Weeks passed.
Radio silence.
Maeve told herself it was good.
Told herself that not hearing from him was what she wanted.
Told herself it was freedom.
But she knew better.
Because it hurt.
Because she missed him.
Because every time she reached for her phone, her pulse stuttered, waiting for something that never came. Until it did.
Then his texts started.
At first, her heart beat faster. Then she remembered how it ended. Remembered what he chose. She thought he was hers. He had a wife. One he made crystal clear he would never leave—for reasons that may or may not be valid.
Maeve ignored the texts.
Pierce: I need to talk to you.
Pierce: Maeve. Answer your phone. Or my text.
He started calling.
His calls went unanswered. Calls and messages ignored, unread, deleted, just like him. She blocked his number.
Then he started showing up.
At first, she played dead. Kept quiet. Didn’t open the door. Didn’t acknowledge his presence. If he knocked, she stayed still, breathing quiet, waiting for him to leave.
But then—he became persistent.
So she started sneaking out. If he came to the front door, she slid out the back, cutting across the sandy path from the beach to hide out at Bri’s house. If he came to the back deck, she stole out the front, disappearing before he even realized she was gone.
It was childish. But she felt it was necessary.
Until …
Leaving yoga class with Bri, Maeve rolled her shoulders, sighing at the ache settling deep in her muscles.
Beside her, Bri snorted.
“Oh, duuuude, that wasn’t downward dog—that was a very sad folding chair giving up on life.”
Maeve laughed, shaking her head. “Okay, rude. Second, it was definitely a dog. Just, y’know… one that’s been through some things. My lower back just wasn’t cooperating.”
Bri hummed knowingly. “Oh, trust me, I get that. I have kids. Meaning sometimes Brad and I just have to, y’know, be a little quicker about our… talks… in the bedroom.”
Maeve arched a brow, amused. “Oh?”
Bri nodded sagely, grinning. “Yep. Both of us have sustained mild injuries when one of the kids decided to interrupt one of our marital… talks… by suddenly banging on the bedroom door with some new drama.”
Maeve chuckled, shaking her head.
Bri smirked, shrugging. “Depending on the position while you… talk… one startled jerk motion, and—yeah. Downward dog becomes sad folding chair at yoga.”
Maeve lost it, laughing hard enough to wince at the pain in her back.
“Yeah, well,” she huffed, suppressing a grin, “I can assure you—I didn’t hurt my back during any bedroom discussions. I just slept wrong.” Maeve sighed dramatically, rubbing her lower back. “Man, if 28 feels like this, what’s 82 gonna be like? Do I just crumble into dust at that point?”
And then—
Bri’s laughter cut off.
A sharp elbow to Maeve’s ribs.
“Don’t look now, but you’ve got a fan,” Bri muttered, voice lowered. “Tall, dark, brooding. I would even go as far as call that ‘smoldering’.”
Maeve frowned, glancing up.
And saw him.
Pierce.
Leaning against his car. Watching her. Not them.
Her.
Still. Silent. Unyielding. Intensity woven into the tight lines of his posture.
Maeve exhaled sharply, flicking her gaze back to Bri.
“Why do you just assume he means me? Maybe he’s picking up someone. His wife or something.”
Bri rolled her eyes.
“Puh-lease. I have eyes. His have been locked onto you since we stepped outside. And I have yet to see Katherine at yoga.”
Maeve snorted, glancing away. “Maybe he’s staring at you. You’re in prime touring shape, and your ass looks noteworthy in those Lululemon’s. I’m sure Brad’s mentioned it.”
“Oh, he has. Which is why I never shower before going home. Why shower alone when you can, you know, dot dot dot.”
She winked, and both giggled, trying to ignore Pierce.
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t waver.
Just watched.
Until Bri sobered, voice dropping.
“Seriously, he’s kinda intense, so what do you want to do?” she whispered. “We can go back inside, wait him out. I can call Brad and have him swing by, he’s working from home anyway. Or we can go back inside and have security escort us to my car.”
Maeve sighed.
“No, that’s silly. I’ve been playing hide and seek with him, and I know it’s childish. Just… give me a minute. I’ll catch up.”
“You sure?”
Maeve nodded, ignoring the uneven beat of her pulse.
“What’s the worst that could happen? Harsh words? He’s not the impulsive type,” She scoffed. “Doubt he’d do that publicly. And I’d love to give him a piece of my mind too. Considering that for months now he and I, well, I’m sure you can fill in the blanks.”
“I can.” Bri eyed her knowingly. “But thanks for finally fessing up. Kinda. We’re gonna talk about you filling in the rest of the blanks later.”
Bri breezed past Pierce with mock cheer, throwing him an exaggerated smirk.
“Hi, Pierce. Bye, Pierce.”
Pierce looked taken aback, shifting slightly as Maeve approached.
Pierce stepped forward.
“You told her?”
Maeve’s eyes narrowed.
That was what he cared about? His biggest concern in all of this was her telling someone about them?
Instant anger flooded her veins.
“Oh, yeah,” she deadpanned. “She helped me draft the press statement for the baby announcement. Just in time for the prime-time ad slot this week. We’ll both be famous. Yay.” Her tone oozes sarcasm.
Pierce exhaled sharply, gaze dark, weighted.
“Maeve.”
Maeve didn’t budge.
Her words were measured.
Her stance unwavering.
Pierce’s jaw tightened, eyes flashing with something she couldn’t quite pin down—anger, frustration, desperation.
“No, I haven’t exactly run down the dirt with her, but Bri has had children,” she said flatly. “She picked up on it fast—because, shocker, women tend to notice when their friend suddenly starts resembling a fertility ad. Boobs get bigger, inexplicable nausea attacks, sensitivity to smells and tastes, odd mood swings. And while I’m not visibly pregnant yet, the signs are there. Was I supposed to lie now, then awkwardly explain my huge baby bump 20 or 30 weeks from now, when I’m shuffling around in oversized Mumus like I’ve given up on life? And I’m pretty sure she suspects you—especially when you’re about as subtle as a wrecking ball.”
Pierce’s lips pressed into a thin line, fingers curling like he was holding back a reaction. Maeve gave a low, humorless laugh, shaking her head.
“And then there’s your inspired attempt at legal intimidation.” Her eyes narrowed.
His spine stiffened.
“You actually tried to sue for a paternity test,” she continued, voice edged with ice. “After telling me to CTRL-ALT-DELETE my baby from your life.”
The words hit their mark—she saw it in the way his jaw twitched, the way his fingers flexed, like he was swallowing whatever retort threatened to surface.
“I know that was just one of your scare tactics. Did you forget Bri’s twin is an attorney?”
Pierce exhaled sharply, tension coiling beneath his skin.
Maeve tilted her head.
“Both are my cousins. Both are people I trust. I wouldn’t have told anyone anything until it became painfully obvious—but you left me no choice.”
She let that hang.
Pierce held her gaze, something fractured in his eyes—something worn, something dangerously close to regret.
