The Man Beneath

“Love doesn’t change a man. It simply reminds him who he always was.”

Bar Flies

Friday night.
The bar wasn’t anything special. Just a corner place with scuffed stools, a chalkboard menu that hadn’t changed in a decade, and music low enough that nobody had to pretend to enjoy it. But to Brad, it looked like a pause—the kind of place where no one expected eye contact or explanations.

He hadn’t intended to stop. The original plan was autopilot: office, car, estate. But when he passed the quiet glow of this place, he slowed. Didn’t even signal—just pulled over and walked in.

He couldn’t face the house tonight.

The kids were at his mother’s in Evergreen Harbor for the week—something he’d encouraged, insisted on, really. But now the stillness in that sprawling home rang like absence instead of peace. Every hallway echoed. Every quiet room reminded him how quickly life could fill and empty in the same breath.

He didn’t want to drink. Not exactly. He just didn’t want to go home.

So, he chose this bar. Somewhere anonymous. Somewhere he could exhale without being anyone to anyone.

He was midway through his second glass when the front door creaked open—and a sharp whistle shattered the lull.

She walked in like she owned the right to be tired.

Leather jacket snug at the waist, dark jeans molded to long legs, and a black square-neck top that flirted with gold at her collarbone. Her wavy hair was pulled up into a messy top bun, a warm light brown threaded with blonde reflections that caught and held the room. Her heels clicked against the worn floor like punctuation.

She hadn’t even made it to the bar when someone whistled low. She stopped, turned with unhurried disdain.

“Did you lose your dog? Cos you whistle at dogs, not women. Or maybe you’re confused because you’re clearly part mutt.”

The man blinked, half-drunk and suddenly very quiet.

Brad laughed. Couldn’t help it. The sound surprised even him.

She took a seat two stools away, ordered a sweet white wine, and took a sip. Her expression twisted instantly.

“That tastes like sweetened vinegar,” she muttered, setting it aside. “Okay. Whiskey. The good kind. I want to do something deeply irresponsible but with excellent taste.”

The bartender, bemused, poured.

One sip later, she was coughing—delicately, determinedly.

 “Oh my God, what is that?! Battery acid?! That went down like a square peg into a round hole,” she gasped. “Dear god. Do you not have any normal booze that tastes decent? Can’t even figure out how to get drunk like a normal person. What about cognac? Do you have any? I think I will try that next.”

Brad turned, finally, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth without permission.

“Sounds like a rough day at work.”

She cut him a glance, sly and dry.

“You always eavesdrop on women talking to themselves and a barkeep who is in ignore mode? Is this your shtick?”

 “I don’t have a shtick, I only speak up when it looks like the booze might win an unfair battle. No offense, but you got nothing on that. Even seasoned bourbon lovers barely sip that one. Not exactly great if you wanna get drunk.”

That earned him a soft snort. She slid the glass forward like it might bite, while looking over at him again, extending her hand. He shook it.

 “Vee,” she said finally, offering him nothing more than that.

“Brad.”

He slid over one barstool to sit next to her, they talked. Easy, spare, quick to humor but never shallow. He didn’t offer his last name. She didn’t either. When she answered a question sideways—like when he asked where she’d grown up—she deflected with a joke, eyes skimming past him to the bottles behind the bar. He noticed it. The tiny, instinctive aversion when she sidestepped truth.

And somehow, he found that endearing. Not deceptive. Just… guarded. Earned.

She told him she was a project manager at some tech company, but she evaded more answers. He could easily tell she was educated, smart, eloquent, organized, quietly vital. She’d recently gotten out of a ten-year marriage and wasn’t sad about it but rallying. And done. Just… done. Like someone who finally turned off a song she’d been pretending to like.

“I’m over it,” she said with a shrug. “I just haven’t figured out where to start again. Who I am now. Or how loud to make the music now that I get to pick it.”

It wasn’t a performance. No self-deprecation, no games. Just honesty, served neat.

