You’re standing in the middle of it now, whether you want to be or not. That is in part my fault, as you cloud my judgement the way few ever could.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them.

Then—Pierce’s gaze flickered, like something unspoken had lodged itself in his throat. He exhaled, running a hand along the edge of his glass, thoughtful now, measured.

“I’ve had plenty of affairs, Maeve. You know that. I won’t insult you by pretending otherwise. But—” He paused, jaw tightening slightly, as if weighing something heavy. “This feels different.”

His fingers drummed once against the stem of his wine glass—an unconscious movement, a slip in his carefully maintained control.

“I know how that sounds. I know it’s cliché. But I mean it. I don’t know what it is yet—I don’t know why it’s different. I don’t know how this happened, just know that it is.”

His lips parted slightly, as if he was going to say more—but then he stopped.

Instead, his gaze held hers, unwavering, searching.

“But putting a name to it? I can’t do that,” His voice was quieter now, rougher. “It would mean admitting that I can’t walk away from it.”

The words hit different, made her speechless, so she let it go, but they stuck with her. Simmered. Formulated new questions. New resolve.

Realize

Morning came, but Maeve hadn’t slept.

She lay beside him, watching his chest rise and fall in slow, steady breaths, listening to the quiet hum of dawn creeping through the windows.

But her mind raced.

She was too far gone now, too deep in something she hadn’t anticipated, hadn’t planned for, hadn’t wanted—until now.

Pierce had said something the night before, something he hadn’t meant to say.

“Putting a name to it? I can’t do that. It would mean admitting that I can’t walk away from it.” The words had stuck, refusing to loosen their hold on her, refusing to let her pretend this was just another fleeting chapter in his endless cycle of affairs.

She couldn’t forget them.

So she left the bed, slipped outside onto the patio, and watched the first light of morning stretch across the beach. She stayed here for a long time, thoughts twirling in her mind.

Footsteps behind her.

She turned, and there he was—barefoot, hair tousled, eyes still heavy with sleep, yet sharp the moment they landed on her.

He said nothing.

Just kissed her, slow and unhurried, pulling her inside.

The smell of coffee filled the kitchen as he moved with easy precision, cracking eggs, buttering toast, pouring her coffee the way she liked it.

She sat, absently stirring, playing with her food but not eating.

Pierce noticed, but said nothing—until finally, he did.

“I can hear the squeaking of the wheels turning. Care to share out loud?” he murmured, lifting his coffee to his lips.

Maeve glanced up at him.

“What do you want?”

He smirked, leaning back, stretching lazily.

“You know what I want.” He winked.

She shook her head.

“I don’t mean that. I mean what do you really want, Pierce?”

The air shifted.

His smirk faded—not completely, but enough for her to see the flicker of hesitation beneath it.

He exhaled, fingers sliding along the ceramic edge of his cup.

Flashbacks.

A reel of faces, moments, bodies entwined in silk sheets and whispers that never meant anything.
Vacations. Expensive dinners. Lavish gifts exchanged for evenings of pleasure, for stolen hours that kept him feeling young, invincible, untouchable. He had spent years with women who understood the rules—who never asked for more than he was willing to give. Who accepted their fate when he tired of them.

And then there was Maeve.

She was different.

Independently wealthy, she accepted his gifts with grace—had given him gifts in return, had paid for dinners and ice creams and quiet indulgences when no one was watching.

She had never needed him. Not to buy her lavish things, not to pay for expensive dinners, not to take her on exotic trips. She didn’t need his prestige, she had plenty of her own.

Which meant she was here because she wanted him.

And now—she was asking something no one had ever asked him before. Not even his parents.

“What I want,” he murmured, voice quieter now, heavier, “is something I shouldn’t be wanting. Something I really shouldn’t have.”

Silence settled between them. Maeve let it stretch for a beat before she spoke again.

“Do you love me?”

He inhaled sharply. Avoided her gaze. Joked. Dodged. Tried to change the subject.

But Maeve didn’t let him. She was the serious, broody type. And not easily thrown off track. She was relentless, a bloodhound, refusing to let go, refusing to let him bury the truth beneath half-smirks and distractions.

She waited. She watched. She saw his pulse flicker at his throat, the way his fingers tightened against his cup, the way his body had gone rigid, as if bracing for impact.