Maeve didn’t care.
“I kept your name out of it,” she said. “But after receiving your attorney’s little love letter, I asked Iris to check my options. You know the rest.”
A beat.
“You have no legal leg to stand on regarding my pregnancy,” she continued, voice flat, final—like the snap of a deadbolt. “Nobody ever knew about us. No one besides me can verify you have anything to do with this. And I’m not going to. Far as I’m concerned, my pregnancy was some version of immaculate conception. Or just a particularly forgettable one-night stand.”
She took a step forward.
Eyes locked. No escape.
“So tell me—what’s your next move?”
Her eyes flashed.
“You gonna sue me again?” she challenged, voice razor-sharp. “Because if you do, this goes public—and I will bury you beneath it.”
Pierce’s reaction? Fractured. The words hit hard. Not just because they were true. But because they were final. Maeve wasn’t flinching. Wasn’t backing down. Wasn’t letting him win.
And Pierce?
He had run out of ways to pretend he was in control. His throat worked, words stuck behind his teeth.
“I—”
Maeve didn’t so much as blink.
“You what?”
Pierce exhaled.
“I shouldn’t have done that.”
She arched a brow, unimpressed.
“Which part?”
A beat.
“All of it,” he admitted, voice low, rough, like the confession had cost him something.
What did he mean? The affair? The way it ended? The way he treated her after?
Or was it something else—something bigger—something she had refused to let herself consider because it hurt too much?
The baby.
Did he mean the baby?
Did he regret it? Wish it had never happened?
Or—
Did he regret rejecting it? Regret the moment she told him? The way he shut down, lashed out, turned away?
Did he regret the cruelty of his first reaction, the way he made her feel like she had been alone from the start?
Her pulse kicked, the weight of that possibility pressing down on her.
Silence stretched. Not an apology. Not enough. But maybe, just maybe—the first crack in his armor.
Maeve turned to walk away.
Pierce moved. Too fast.
Fingers curled around her wrist.
She yanked back, eyes flashing a warning. He released her instantly, hands lifting, expression flickering with something dangerously close to regret.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Maeve, please. I don’t want this to be a war. I need to speak to you. Privately. Not here. Can I come by your house later? Will you finally answer?”
A beat.
She should walk away. She could walk away.
But curiosity—damn curiosity—itched at her.
Fine. Let’s make him work for it.
She tilted her head, mock-sweet. “My house? Oh, how generous. Are you coming as yourself, or should I expect some kind of landlord inspection? Maybe a friendly reminder about the rent? Yeah, no, let’s just not.”
Then, with no real intention of waiting, she rattled off an arbitrary meeting spot—somewhere uncomfortable, somewhere he wouldn’t actually show up to.
Half-intending to stand him up. Half-knowing she wouldn’t.
Pierce nodded, expression unreadable.
Turned. Got in his car. And left.
Maeve exhaled sharply, turning back toward Bri—who was already watching like a hawk.
Bri leaned against her car, arms crossed, smirking.
“What was that about?” she asked, eyes glinting with curiosity as she slid into the driver’s seat.
Maeve shrugged, slipping into the passenger seat.
“Random stuff.”
Bri snorted, clicking her seatbelt into place but not starting the engine.
“Maeve. Come on. He’s the baby daddy, isn’t he? Don’t even try to deny it. I saw how you made him squirm.”
Maeve rolled her eyes, shifting in her seat.
Bri’s smirk deepened.
“I know all of the Old Guard, and I know none of them just squirm. Unless someone’s got serious dirt on them.” She tilted her head, studying Maeve. “Duuuuuude. He has affairs, that’s an open secret, but according to Brad, he likes young, dumb, impressionable gold-digger types—not a girl like you.”
Maeve scoffed. “Well, guess I expanded his horizons—from brainless arm candy TikTok crowd to a walking existential crisis in heels who can actually read and calls him out on his bullshit. Yay me.”
Bri snorted. “I didn’t peg you for a guy like him.” Her eyebrows shot skyward, judgment lighting her expression. “I mean, I totally get why you tapped that—most women wouldn’t kick him out of bed—but, umm, hello, he’s married. People here don’t just divorce. This has ‘absolute disaster’ spray-painted in neon all over it.”
Maeve’s jaw tightened. “Tell me about it.”
Bri wasn’t done.
“So, if you wanted a no-strings-attached thrill, you really should’ve been more adamant about using protection.”
Maeve’s stare sharpened. “That’s the point—I wanted the baby, okay? Still do. This wasn’t an accident. Just don’t want the dude anymore, ’cause he turned out to be another dud, which, let’s be real, seems to be my type.”
Bri nearly choked. “You got knocked up on purpose?! Oh for heaven’s sake, Maeve!”
Maeve exhaled sharply, pinning her with a stare.
“Oh, wow—that’s rich, coming from you,” she deadpanned.
Bri snickered, but Maeve wasn’t about to let her off easy.
“Let’s review your immaculate track record with protection, shall we?” Maeve drawled. “First, we have the two kids from husband number one—and two, because apparently, you just had to go back for seconds with Jackson Kershaw. Your birth control was so effective it led straight to a last-minute wedding with the cowboy in that backwoods chapel in Chestnut Ridge on your way to the delivery room. Oh wait—you didn’t quite make it, so you shat the twins out in the prairie by a crackling fire way out yonder, like some kind of frontier legend.”
Bri wheeled around, cackling, but Maeve wasn’t done.
“And because dramatic labor stories are apparently your brand, you practically did the same again with Brad. Except this time, first-class style—you actually made it to the first dance at the exclusive country club wedding before getting hauled off to the delivery room.”
Bri threw her head back, laughing. “Okay, fair.”
Maeve leaned in, eyes gleaming.
“Oh, and let’s not forget—you got pregnant by Brad while he was still married.”
Bri shrugged, utterly unapologetic.
“Look, this is one of those do as I say, not as I did situations.”
Maeve groaned, rubbing her temples like this entire conversation had shaved years off her life expectancy.
Bri’s voice softened, cutting through the humor.
“Maeve, I love you, but this—whatever this is—is gonna leave a mark. It’s messy.”
Maeve stared out the window, fingers drumming against her thigh.
Bri sighed.
“You have to go,” she said simply. “Meet him. Find out what he wants. If you don’t—” She gave Maeve a pointed look. “I will.”
Maeve smirked. “You don’t even know where.”
Bri scoffed. “Please. I am not above torture tactics. I grew up with Iris as my twin sister—she will be the first to admit that if you look up ‘bitch’ in the dictionary, you find her picture. I got moves, man. Marvel Universe type villain-level moves.”
Maeve rolled her eyes, suppressing a giggle. “Jeeze, okay, okay. I’m going. Chill, woman.”
***
So, Maeve went.
Pierce pleaded.
Not just for the chance to see her, but to be involved. To be there. To witness every step of this thing he never wanted, yet somehow couldn’t ignore.
To claw back a shred of control in a situation that had left him utterly—shockingly—powerless.