The night stretched warm between them, the outside world fading until there was nothing but amber light, their shared orbit, and the sharp outline of what loneliness feels like when it meets someone else’s.

And when they left—they walked. At first aimlessly, then he walked her home. When she paused outside her building and looked at him longer than polite—

“Come up?” she asked, soft but steady. “Not for anything… dramatic. I just haven’t had an honest night in a long time. And you feel… honest.”

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to—but because she felt different. Real. Like something too rare to treat casually.

“Yeah,” he heard himself say, voice low. “I’d like that.”

Her apartment was tidy but lived-in—the kind of space that hadn’t been staged for anyone but still told the truth.

Books leaned against potted plants along the windowsill, a record player perched under a small framed print that read Nothing blooms all year. The lighting was soft, not because it was designed that way but because only one bulb in the overhead fixture worked, and she hadn’t gotten around to fixing it. It felt warm, dusk-colored. Somewhere, one of those outlet air fresheners was spreading a pleasant scent—lavender or lilac, he couldn’t tell—but the scent was grounding, like someone had made an effort to feel okay.

A cream-colored throw blanket, lived-in and clearly favored, slouched across the arm of a grey sofa. The coffee table held a mug with half-dried rings in it, a book splayed open over its spine. The kitchen off to the right had backsplash tile in too many colors, like it had once been someone else’s whim, but she hadn’t bothered to change it. Or couldn’t since this clearly was a rental apartment.

She tossed her keys into a ceramic bowl—mint green, chipped along the rim—and kicked off her boots, leaving them angled by the door with the ease of habit. Then she stood there.

Brad saw it: the flicker of doubt. The barely-there furrow between her brows as if to say What am I doing? Why did I invite a strange man up to my home?

He didn’t tease. Didn’t press. Just processed that she clearly didn’t routinely invite men in. So, he just smiled.

Because for the first time in a long time, he realized—he wasn’t the only one between them both who was learning how to be bold without being reckless.

The Morning After

Saturday started slowly.

The faint morning sun slipped through gauzy curtains in thin gold ribbons, catching on the dust in the air and the edges of Vee’s bookshelf. Brad woke first—not with alarm, but with that strange, weightless feeling you get when you know something quietly shifted.

He was on the couch. She had handed him a blanket and a soft pillow—one that somehow still smelled like her—sometime past 2 a.m., after the last of the bottle of wine she had opened for them was gone, after stories too honest for a first night and laughter too easy to be planned. They’d stayed up talking—about cities and songs, about not knowing how to start over but wanting to try anyway.

And for the first time in a long time, Brad fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. It wasn’t crash-out-of-exhaustion sleep. It was restful.

Vee padded into the room quietly, barefoot, hoodie zipped over a tank top and dark yoga pants. Hair open, long down her back and a little mussed. She looked at him with the softness of someone not yet ready for the day to begin, and a genuine surprise.

“Morning. So, you stayed,” she said.

Not a question. Just… processing.

Brad sat up, ran a hand through his hair. His voice was warm and low.

“Good morning. Yeah. I guess I did.”

She walked into the kitchenette, pulling two mismatched mugs from the shelf.

“Coffee or tea? What’s your poison, Brad?”

“Dealer’s choice,” he said.

“Strong coffee it is. Oh—the bathroom’s down that hall, and I put a new toothbrush and an extra towel out for you if you want to freshen up. Umm… Brad? Do you eat breakfast? ’Cause I usually don’t.”

“Oh, I’m fine either way.”

She turned, one eyebrow raised—part amused, part exasperated.

“It was a yes or no type question. Be honest.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Yes. Normally I have breakfast. The usual suspects. You know, toast, eggs, bacon… some days pancakes. Also happy with cereal.”

She nodded, satisfied, then went about making breakfast. Not annoyed—just glad to have a clear answer.

When he moved to help her, she caught him by the shoulder and steered him gently back toward the barstools.

“You are the guest. You sit. I cook. How do you like your eggs? Toast light or dark? Bacon crispy or soft?”

“I can’t even help? And—umm, scrambled, crispy, and medium.”