“Say it,” she whispered.

He swallowed.

“You already know.” He said, his tone quiet, he felt awkwardly naked before her, even though he was fully dressed.

“I do. Say it anyway.”

A pause. Then—A slow exhale, his grip tightening.

“I love you.”

It barely escaped his lips—just a breath, just a movement. But once it was out, something inside him snapped free.

A release.

A quiet, electrifying liberation.

So he said it again. Louder. And then again.

I love you, Maeve Cameron!”

And then his mouth was on hers, a kiss that stripped away every ounce of resistance, every layer of control, every carefully constructed wall he had spent years fortifying.

And suddenly the words weren’t just words anymore.

They were tangled between breath and skin and touch, spoken against lips and murmured between gasps, until everything faded into heat and surrender. He loved her. Emotionally and now also physically, as if to underline his words with actions.

Afterward, steam curled against the glass doors as they showered together, hands sliding across warm skin, kisses softer now, slower, lingering.

And later, as they dried off, as he buttoned his shirt and she combed her fingers through damp hair, Maeve caught her reflection in the mirror.

Her eyes met her own. Then, in the peripheral vision she caught Pierce, finishing the knot of his tie next to her. And she realized, something had to give. She didn’t know what, only that this time, it wasn’t going to be her.

Choice

Maeve had spent years believing love was something she had to earn—a reward she could only claim if she was good enough, careful enough, worthy enough.

And yet, every time it slipped through her fingers, she was left with the same realization:

She had been chosen, but never kept.

Every man before Pierce had been a lesson—some cruel, some forgettable, some lingering just enough to shape her, harden her, teach her exactly what she never wanted to be again. A mistake. A phase. A regret someone else walked away from unscathed.

But Pierce wasn’t a lesson.
Pierce was her decision.

She wanted him. Not the security. Not the luxury. Not the power. Him. And for the first time, Maeve wasn’t waiting to be kept—she was making sure she wouldn’t be left.

She didn’t know when the idea first solidified in her mind.

Maybe it was that next night—watching him asleep beside her. So calm. So composed. Always in control. Always untouched by consequence. Maybe it was the following day—sitting on Bri’s patio, watching her cousin laugh with her children, Brad had taken a day off work, playing hooky as he called it, smiling that boyish smile. That patchwork family, built from something far more real than bloodlines and power.

Brad’s children from his first marriage. Bri’s children from hers. Their baby, binding it all together. It wasn’t about legacy here. It was about love. Genuine, not performative.

Maeve had known Brad before he married Bri, never liked him much. Too slick, too stuffy, too perfect. But now—seeing him as he truly was, as a man who had stepped into fatherhood with intention, not obligation, who had risked everything to be with Bri—she saw him differently.

Maybe it was all of it.

Every glance, every quiet moment, every undeniable pull toward something she couldn’t logically justify but refused to resist.

But when she saw Pierce again, she knew.

She would give fate the middle finger.

It had toyed with her for too long—dangling promises of love before yanking them away, forcing her into the background, casting her as the collateral damage of other people’s choices.

Not anymore.

Now—she would rewrite the rules. And if fate wanted to play dirty, she would play worse.

She wanted Pierce Lockwood. And she knew exactly how she would keep him.

Reveal

Maeve had never arrived unannounced before.

Pierce had always been the one to dictate the rules—the timing, the circumstances. But tonight, she broke that unspoken rhythm.

She knocked once.

Then again.

And when the penthouse door swung open, he was there, brows slightly lifted in surprise, drink in hand, the city lights casting sharp angles against his features.

Before he could speak, she kissed him.

Slow at first, then deeper, her fingers curling against the collar of his shirt, the scent of whiskey and him intoxicating in a way that made reason slip.

He responded without hesitation—pulling her in, hands firm but familiar, as if this moment had always been inevitable.

When they finally broke apart, his eyes searched hers.

“Not that I mind,” he murmured, thumb tracing the edge of her jaw, “but you never just show up.”

Maeve tilted her head, lips curved slightly. “Is that a bad thing?”

He studied her for a beat, as if considering the weight of that question.

“No.”

Then he kissed her again, this time slower, deliberate, his grip tightening against her waist as they moved toward the bar.