Maeve didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften.
She played dumb.
“Oh?” She tilted her head, voice cool—mocking. “You have a baby? Congrats.”
Pierce exhaled sharply, frustration rippling through his stance like an earthquake barely contained beneath polished floors and custom-tailored control.
“Maeve. Come on.”
His voice was tight. Raw. Edged with something desperate. But Maeve wasn’t interested in desperation—at least, not his.
And she was especially enjoying the setting she’d forced him into.
The chaotic pastel nightmare of a cat café.
The air smelled like artificial vanilla and cat fur. The menu was offensively cutesy, featuring drinks like Meow-garitas and Whiskerlicious Mochas. Giggling college girls and tourists took selfies with wide-eyed Persians, while a rotund tabby had taken a sudden interest in Pierce’s Italian leather shoes—rubbing up against his ankle like it owned him.
Pierce, the man who negotiated multimillion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat, looked so profoundly out of his depth that Maeve nearly—nearly—laughed.
“Wow,” she mused, sipping her Iced Cat-puccino through a heart-shaped straw. “You actually showed up. You must really want this conversation.”
Pierce exhaled sharply, dodging a Siamese that leapt onto the table next to him. His jaw tightened.
Meave was enjoying this way too much.
The Siamese, undeterred, stretched luxuriously across the tabletop, its tail flicking dangerously close to Pierce’s perfectly pressed sleeve.
And—because the universe had a wicked sense of humor—it nearly swiped through his drink.
A terrible drink.
A bright purple, sugar-loaded abomination called The Purr-ple Majesty, complete with an obnoxious curly straw, a sprinkle-coated rim, and a tiny marshmallow paw print floating in the foam.
Pierce had ordered it in a half-hearted attempt to blend in.
He was visibly regretting that choice.
Now, the cat sniffed at it, clearly contemplating either knocking it off the table or dipping its paw directly into the violet monstrosity, and Pierce, for once in his life, panicked.
He moved to shield his drink.
Big mistake.
The café employee materialized instantly.
“Sir.” Her voice was firm, practiced—judgmental. Arms crossed, an air of polite but terrifying authority radiating off her in waves.
Pierce barely turned before she was on him.
“We have very clear rules.” She gestured toward a laminated House Rules sign, covered in little cat illustrations. “No touching. No taunting. No disturbing the cats.”
Maeve had to physically fight a grin.
Pierce, CEO, dealmaker, unmovable force, had just been scolded in a cat café—for defending his sugar-coated nightmare drink.
“This one was about to put its paw in my—” He gestured vaguely at the bright purple disaster in a glass, like he was deeply ashamed of it.
The employee did not care.
“If the cat chooses your drink,” she said, perfectly composed, “it’s also an honor. No need to worry, sir—all our drinks are completely safe for the cats. And if they aren’t, they come with firm lids—like the lady’s.”
She gestured toward Maeve’s securely sealed Cat-puccino.
Maeve lost it.
She stirred her drink with the straw, utterly basking in his corporate misery, while the cat deliberately flicked its tail closer to Pierce’s glass—like it was fully considering how far it could push him.
Pierce did not attempt another move.
Maeve leaned back, glowing.
“So,” she drawled, barely suppressing her laughter, “do you want to continue, chosen one, or are you too busy defending your royal purple disgrace?”
For a beat, the absurdity of it all hung in the air—the pastel walls, the gleeful tourists, the rules, the sugar-coated mortification. Maeve could see it—the moment reality snapped back into place for him.
Pierce exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face, and when he finally looked at her again—it was different.
The humor had drained.
The tension shifted.
Something heavier settled between them.
“I know you’re upset,” he pressed, like proximity would somehow help him reclaim some control. “I made a mistake. I hurt you deeply, unintentionally. I was caught off guard. You KNOW why. You KNOW I have valid reasons. You know I did everything to avoid children. I let my guard down with you—” His voice hitched, like the realization of that was just now dawning on him. “And here we are.”
Maeve’s expression didn’t change.
“I still think this is a mistake,” he admitted, voice quieter, frayed at the edges.
Maeve felt that one.
Felt it land—sharp as glass, digging into old wounds like it belonged there. But instead of reacting, instead of letting him see how deep that cut went,
She smiled.
Cool. Detached. Cruel, if she wanted it to be.
“But you just can’t walk away. Because … reasons.” She sighed, mock-wearied, like she had heard this speech a hundred times before. “Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah. And you wonder why I avoided seeing you. It’s because of THIS. Pointless. Waste of both our time,” she finished for him, voice dripping with mockery, reciting his own script back to him like a well-rehearsed joke.
A beat.
Pierce’s jaw tightened.
Maeve tilted her head, voice soft—almost too soft. “Why are we even talking about this? What is your point here? We’re just going round in circles.”
Pierce’s throat worked, but Maeve wasn’t done.
“I told you my take,” she said, voice steady, unwavering. “You know my stance. It has not changed. It will not change.” Her gaze hardened—something cold, absolute. “You cannot bully me into changing it. You cannot beg me into changing it. You cannot rewrite this story to suit yourself.” She let the words settle, let the weight of them press down before she finally—finally—said the thing she’d been holding back.
“You told me you loved me. And you knew—you KNEW—I loved you, too.” Her voice didn’t waver, but it wasn’t cold. It was honest. Sharp. Precise. Unforgiving—but not cruel. “But clearly, what that means is very different for each of us.”
A slow, deliberate pause.
“I know you’re worried about me going public, ruining your reputation, your image, your marriage, your life. Or wanting money. Rest easy—I do not.” Her words were measured, absolute, sharp enough to slice through the silence suffocating them both. “I don’t want any of that. And I want nothing from you. Not anymore. All I ever wanted was you. The man. Not the name, the money, the legacy. Just you. But you couldn’t give me that, so I took a part of you, one you won’t even miss.”
Her arms crossed tighter. Her posture stiffened.
Something flickered in his expression—something dangerously close to hesitation.
But Maeve wasn’t done. “I have been here before. Loved men, who didn’t love me back—not enough. Left me with nothing. At least you left me with something, albeit not willingly. But you can’t take it back now.”
Her voice was steady, controlled. But there was something fractured beneath it. Something refusing to break.
“Honestly? I should have regrets. I know the way I did this wasn’t 100% right. But I do not.”
Pierce inhaled sharply, gaze too sharp, like he was trying to find something in her—some trace that she was lying.
She wasn’t.
“I want this child,” she said simply. “I am at a good age to have a child. I can’t wait forever for a man to come along who finally loves me back the way I do. Maybe I pour too much of myself into relationships too quickly. But now, I will have someone to love. You can’t take that from me.”
A pause.
A breath.
A line drawn in the proverbial sand.
“So, what do you want, Pierce?” She tilted her head, voice flat. Cutting. “A thank-you note for your genetic contribution?”
The tension between them crackled, silence stretching too tight.
Maeve exhaled slowly, then pushed her chair back, the legs scraping against the pastel-tiled floor like a final punctuation mark.