“If you want to help,” she said over her shoulder, “I have other things for you to do.”

“At your service.”

She turned, head tilted, then crossed the space and gave his upper arms a quick, curious squeeze.

“Nice guns. So you’re strong. Okay then—on the hook in the hallway is a key to the basement. Mine’s locker number seven. Can you bring up a case of water?”

Smiling, he nodded and left.
No one had ever said that to him before.
Not like that. Not casually. Not like it was obvious.

She didn’t know it, but that one offhand comment—calling his arms guns, calling him strong—hit differently. It wasn’t flattery. It wasn’t a punchline. It just was. And it left him walking a little taller.

Brad had closed billion-dollar deals, flown private, been tailored by the best hands in the world—but that? That made him feel manly in a way none of those things ever had.

It made him feel… solid. Useful. Like the kind of guy you asked to move furniture or fix a fence. A man who did, not just one who decided things.

Well, he’d brawled with Jackson more than once and never hit the ground. Jackson hadn’t either, but hey.
Brad grinned as he retrieved the key. Locker number seven. A case of water.
Easy for a guy with guns.
And if he flexed just a little while carrying it upstairs? Who could say it wasn’t instinct? Just a way a real man like him handled guns like his. Hehehe.

He arrived whistling in a basement that was clean, organized. Her locker—unlocked—was impeccable. Boxes, neatly stacked. Every one labeled in a looping, confident hand.

While reaching for the case of sparkling water, something caught his eye: an old envelope tucked between some paperwork. It was addressed to Viola Thompson. A yellow forwarding label had been slapped over it, rerouting it to Viola Miller.

He didn’t touch it. Didn’t need to. She had assumed her maiden name after her divorce.
Just logged it away.

The same way he’d clocked how, the night before, when he asked her if she missed her old life, she said, “Not really,” but her eyes had flicked fast and soft toward the window.

It wasn’t about truth or fiction with her. It was about permission. About how much she was willing to give, and how much she hoped he’d notice without her asking.

Brad could see the walls. He could feel them.
And he’d be lying if he said he didn’t find them beautiful, while simultaneously having the urge to make them crumble down.

Breakfast for Two

By the time Brad stepped back into the apartment with the case of sparkling water in his arms, he felt inexplicably… good. Not just stretched-and-warm good, but useful. Not to mention utterly masculine, still floating on that high her simple comment had left him with. The kind of simple satisfaction that had nothing to do with billion-dollar portfolios or cutting-edge procedures. She’d asked him to lift something. Relied on him, even briefly. That did something to him.

Vee didn’t look up as he returned, already at the stove, flipping something buttery and golden in the pan. The smell of sizzling bacon and cinnamon-toast hit him like a memory.

“Water’s by the counter,” he said.

She didn’t turn around. Just pointed casually with the spatula. “You’re a good man, Brad. Might have keep you around.”

He smiled. His stomach growled—loud enough to make them both pause.

“Guess I should’ve answered the breakfast question more confidently,” he muttered.

“Mmhmm,” she hummed, pleased. “Sit. I’m almost done.”

But first, he ducked down the hall to the bathroom—officially to wash his hands, unofficially to snoop. She seemed a little too good to be true, and old habits died hard.

He found a space that spoke volumes without raising its voice. Simple. Clean. Everything intentional.

A few essentials lined the counter—clear glass jars, a lightweight concealer, face cream. A dried rose rested behind the mirror like a forgotten detail in a frame. No clutter. No chaos.

More importantly, no red flags.

No prescriptions beyond a bottle of ibuprofen, some typical over-the-counter things you would probably find in every bathroom and a tidy tin of bandages. No mystery pill organizers or expired antibiotics tossed behind toiletries. Just tidy self-care and practical calm.

It caught him off guard—how much that settled something in him. How much he liked it.

It wasn’t just neat. It was… honest.

And for a man who’d spent a lifetime peeling back façades, a bathroom that didn’t lie was more intoxicating than whatever perfume she wore.