“Drink?” he asked smoothly, already reaching for another glass.

She watched as he poured dark amber liquid into crystal—watched his certainty, his effortless control.

But when he handed it to her, she didn’t take it.

Instead, she walked past him, stepping toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing down at the pulsing city below. The sound of traffic, distant and endless, hummed through the glass.

Pierce followed, setting his own drink aside before standing beside her.

His presence was immediate—real, solid, impossible to ignore. He smelled of alcohol, heat, the quiet richness of his cologne—every single thing about him drawing her back to the moment, to why she was here.

He brushed a kiss against her shoulder, murmuring against her skin.

“You still haven’t told me.”

Maeve inhaled, reaching into her bag, fingers closing around the paper that had felt both unbearably heavy and impossibly small since she first touched it.

Without a word, she handed it to him.

Pierce took it, unfolded it.

Silence.

His breath hitched—barely noticeable, but Maeve noticed.

A flicker of something unreadable passed over his expression.

He looked up at her.

Maeve held his gaze.

Then, with quiet certainty, she spoke.

“I am pregnant.”

Unreadable.

Pierce stared at her, the weight of the revelation pressing into the space between them. Too still. Too careful.

Maeve’s pulse ticked against her throat.

She had imagined this moment. Fantasized about it—how he might smile, might hold her, might see her the way she had dreamed he would.

Instead—he poured himself another drink.

Then another.

He didn’t speak, didn’t react. Just filled the silence with the sound of liquid splashing into glass.

Maeve swallowed. “Pierce?”

Still, no response.

She stepped closer, forcing him to look at her. Her voice softened, careful. “Aren’t you… happy?”

A beat.

Then—he exhaled, slow. Calculated.

“Was it an accident?”

Her stomach dropped.

She pulled back, straightened, the words cutting deeper than they should have. “No,” she said, steady. “It wasn’t.”

Another beat.

Another drink.

Then, finally—

“You have to get rid of it.”

Maeve stilled.

It was sharp. Cold. Absolute.

She slapped him.

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stood there as she stepped back, measured him—this man she had loved, had given everything to.

“I am not one of your whores, Pierce,” she said, voice low, lethal. “This is a love child. I thought I was giving you something you’ve been denying yourself with the wrong woman.” Her throat tightened. “But clearly, I was wrong about you. Maybe I should not have done this, I know it wasn’t the right way when I was doing it, but for once, I thought about what I wanted, not what everyone else wants. It’s still a love child. My love child.”

He closed his eyes for half a second, inhaling sharply—then leveled his gaze back on her.

“Maeve,” he said, voice tight, controlled. “I explained this to you. I cannot bring a child into the life I was forced to lead.”

Her laugh was hollow, devoid of warmth.

“Forced?” she echoed, stepping backward. “Oh, please. This isn’t the Middle Ages. You’ve been living in luxury since birth, Pierce. You chose this life. You chose her. You think you are so strong, so powerful, but you have no idea what any of that really means. But you fucked around, with the wrong girl, and you will find out now. Brace yourself. Not a threat, a promise.”

The words settled between them like glass shards.

She turned to leave.

Then stopped.

Her gaze turned to ice when she met his again.

“Oh, and if you are worried about reputation or child support, relax.”

A pause.

“You do not have a child. And you won’t.” Her voice dropped, final. “I do. You see, clearly, my taste in men is horrible. And unlike you and you wife, I am not going to wait until I realize it’s too late for me to have a baby. So, it is what it is then. Such is life. Thanks for your donation.”

She held his gaze—unwavering, victorious, a woman scorched too many times to burn again.

“You had your chance, Pierce. You blew it. I will remember this very moment, when you come crawling back to me, which you will. When you beg me to see MY child. But it will be too late. See, Camerons have something Lockwoods don’t: a backbone. You have no idea who you have just fucked with, and not in the good way.”

Her chin lifted slightly, steel in her posture.

“This baby is going to be all Cameron. And where I come from, that means something. Something Lockwood could never—will never—amount to.”

She turned. Halted for a moment, looking back at him over her shoulder.

“Oh, and Lockwood, lose my number. You won’t be needing it anymore.”

And walked away.

Pierce didn’t stop her.