“I don’t know how else to make it clear to you,” she said, rising to her feet, grabbing her bag without ceremony. “You are out. No strings attached—just how you like it. You’re free.”
Pierce barely moved. The words landed, heavy. Final.
Silence stretched. A heartbeat. Two.
Then—she turned. Walked away. Left him sitting there for a moment, stiff, unreadable, before he finally stood, the reluctant shuffle of his chair nearly drowned out by the cheerful hum of the café and the soft thump of a cat launching itself onto his abandoned seat.
Maeve didn’t look back.
She stepped out into the fresh air, crossed the street, slid into her car.
And left.
Maeve didn’t let herself think about it.
Didn’t dwell.
Didn’t wonder if he had stood there long after she left, stiff, horrified, drowning in the unfamiliar sensation of losing.
She forced herself forward.
A new day. A clean slate.
Nothing lingering, nothing chasing her, nothing pressing against the edges of her peace
***
The summer sun pressed against her skin, warm, lazy, indulgent—the kind of heat that tricked her into believing the world was still simple, still hers. The crash of waves mixed with the distant chatter of beachgoers below, the rustling of leaves whispering along the deck.
Maeve stretched, adjusting on the lounge chair, the fabric smooth against her bare legs, bikini straps loose over her shoulders. The moment was hers, untouched, uncomplicated—until it wasn’t.
The sound was wrong. Not the wind. Not the shuffle of wildlife. Footsteps.
Her pulse spiked, body reacting before thought, muscles tensing as she bolted upright—too late.
Pierce was there. On her deck.
The sun illuminated the tight lines of his jaw, the way his shoulders carried too much weight, the way he looked like a man who had already lost, yet still hadn’t accepted it. Maeve moved—fast. Instinct kicking in, legs swinging off the lounge chair, rushing for the sliding glass door, putting distance between them—distance she had worked to build these past weeks.
But he stepped in her way. Solid. Unyielding. Close. Too close.
Her breath hitched—barely—but enough for her to notice, enough for her to hate that she noticed. That scent. Cologne. Aftershave. Him. The same one that used to linger on her skin after nights wrapped around him, the same one she had buried in laundry detergent and air fresheners, scrubbing away every trace.
The proximity hit differently now—unnatural, jarring, all wrong, but something in her body hadn’t gotten the memo. She wanted to touch him. Press herself against him. Feel him again.
No. Wait. No. What?!
She wanted to step back. Wanted to put space between them. But in the smallest, most traitorous corner of herself—she wanted to reach out. Just for a second. Just to feel something familiar. Just to feel … him. The warmth of him, the way touching him had never felt awkward or forced, the way it had always been effortless—until now.
She fought the impulse. She hated the impulse.
His hand lifted. An envelope. No demands. No threats. Just paper.
Maeve hesitated, gaze flickering between him and what he was offering. Then—resigned—she snatched it, fingers tightening along the edges as she unfolded it.
Her stomach lurched. A deed. To her rental. Signed over. In her name. A peace offering.
Her jaw locked as her gaze snapped back to him, sharp enough to slice through whatever weak attempt at reconciliation this was.
Pierce swallowed hard, voice rough, strained—like the words cost him.
“For my child,” he murmured. A pause. “And for the only woman I ever truly loved.”
Silence stretched between them. Sharp as glass.
Maeve clenched her jaw, nails digging into the document, into the weight of what this meant, into the history between them that refused to stay buried. “You don’t have a child. And the woman you really love is probably at your fancy mansion. ’Cause I ain’t seeing her around here.”
His throat worked, emotion flickering in his gaze. A crack. A hesitation. A hint of something that shouldn’t still be there.
“Please, Maeve. Can we not do this?”
Her laugh was sharp, humorless, breaking the air like a snap of thunder.
“Oh, we’re doing this.” She leaned forward, voice mockingly sweet, gaze dangerously sharp. Pushing him. Seeing how far she could go before he snapped. “And how will your wifey feel about you giving away this house like candy? And to me, of all people. You know she knows that you and I have been fucking …”
Pierce barely hesitated. “The estate and investment properties are mine. Besides, I don’t care what she thinks about it. I don’t have to ask permission.”
Maeve scoffed, shaking her head, exhaling sharply. That answer. That certainty. That confidence that once made her feel chosen—special—now only irritated her.
“I don’t want a gift, especially of this magnitude. But I will buy it from you, outright. I was actually thinking about how to bring that up.” She paused, letting the words sink in, making sure he understood the boundary clearly. Firm. Final. A line drawn in stone. “I want to make changes to this house, turn it into a real home, but I don’t want to break lease or end up evicted because I’m a thorn in the Lockwoods’ side.”
Pierce’s eyes flashed, voice quick, immediate, unwavering. “I wouldn’t put you out like that! I am not a monster! Just take the gift.”
Maeve’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “No. I buy it, or you can keep the house. And as for what you would and wouldn’t do … there were a lot of things I thought you wouldn’t do,” she murmured, tilting her head. “And things I thought you would do. I was wrong on all counts.”
They fought. Again. Sharp words, tight voices, accusations, arguments that twisted and turned, circling the same wounds, never quite healing, never quite finding solid ground. Always picking at the scabs.
But eventually—
They ran out of things to throw at each other.
So, they talked.
And somewhere in the wreckage of their history, something shifted.
Not forgiveness. Not yet.
But something.
Maybe pity.
Maybe understanding.
Or maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t as immune to him as she wanted to be. And clearly, he had tried to walk away but couldn’t either.
When he left that day, it had been the first time since their falling out that they actually talked in a way that mattered.
A shift. A fracture.
A crack in the walls neither of them had meant to build.
***
Another day, another visit.
Maeve opened the door, her expression shifting before she even realized it—the smallest flicker of disappointment flashing across her face. She had clearly been expecting someone else.
“Oh,” she muttered, voice flat. “It’s you.”
Pierce caught it—the change, the subtle drop in her tone. And it stung. More than he wanted to admit.
But instead of reacting, he forced a weak smirk, trying to joke through the sting. “Yeah, me again. Someone once told me I was very persistent.”
Maeve arched a brow, unimpressed. “I’m sure I wasn’t the first or the last,” she said dryly. “Same as with warming your bed. Just one in a long line for both.”
Pierce exhaled slowly, ignoring the jab. Said nothing. So she did.
“What do you want this time?”
Pierce steeled himself before speaking. “Can we talk?”
Maeve leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “About what?”
Before he could answer, movement caught his attention.
A cream-colored Himalayan cat padded up to him, rubbing against his ankles, tail flicking lazily.
Maeve halted instantly.
“Interesting.” Her gaze sharpened. “He doesn’t like anybody new. Especially men.”
Pierce glanced down, extending a careful hand. The cat sniffed his fingers—slow, cautious. Then, unexpectedly, the feline rubbed against him, nudging his palm.
Maeve blinked, caught off guard.