The color scheme matched her—a mix of white with soft taupes, mossy greens, and the occasional jolt of mint like a laugh she didn’t expect to share. He liked it. Liked the intentional simplicity of it all. Elegant. Thoughtful. Her.

He washed his hands, but before turning to leave, his fingers grazed the hook behind the door—and paused.

A terry cloth bathrobe. Soft sage green.
He touched it before thinking. Brought it gently to his face, just to—who knows why.
But her scent.
Clean skin. Something faintly botanical. And something else… that scent people only have when they sleep hard and dream deep.

He caught himself, released the robe, exhaled with a quiet shake of his head.

Walking down the hall to her kitchen he watched Vee. She was beautiful. Not in the hyper-glossed, made-for-camera way. But in the classical, quiet way light touches skin when no one else is watching. In the way she carried herself like she didn’t need to be seen to take up space.

By the time he returned to the kitchen, breakfast was plated. Toast stacked with marmalade next to eggs gently scrambled, bacon curled to that perfect almost-burnt crisp.

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” she said, fingers circling the rim of her mug. He knew what she meant. Making breakfast for someone.

“Me neither,” he replied.

Silence stretched between them—comfortable, a little tentative. Like they both wanted to ask, Is this something? But knew it was too early to name it.

Brad took a sip. Watched her over the brim.
“I liked last night,” he said. “Not just the whiskey trauma.”

She smiled. Not a performance—just real.
“Me too. Even if I did cough like a cursed extra in a Western.”

“You made it look good.”

“Sure,” she said dryly. “Like a woman in heels choking on bad decisions.”

“Well, at least this bad decision didn’t take you ten years, huh?” Brad winked.

Then, with a glint in her eye: “Everyone likes a little ass, but nobody likes a smartass. Then again, still better than a dumbass, right?”

Brad nearly choked on his coffee.

And just like that—the air between them warmed. The morning didn’t feel like fallout. It felt like possibility.

Brad cleared his plate. Every bite had been exactly right—not extravagant, but full of care. She cooked the way she moved through life: not for show, not seeking praise, just present.

He glanced at her. “You’re a great cook.”

Vee smiled faintly without looking up. “Please. Everyone can manage toast, eggs, and bacon, Brad.”

“Still. It tastes different when someone else makes it for you.”

That made her pause. She looked over at him, softer now. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re very sweet. And thank you for the water hauling.”

He hesitated, then pulled his phone from his pocket and set it gently on the table between them.

“This is… my personal number,” he said. “In case you ever want to talk. Or send me a meme. Or call me out for being a smartass. Anything really.” Brad scolded himself in his mind for sounding too needy.

She smiled—wider this time. A surprised kind of warmth flickering behind her eyes. But instead of replying, she reached for her own phone, looking at his, tapping, then his phone rang twice, until she hung up.

“Now you have mine too.”

The second cup of coffee was enjoyed talking. About this and that, trivial, personal, but never too personal. Somehow the day progressed in fast forward, before they knew it, it was lunchtime and both felt hungry. Brad had never expected to stay this long, but he really didn’t want to leave.

It started with pizza, bare feet on the couch, and an off-hand comment about how long it had been since either of them played a video game. Vee pulled out her dusty console like she was revealing a long-forgotten treasure.

“I haven’t touched this since… well, a breakup ago,” she admitted.

Brad raised a brow. “I’m pretty good with my hands. How hard can this be?” he smirked, mostly to himself at his comment. As a surgeon you better be dexterous.

They chose It Takes Two—a co-op platformer that promised whimsy and teamwork. Neither of them read the part about requiring actual coordination.

They were awful. Gloriously, hysterically awful.
Vee couldn’t aim. Brad couldn’t jump. They accidentally launched each other off cliffs, misfired every gadget, and repeatedly exploded in glittery chaos.

At one point, Vee ran directly into a spinning buzzsaw for the third time in a row.
“Are you suicidal?” he asked, howling.
“Noooo, I swear, I thought that button jumped!”
“Why would it when it didn’t the last two times?” he snorted, wheezing.