Pierce smirked, crouching slightly as he lifted the cat into his arms, cradling him effortlessly. The cat settled against him without protest, purring like they’d known each other for years.
A pause.
Maeve sighed, reluctantly, but stepped aside.
Pierce was in.
He glanced around as she closed the door behind him. “When did you get a cat?”
Maeve scoffed; arms still crossed. “You’re not about to recite some pet clause in the lease agreement to me, are you?”
A smirk. “How? You now own the place, remember? Bought and paid for, per your insistence, pending finalization of the official title transfer—once the county recorder processes it, updates the deed, and all the paperwork clears.”
Maeve rolled her eyes. “Right. Well, that’s Nugget,” she muttered, nodding toward the cat still nestled against Pierce’s arm. “My mother’s cat. She couldn’t keep him—my parents moved in with my grandparents at their Del Sol Valley mansion, grandpa loves big dogs, grandma won’t let him get a new one, so he keeps puppysitting big dogs for friends and family. All of which apparently tried to turn Nugget into brunch. On top of that Nugget and my dad really don’t get along. So… now I have a cat.”
Pierce scratched behind Nugget’s ear, earning another purr. “You always struck me as more of a dog person.”
Maeve shrugged. “I am. But what was I supposed to do—let him get eaten? He isn’t the smartest tool in the shed, and kinda annoying sometimes, but I’d rather not have his untimely demise on my conscience.”
“You’ve got a soft streak.” He laughed up briefly, then got serious “Maybe that could mean you are ready to take pity on me.”
“Don’t push it.”
A small smile tugged at his lips—but then it faded.
He cleared his throat, voice quieter now, raw. “Since you’re in such a forgiving mood, maybe you could hear me out on something?”
Maeve tensed.
Pierce hesitated, then pressed on. “Maeve, I know all of this is one huge debacle. But I miss you. I can’t stay away, knowing full well this is going to be my downfall. But I really would like to… to see him or her grow.” His voice cracked slightly—just enough to make her notice, but not enough to make her soften.
“I can’t explain,” he went on, exhaling sharply, frustration curling into his tone. “I never wanted children. You know that. You know why. I hashed it out with you a thousand times—spelled it out, made it clear. I thought you understood, but, obviously you didn’t. But now that it’s happened… I can’t just turn my back and pretend it didn’t. Have you been to the doctor lately?”
Maeve’s posture stiffened immediately.
Her eyes locked onto his—sharp, assessing.
“I see a doctor all the time,” she said flatly. “Have one living next door.”
A pause.
“Maeve, I meant—”
A knock on the door interrupted. Maeve turned away without another word, pulling it open.
Two figures stepped inside, and before Pierce could fully register them, Maeve was already moving—swept up into a tight embrace, arms wrapping around her as a delighted squeal filled the space.
“Oh, sweetheart!” The female visitor gushed, pressing a kiss to Maeve’s cheek before holding her at arm’s length, eyes scanning her with sharp scrutiny.
The male one wasn’t far behind, pulling Maeve in for a firm hug and clapping her back with a fond chuckle. “Missed you, kid.”
Laughter bubbled between them, easy and familiar, as Maeve exchanged affectionate greetings with the pair. The warmth in the air was undeniable—until the woman’s gaze flickered past Maeve, her expression shifting slightly in curiosity.
Maeve exhaled, composing herself, before turning to Pierce. “Mom, Dad, this is Pierce Lockwood. Pierce, my parents—Gavin and Bianca Cameron.”
No introduction was truly necessary. The resemblance was unmistakable—the sharp Cameron eyes, the commanding posture, the kind of presence that filled a room without asking permission. Maeve had her mother’s coloring, her father’s chin, and enough fire for two.
Bianca was the first to speak, eyes sweeping over Pierce with a discerning gaze, lips curving in something between approval and amusement. She hummed, tilting her head, weighing him like a rare find at a private auction.
“Mamma mia, sei bello! Handsome, handsome,” she mused, as if debating whether he belonged behind glass or between the covers of a scandalous novel.
Then—without hesitation—
“Un po’ vecchio, ma… bit old though,” She waved a hand, dismissing her own critique with a casual shrug. “Oh well, age isn’t everything. I suppose he’s got a certain charm. Then again, I married a younger man—who am I to judge age gaps?”
Her assessment didn’t stop there. Bianca took another step forward, sharp eyes narrowing slightly, as if inspecting him under a different light.
“Hmm. Good posture, strong jawline—decent taste in suits,” she murmured, eyes flicking to Maeve with a knowing smirk. “And you like cats. And that one in particular likes you, big bonus, sweet Nuggie doesn’t like most men. Nothing softens a woman’s heart faster than a man who loves animals.”
Maeve groaned, visibly regretting every life choice that led her to opening the damn door.
“Mom—”
But Bianca had already moved on, shifting abruptly to Nugget, still nestled comfortably in Pierce’s arms, utterly unbothered by the drama unfolding around him.
Her previous interest in Pierce was immediately obliterated.
Her expression transformed, eyes bright, grin spreading as she cooed dramatically, voice dropping into an absurd baby tone.
“Ohhh, my sweet little Nuggie-Wuggie! Amore mio! My brave little prince! Tesoro bello! Has Maevy-Waevy been nicey-wicey, or has she been her usual brooding storm cloud self? Hmm? Sì, sì, I know she has!”
Maeve closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, exhaled sharply, visibly restraining herself from launching herself out the window.
Pierce held back a smirk, thoroughly entertained.
Nugget, meanwhile, purred smugly, positively thriving under Bianca’s unrelenting devotion, basking in his power over her like a tiny, fluffy god-king.
Then—without a single ounce of warning—Bianca roughly grabbed Nugget from Pierce’s arms, lavishing even more adoration on the feline as she cuddled him tight against her chest.
Pierce stilled, not entirely sure what just happened.
Then Gavin—finally taking mercy on his daughter—spoke.
“Bee,” he said simply, voice level, cutting through her relentless stream of nonsense with effortless precision. “Didn’t you want to show Maeve how to make lasagna?”
Bianca froze mid-coo, blinking—then gasped dramatically, lifting her chin in realization.
“Oh! Giusto! Grazie, tesoro!”
She turned—instinctively moving to hand Nugget to Gavin, but he barely shifted away before she could do it, face neutral, yet undeniably reluctant.
Nugget instantly reacted, bristling like he’d been thrown into enemy territory, hissing, tail puffed like a bottle brush, his entire tiny body on high alert.
Gavin exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing in equal dislike.
A tense, immediate, mutual loathing settled in the air between man and cat.
Bianca—completely unbothered—shrugged and unceremoniously dumped Nugget back into Pierce’s arms instead.
Pierce barely caught him, adjusting quickly as the cat sprawled out, looking very much pleased with himself for avoiding Gavin’s grasp.
“Here, you hold him. I have work to do.”
Then, without hesitation, Bianca grabbed Maeve by the arm, dragging her toward the kitchen with zero concern for protests.
Maeve tried to stay planted, arms crossed, feet firmly grounded.