She shrieked, nearly dropping her controller from laughing. “Oh my God, I’m crying—Brad, I’m actually crying.”

Neither of them could breathe. They had to pause the game while Vee doubled over, wheezing, and Brad sprawled across the couch with his face in a throw pillow.

Somehow, they regrouped. Refocused.
Then she “accidentally” flung him off a ledge again.
“You did that on purpose.”
“Yes, I did! That was for mocking my platforming skills, you smug little goblin.”

He turned toward her, mock aghast. “Smug?”
“Lethally smug. May you rest in tiny glittery pieces.”

Round after round, they kept getting worse. Or maybe better, at laughing through it. Somewhere along the way, he forgot he was supposed to be cool and composed. She forgot she was supposed to play it safe. Their jokes got looser, their touches more familiar. A nudge here, a hand brushing there.

And later—controller tucked against her thigh, legs curled under her, hair messy from laughter—she leaned into him without realizing it.

He looked down at her, and everything else blurred.

He didn’t care that he’d lost. He didn’t care that his character had respawned fifteen times in the last round.

What he cared about was this. The laughter. The ease. Her.
And she still had no idea who he really was. But liked him anyway.

She liked him ANYWAY, it resounded in his head.

And somehow, that made the whole thing even better. Yes clearly, she liked him. A lot. But she didn’t like him because he was a Cunningham, had an estate, an empire and significant wealth, not because he was a doctor, not because of the prestige that came with all that, cos CLEARLY, she had no idea. She liked HIM.

The man beneath it all.

But even the best things had to come to an end.

Eventually, it was late afternoon now and he had almost spent the entire day with her, but now he stood by her door, keys in hand, shoulders set like he had to force himself into leaving. Vee watched him for a long moment.

“I’m not good at slow goodbyes,” she said quietly.

Brad nodded, his voice barely audible. “Yeah. Me neither.”

And then he stepped outside. The door clicking shut behind him echoed in the apartment hallway. The elevator ride felt like a walk to the guillotines.

The air hit cold and empty. The city was the same, but it didn’t feel like it. It felt like something had been peeled away. He walked the two blocks to his car with his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets and the strange ache of missing settling in his chest before he’d even turned the engine over.

When he arrived at the estate, Brad startled his housekeeper with a full-bodied, utterly unguarded burst of laughter—the kind that left him breathless. The memory of the night before had hit him mid-step: her pressed up against him on the couch, shrieking with laughter as they both lost miserably in a co-op game neither of them fully understood. It had been hours of it. Hours of laughter. Hours that didn’t feel like any other hours in his life.

It wasn’t something he was used to.
And he hadn’t stopped thinking about her.
But still—he didn’t call.

Not that day. Not the next.

He typed out a thank you for breakfast. Deleted it.
Tried again later, something witty about the game. Deleted that too.
By the time he hit the fourth unsent message, it was just her name in the text field—no words. Just want.

At thirty-four, freshly single and twice-divorced, Brad knew how quickly feelings could tangle with perception—especially for someone with a name like his and a net worth people Googled. He’d never really dated. Not without someone pulling the strings.

He wanted to play it safe. Be smart. Be careful.

He also wanted to see her again so badly, it was becoming a problem.

Then, the following afternoon, while reviewing yet another impossibly dry architectural bid for the new coastal clinic project, his phone buzzed.

One word.

Vee: Coffee?

His lips curved before he even registered the smile.

Brad: God, yes. Where? When?

Moments, Then Meaning

It started subtly, like weather shifting.
On a Friday at a bar, resumed the next week and for several weeks after that. Weekends were their time together. Still platonic, still unnamed, but something to look forward to. In between there were texts, the occasional coffee or dinner date. A stroll through the park venting about work and life in general. A few times they cooked at her place.