Bianca didn’t care.
She dragged her anyway.
Maeve stumbled, resisting as much as humanly possible, glaring at Pierce over her shoulder—part warning, part pure exasperation.
Pierce, of course, was thoroughly enjoying every second of this, smirking while petting the cat like some villain orchestrating chaos.
Bianca barely made it two steps into the kitchen before she zeroed in on her next target—Maeve’s horrifically insufficient kitchen supplies.
A drawer flew open.
BAM!
Another.
BAM!
A cabinet door slammed.
BAM!
Bianca sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening in sheer horror as she scanned the empty, desolate wasteland that was Maeve’s kitchen. A string of rapid-fire Tartosian poured from her lips, something that sounded suspiciously like either a prayer or a curse.
“No! No! NO!” She clutched her chest as if personally wounded. “Madonna santa! Ma che cosa è questo?! Where is your whisk?! Dio mio! Do you not own a whisk?!”
She spun, eyes blazing, as if Maeve had committed treason against all of humanity.
Maeve groaned, tilting her head back in agony. “What would I need a whisk for, Mother? To beat the shitshow that is my life into a fluffy soufflé of disappointment—then emulsify my string of bad decisions into a smooth, velvety regret, before gently folding in my terrible choices until the texture is a silky, seamless disaster?”
Silence.
Then, Gavin snorted—loudly.
Pierce choked on a laugh, barely disguising it as a well-placed cough.
Bianca gasped, clutching her chest like she had just witnessed a heinous crime. “Vergogna! Shame! You think this is funny? You have no tools? No basics? No decent kitchen items? How do you even survive?! This is barbaric! Unacceptable! I will be back next week to take you shopping! Gavin, we need a rental car—no, we need an SUV! Big trunk!”
Maeve blinked, unbothered. “I have a fork. That’s all the tools I need. I most definitely do not need a fleet of kitchen gadgets.”
Bianca gasped again—double the scandal.
Maeve threw up her hands. “What do you want from me? I live on takeout and microwave meals, Mother. Do I look like I’m out here whipping up soufflés?”
Bianca exhaled sharply, shaking her head as if she had just found evidence of culinary malpractice. “Una tragedia. A disgrace. If I die tomorrow, it will be because my daughter has betrayed our ancestors.”
Maeve rolled her eyes. “I don’t think they care, Mom, seeing as they’re long dead. At least the side of the family who would even remotely care about food prep.”
Bianca whipped around, scandalized. “My ancestors care about everything! They are watching over us. And you have them rolling in their graves, shaking their heads, preparing to haunt you! Dio mio, is this PLASTIC?!”
Bianca acted as if she had just uncovered an ancient curse.
Gavin chuckled, clapping Pierce on the back. “I’d offer you popcorn for the show, but I fear for my safety if I enter that kitchen.”
Bianca waved a hand, muttering under her breath, already scheming a full-scale intervention against plastic utensils—possibly with an exorcism thrown in for good measure.
In the living room, Pierce glanced at Gavin—how he was standing quiet, composed, observing rather than entertaining. It was familiar. As if looking into a mirror, even though they didn’t favor each other visually, but in every other aspect Maeve had picked a man just like her father. The realization was subtle, but undeniable.
A beat of quiet passed between them—an unspoken understanding.
Gavin sighed, leaning against the railing.
“I love my girls,” he said, tone even, steady, unapologetic. “My Bianca and my Maeve, but they can be… a lot. Especially together. My boy is just like me, chill. But my wife and daughter can be combustible. And stubborn. So stubborn. I’ll say this for Maeve though, she’s a smart one. My wife, well, I love my Bee, but she is a bit slow on the uptake, takes her 2 hours to watch 60 Minutes if you catch my drift.””
Pierce smirked, nodding once.
“Drift caught and yes, I have noticed that Maeve has a fiery side.”
Gavin paused.
Then, smoothly, effortlessly, he turned to Pierce—expression unchanged, unreadable, but his words were firm.
“Come on, Lockwood,” he said, nodding toward the patio doors.
“We need to talk. Man to man.”
Pierce hesitated—but followed.
***
The second they stepped outside, Gavin plucked Nugget from Pierce’s arms.
The cat responded violently—claws digging deep, earning a sharp hiss of pain from Gavin as he dumped him unceremoniously inside, quickly slamming the door shut before the furball could retaliate.
Nugget pressed his face to the glass, tail flicking in irritation, his long, slow, dramatic meow clearly a vocal protest against injustice.
Gavin exhaled sharply, shaking out his hand, inspecting the damage.
Then—scowling—he muttered, half under his breath—
“Fucking cat. Dumber than a duck turd, but aggressive like a bobcat with its dick caught in an electric fence.”
Pierce choked back a laugh, caught completely off guard by the phrasing, because Gavin was deceptively composed, calm, measured. But clearly, he had a different side.
Then he shrugged and smirked at Pierce.
“That cat is an idiot,” he said simply, voice easy, flicking invisible lint from his shirt. “One hundred percent indoor only. The moment it sets paw outside the safety of containment it tries to off itself by running underneath the next car or off a cliff.”
Pierce exhaled sharply, gaze sharpening.
“You need a bandage for that scratch? Some antiseptic, maybe even a pain pill?” he asked, voice carefully neutral. “Looked mean, he got you good.”
Gavin exhaled sharply, shaking out his wrist, inspecting the damage. His brow furrowed as he tugged at his sleeve—torn, the fabric frayed, the threads split where Nugget had fought like a demon possessed.
“Damn furry asshole! This is one of my favorite sweaters, or rather was, ruined now. I have half a mind to shave that damn furball as payback.”
Pierce saw the blood first—smears of dried red streaking the inside of Gavin’s cuff.
Then—Gavin pushed the sleeve up, revealing his forearm.
Pierce stilled.
The scratches were gone.
The skin smooth, unmarked—except for where streaks of dried blood still clung to the fabric, evidence of wounds that had, by all logic, been there moments ago.
Something crawled up the back of Pierce’s neck—an instinctive flicker of unease, something unnatural about watching an injury simply… disappear.
Gavin rolled his wrist, utterly unbothered, flexing his fingers like the whole ordeal was hardly worth acknowledging.
“I hate cats,” he muttered, shaking his head.
“That leads right up to my… let’s call it fatherly advice, Lockwood,” he murmured, his tone too casual, too smooth, the kind of ease that felt intentional. “I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, but let this be a reminder—do not mess with my little girl. I look harmless, and I pretty much am, until I am not. Tread lightly.”
Pierce swallowed.
“Mr. Cameron, I—”
Gavin cut him off with a wave of his hand.
“Yeah, I heal quickly. Let’s get to the elephant in the room: No explanations needed. I am not blaming you for anything.” His voice was level, calm, devoid of judgment—but weighted nonetheless. “I know my daughter, and Maeve told us everything. She’s very honest—always has been. Bee and I have our own opinions, but Maeve is an adult, and we’re not in a position to be high and mighty about her choices.”