She didn’t know who he was. Really. She didn’t flinch when he paused too long before answering a personal question or made some vague mention of “work meetings.”  He would never forget the day the barista at the coffee shop mixed up their orders and he put his lips onto the mug her lips had touched, giving him a jolt like a teen boy on his first date. He loved how she scolded him for not using a coaster for his coffee mug on her coffee table, how she told him when his tie didn’t match well with his shirt—and she said it all with affection, not awe.

And at first, Brad loved it.

She didn’t know about the headlines. The drama for his first divorce nor the one from Bri. She didn’t know the legacy. She didn’t react to the name Cunningham with tight smiles or slick ambition. She just called him Brad. Argued with him about movie plots and protagonists’ reactions. Sent him pictures of clouds that looked like dinosaurs.

It was… perfect.

Until it wasn’t.
Until he started wanting to be known.
Wanting more.
Knowing more couldn’t happen without him telling her who he was.
And he knew he wanted to know more about her, but couldn’t without having to tell her more about himself.
Then he could no longer be just Brad. Then he would be Dr. Bradford Cunningham again.

But he wanted to be him, all of him. Not just the redux version she was piecing together from weekends and laughter and late-night gaming—but fully and wholly him. Would she change? Would he still be Brad then?

He sat cross-legged on her living room floor, fumbling through the warm pile of laundry like he was defusing a bomb. She, on the other hand, folded with a military precision that would make a drill sergeant weep. Every shirt was a crease-less masterpiece. Every sock had a soulmate.

When she lobbed one at his head and said, “You fold like a raccoon with nerve damage,” something inside him twisted—but not in pain. In wonder. In joy so sharp it startled him. He laughed, really laughed, until his stomach hurt and her cheeks were flushed with victory.

She made jokes no one would dare make with Dr. Cunningham. She handed him her unfiltered joy like a secret.

When a bite of food thrilled her, she’d stop mid-chew, eyes wide. “Try this,” she’d say, holding out a spoonful of lavender blueberry mousse like it was a religious experience. “I could write poetry about this.”

“You write poetry?” he’d tease, already leaning in.

“Absolutely not. But if I did, it would be about this.”

He tasted it. He tasted her joy, and it landed somewhere deep—somewhere untouched for longer than he cared to admit.

She never once asked about his job. Not in passing, not in hesitation, not even when the clues were ripe for harvesting. And in return, he never pried either. Oh, he could have. In another life, he might’ve already known everything about her—family, finances, flaws—served to him in a manila envelope by someone paid to find out every last detail. But he didn’t want to know her like that. He wanted discovery. He wanted serendipity. He wanted the thrill of learning that she believed cheese belonged in soup or that she cried at dog commercials or that she always twirled her hair around her right index finger when thinking about something too hard—absolutely endearing to him.

And she insisted on paying. Not always, but often enough to throw him. No one single person had ever insisted on paying for him—really, treating him—since Bri.

Bri.

The thought of her used to come like a slap. Sharp, breath-stealing, echoing with a loss he hadn’t named. But now, when her name surfaced, it arrived with gentler edges. Strange. He hadn’t really grieved their divorce, not properly—and somehow that realization brought him more clarity than guilt.

Because now he understood.
He was falling again.

Falling into something reckless, soft, impossible. Into sock fights and mousse spoons and the way she looked at him like he was just Brad, not a legacy or a salary bracket.

And maybe—just maybe—he’d been wrong about love only striking once. Maybe Bri had never been the one. Maybe she’d just been a beautiful chapter. A prelude.

And Viola?
Maybe she was the beginning.
God. What was he thinking?
He’d just gotten divorced. He barely knew her.
So why did it already feel like he’d found something?

And why, when he pictured the word home, was it starting to look suspiciously like a couch covered in warm throw blankets because its owner was always chilly and a enjoyed laughing at his folding skills?

Merlot-Dramatic Cabernet Confessions

It was a Thursday evening. He hadn’t planned to come over. Just swung by on instinct after her texts trailed off mid-vent and she didn’t pick up when he called. When she buzzed him in without a word, he knew something was off.

He knocked twice, then noticed the apartment door was cracked, he eased it open. “Vee?”