Pierce hesitated.
But he listened.
Gavin leaned against the railing, gaze unwavering.
“So let me tell you something, Lockwood,” he continued. “My girl has been hurt more than she deserves, but she isn’t helpless. And above all, she is stubborn. You found that out yourself. It doesn’t matter what her mother or I try to tell her about the men she picks, she does whatever she wants to anyway.”
A pause.
“But—” Gavin’s smile sharpened. “I am still her father.”
Pierce held his ground, saying nothing, but his jaw locked, the muscles in his neck tightening.
Gavin’s tone didn’t change.
“You made your choices,” he said simply. “You knew you were married, you knew the risks, let your guard down enough for Maeve to be able to implement her little plan, you could have been more adamant about protection if you were so keen on not risking fathering a child. In my book, this puts equal blame on both of you. Maeve did this with full intention, I won’t pretend that I agree with her choice, you and I both know it’s s stupid idea, but it is what it is and ultimately what it is, is my future grandchild. You made your choices, you chose to turn your back, and now my daughter dictates the rest. And you will accept that.”
Pierce exhaled slowly, something in his posture shifting, something weighed down by reality. Gavin saw it. His smirk returned.
“If I hear one more time about you trying to force anything, trying to bully my daughter, in any way, shape or form, including by trying to take legal actions against her—you’ll find out the real reason why my wife and I moved away. Camerons aren’t pussycats. We’re not known for patience with bullshit.”
Pierce stilled completely.
Gavin stepped closer—casual, controlled, entirely unfazed.
“And spoiler alert, Lockwood,” he murmured, voice low, warning, powerful. “You will not like it. Not to steal lines from fictional superheroes, but don’t make me angry, you definitely won’t like me when I am angry.”
This is when Pierce snapped.
“Scare tactics ? You are using … THAT … to intimidate me now? You think this is a game? You think you coming here playing the protector is necessary, that it fixes anything?!” he exploded, voice sharp, cracking with emotion.
Gavin stilled, posture shifting, expression watchful.
But Pierce wasn’t done.
“You think I don’t know I messed up?! That I don’t get it?! That I don’t know exactly how bad I screwed myself?! You think I would be here if this wasn’t more than an affair that went sideways and was inconvenient? I am stuck here, Mr. Cameron, between what I know I should do, between what I know I can do, and between what I WANT to do, well knowing my options are surprisingly limited. This is not a comfortable spot. I negotiate conditions for a living, Mr. Cameron. I make the rules. I calculate risks. Yet, here, I am completely at the mercy of others. Not a great place to be, especially for a man like me.”
His breathing hitched, something raw pressing through his words—
And just as his voice fractured completely, the patio door swung open, slamming against the wall as Bianca and Maeve rushed out, alarmed by the sudden shouting.
Maeve’s wide-eyed gaze flickered between Pierce and Gavin. “What the hell is going on here? Why are you yelling at my dad? Your voice carries and echoes all over. I thought you want to keep this low key, alerting the entire neighborhood and all beachgoers isn’t it, Pierce!”
But before anyone could react, Nugget made his move.
The door had been left open, and Nugget seized his chance. He darted out at lightning speed. Bianca gasped dramatically, hands flying to her face. Pierce whirled, reaching for the cat—but Gavin was already gone.
Pierce missed his chance, and before he knew it Gavin was back on the patio—his jacket tightly wrapped around what could only be described as a fur-covered tornado of rage.
Nugget seemed to believe he was fighting for his life—hissing, scratching, twisting violently inside the bundled fabric, a mess of limbs and shrieking protests, fur bristling in pure fury as he attempted to escape his cloth prison.
The jacket shifted, bulging, writhing, Nugget’s claws slicing through the sleeves, his little fanged mouth letting out sharp, indignant meows that sounded dangerously close to actual cursing.
Pierce blinked, momentarily forgetting how to function.
Bianca gasped dramatically, hands flying to her mouth. “Nuggie, my precious warrior, my valiant prince!” she cried, rushing forward. “You were out there, alone, facing the cruel, harsh world!”
Gavin exhaled, visibly unimpressed with the theatrics as he simply adjusted his hold, securing the raging ball of fluff tighter against him. Maeve sighed heavily, stepping forward with her hands outstretched.
“Give him to me,” she demanded, voice firm, steady, ready to calm the chaos.
Gavin simply shook his head. “No, that stupid tool would hurt you.”
He turned, jacket still visibly thrashing as he casually stepped inside, Bianca hot on his heels, cooing in Tartosian.
**
The door clicked shut. And suddenly—silence. Just Pierce. Just Maeve.
The chaos inside—Bianca’s dramatics, Gavin’s warnings, the insane ball of fur they called Nugget—felt a world away. Here, there was only the weight of what was left unsaid.
Pierce exhaled slowly, rubbing his face, trying—failing—to regain his composure. “I…” His voice was rough, exhausted, barely stable. “I lost my temper at your father.” He shook his head. “Maybe I should go.”
He turned.
Maeve grabbed his wrist. Pulled him back.
And kissed him.
No hesitation. No overthinking. Just weeks of built-up tension crashing down all at once. Pierce froze—then melted against her, his free hand lifting to cup her face, fingers threading into her hair, pulling her closer.
It wasn’t forgiveness. But it was something. Something undeniable.
And as Maeve pulled away, breath shaky, Pierce looked at her—really looked at her.
She smirked. “Well, guess you now know Camerons aren’t normal. Ever. We’re not your typical Bay crowd.”
Pierce exhaled slowly, gaze shifting, processing. His voice was steadier now, more thoughtful, something unreadable flashing in his expression. “Your parents are… quite something.”
Maeve smirked, shrugging, arms crossing as she leaned against the doorway.
Pierce leaned in slightly, casual, smiling—like this was just a conversation, just another moment between them. It wasn’t.
“You’d likely fall asleep if you ever met mine,” he admitted. “They’re absolutely nothing like yours. I see where your fiery ways come from.”
Maeve’s lips curved, but there was no humor behind it. “Well, luckily we won’t ever have to worry about what I think about your parents or they about me, do we?”
Pierce’s expression shifted. “I’m not sure.” His voice was different now—not heavy, not sharp, but raw. “Look, my affairs were one thing. Routine. You are not that. I have the good mind to do something unthinkable. Something I think I’ve wanted to do for a long time, but never dared. Something I think you wanted me to do, and when I didn’t… I lost you. I’ve never been so…” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “What’s the right word… Enchanted, maybe? So taken by someone from the first moment we met as I have been with you.”
Maeve’s brows twitched slightly, but she said nothing.
Pierce kept going, voice low, measured, confessional. “No other woman has ever talked to me like that. And as you probably figured out, me coming to your home later that same day wasn’t a coincidence. No woman has ever turned down my dinner invite. And after I had takeout at your home that night… I knew I had to pursue you. The more I saw of you, the more I was hooked.”
A pause—not from hesitation, but from truth settling deep. He ran a hand through his hair, sharp, frustrated, as if still trying to untangle himself from his own mess.
“Avoiding kids was never a problem for me. I never minded. Never felt like I was missing out. Never faltered on making sure there would be no accidents. But with you? I did.” His voice dipped, frustration curling through. “Trust me, I’ve put myself on trial for it over and over. How the hell could I let it happen? Why didn’t I get that vasectomy? But now…” His voice shifted, something breaking open beneath the surface. “Now that there’s a child coming, I find it impossible to ignore that fact. Now, I keep asking myself very strange questions I don’t have answers to. Questions like, could I make a decent father after all? Could I protect my child from the life I never wanted, but had no choice in?”
Maeve inhaled, slow, measured. Pierce wasn’t finished.
His gaze flickered, something raw pressing forward. “Maeve, I told you this several times now, but I will tell you again: I love you. I would never say those words lightly. Honestly, I don’t remember the last time I said them to anyone before you, if I ever have. So, if you want me to light a match to everything—everything I have built, everything my ancestors built, my reputation, my livelihood, my marriage—all you have to do is say the word. If you want me to leave it all behind, if you want me to make you the next Mrs. Lockwood, raise our child together, I’ll do it. I’ll fight for it. Just tell me you still want that.”
He looked down, then back at her, an unfamiliar expression settling in his gaze. Vulnerability? Doubt?
“If you still want me.”
Maeve stilled. That was supposed to be what she wanted, wasn’t it? A man who would choose her, who would risk it all for her. A husband. A family.
It’s what she had always wanted.
She had been engaged before—twice. Thought she had chosen wisely. And yet, both times, she had been left. Now here he was—a man willing to set his world on fire for her. Waiting for her to tell him to do it. And now, faced with what was supposed to be the dream—the promise, the commitment—something inside her shifted.
Freedom was gold.
And she wanted no part of losing it again. Maeve exhaled slowly, steadying herself, gaze locked with his. “No.”
She heard herself say it—felt the finality of it settle into the space between them. Her voice was firm, decisive.
“That’s not what I want. Not anymore.”
Pierce’s breath hitched. His shoulders tensed, the smallest recoil—like she had struck him, like he had expected something else. Some other answer. Some other fate.
For a fraction of a second, she saw the assumption flicker across his face.
That she was pushing him away.
That she was telling him to leave.
That she was done with him.
Maeve straightened, rolling her shoulders back, keeping her gaze steady. Then—before doubt could creep in, before he could retreat—she reached for him.
Her hands framed his face, fingers pressing against the sharp edges of his jaw, steady, decisive.
And then—she kissed him.
Deep. Intense. Unwavering.
Pierce stiffened, caught off guard, breath hitching beneath her lips.
But then—he melted. Slowly, then all at once, when he realized this kiss wasn’t a kiss goodbye, it was a welcoming, passionate invite. His hands, free and unbound, slid to her waist, gripping, anchoring, pulling her closer.
No hesitation now. No barriers. Just heat, passion, longing, just everything that had built between them, crashing down in a single, undeniable moment.
When Maeve finally pulled away, breath shallow, skin flushed, she saw it—the way his gaze had darkened, the way his breathing had changed, the way she had unraveled him in seconds.
But she wasn’t done.
Her hands stayed on his face, thumbs brushing along the faint stubble at his jaw, steadying him, grounding them both.
“I don’t want to be someone’s Mrs. Especially not around this crowd here. I would either flip out at them in an epic way or lose my mind, suffocate.” Her voice was soft now, not weak, but controlled. “I don’t want to be the reason a marriage ended, or the reason there was a scandal. What we did is scandalous—but if nobody knows that, it’s just another secret two people keep.”
Pierce stared at her, processing, adjusting to the shift, still caught in the haze of the kiss, still wrapping his mind around the fact that she wasn’t rejecting him—but redefining what this meant.
“I want to be Maeve Cameron. Independent.” Her gaze flickered over him, sharp, certain. “I want a man who stays with me because he wants to—not because a signature of some paper tells him he has to.”
A beat.
Something unreadable flickered behind his gaze.
Confusion.
“You mean… we just…” Pierce’s voice was quieter now, tentative, as if he wasn’t sure he had fully grasped it yet.
Maeve nodded. Her eyes held his.
“Yes. That is exactly what I mean. Everything stays as it is. You and your Mrs. Lockwood keep up appearances as you always have, and you and I choose us, without being loud about it. I don’t need to be flaunted or flaunt someone. I just need love, passion, human touch, closeness, affection. In a different way than my family can give. And I want you.”
His breath was slow now, controlled—but beneath it, he was unraveling, trying to grasp this new reality she was laying out for him.
This choice.
Her choice.
“Be mine, and I will be yours,” Maeve continued, voice calm, unwavering. “I will let you watch your child grow inside of me. I will let you see him or her. I will let you be a father. And you won’t have to worry about your child getting caught up in your world.”
She inhaled softly, gaze steady.
“My child will be free. And I will teach them that lesson—that freedom is the most important thing of all. The lesson my life has thoroughly taught me and reiterated many times, with my previous relationships and you. I don’t want your life, Pierce, and you would be miserable without it. So, this is how it has to be. The only way we both can get what we really want without losing ourselves.”
Then—she tightened her grip slightly on his jaw.
Her voice dipped lower, sharper, final.
“But – and here is my stipulation – if you agree to this, if we do this, there will be no other women. The moment you go back to your old ways, it’s over. No second chances. You will lose me and the child.”
Pierce’s expression flickered.
Maeve tilted her head, gaze unwavering. “Your wife is an exception, a technicality. A formality. A woman who sleeps in a different bed in a house you both occupy. That is not what I mean. I mean lovers. A blind man can see there is nothing between you and Katherine. But I know I wasn’t the first you stepped out with. But if you want this, I have to be the last.”
She let the words sink in, let the weight of them settle deep.
“No more affairs. No more distractions. No more ‘extras.’ If we do this, I am the only woman in your life. Because I refuse to be part of a crowd.”
Pierce’s throat worked, eyes flickering with something unreadable—something heavy.
Not reluctance.
Not resistance.
Just realization.
Because Maeve was not offering him just another affair.
She was offering him something definitive.
And something he had never had before.
Exclusivity.
Love.
Not in name, but in reality.
His breath steadied. His gaze locked onto hers.
A long, deliberate pause.
Then—he nodded.
Slow. Certain.
Not surrender.
Not defeat.
Commitment.
When he spoke, it was with certainly, definite. “No one else,” Pierce murmured, voice quiet, edged with something raw. “I never gave that to anyone before. But you’re not just anyone, Maeve.”
His gaze held hers—firm, unwavering, honest.
“You are the only woman I want. The first woman I actually loved.”
She saw it then—the choice settling into him, the truth of it sinking deeper than impulse, deeper than lust, deeper than anything he had felt before.
And somewhere in the wreckage, something new was built. Something different, unusual, special, something uniquely theirs.
Echoes Of Legacy 