“Kitchen,” came her voice, dry and faint. “Come on in, unless that’s the ghost of emotional resilience. In which case… bring snacks. And wine. Much more wine.”

He stepped inside—and stopped.

Her phone was sticking halfway out of a cereal bowl on the floor, screen smeared with something suspiciously orange. He blinked. Bent down. Fished it out like it was drowning. It still worked. He stepped into the living area with the kitchenette, grabbed a bunch of paper towels, wiped it gently dry and clean then leaned it upright half-way wrapped in a wad of paper towels, like it had survived something.

The apartment—usually clean and tidy—looked like it had been ransacked by a Sauvignon Blanc-fueled emotional typhoon. Throw pillows littered the floor. One slipper on the coffee table. The remote had burrowed into the fruit bowl. A pack of crackers lay flopped on the couch, empty aside of one single cracker sticking out like a lone survivor.

The kitchen was no better.

Takeout cartons cluttered the counter, a sweating wine bottle standing guard beside them. Viola was perched on the floor by the counter itself, pajama pants and an oversized Team Bennet: No Time for Wickham’s Nonsense tee rumpled and unapologetic. Her eyeliner had revolted. Her mascara had gone full raccoon. Her hair—a tragic top knot. A fork dangled from her hand like she might declare war at any second.

“Welcome to the end,” she said. “There’s curry. And naan. The rice… didn’t make it. I think. Not sure. You can check. But if you want rice, I’ll order more rice. For you, I would!”

Brad raised an eyebrow. “How much have you had?”

She squinted at the wine glass in her hand. “Like… three? Ish?”

“Glasses or bottles?”

“Mm. Yeah.”

He stepped closer, trying not to smile as he crouched down across from her, when she looked at him importantly.

“Do you ever think C-level execs are just… born wrong?” she asked, taking a bite of naan. “Like evil demonic creatures that vaguely resemble humans? Is being soulless a requirement or just a perk?”

He treaded carefully. “Maybe not all of them.”

“No. It’s all of them,” she said, eyes ablaze. “You hit VP and your empathy gland shrivels up along with your humanity. The higher up you get, the worse you mutate. Your reflection disappears. Your signature becomes unreadable. It’s like… demonic management possession.”

He tried not to laugh. “That’s… wildly specific.” He lowered himself onto the floor next to her.

“They feast on morale and wear confidence like cologne. They dropped efficiency synergies in a meeting and then slashed our budget. I basically have to sell my body on a street corner for a notepad and a pen while they’re sipping mimosas on a yacht. Why do rich people suck so hard, Brad?”

He stiffened—but not visibly.
Because technically? He was one of them.

Born into Brindleton Bay old money, raised on brunch meetings and legacy expectations. Tailored suits by thirteen. Surgeon by twenty-four. Owner of medical centers in cities she hadn’t even visited. He sat on boards and signed off on seven-figure contracts while half-asleep.

If she knew…

But she didn’t. Not yet. And somehow, she was saying these things that should’ve made him flinch—but didn’t. Instead, every syllable stripped him bare. Like she was laughing the polish off him and finding the person beneath it.

He didn’t want to stop her.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she said, nudging him with her foot. “You show up with those curls and those shoulders and that smile and that voice. God, that voice. Taxes could be romantic if you read them out loud.”

“That’s… a new one.”

She pointed at him like he’d wronged her soul. “You KNOW what you did. You KNOW!”

Brad blinked. “Do I? Refresh my memory?”

“You know. You KNOW what you are doing to me, don’t you be playin’ with me now! With your curls. And your voice. That’s not nice, Brad. Not nice!” she slurred.

He tried not to smile. “My apologies. Bad me.”

“Yeah. I had a plan,” she ranted, waving her arms. “Be single. Eat overpriced cheese. I was going places. Then you walked in with your… face, and curls, all funny and nice and curls, and now I’m ruined.”

“Ruined. By my curls. Got it. Bad Brad,” he said with a crooked grin. “I should shave my head.”

Her eyes went wide like he’d threatened a national treasure. “Don’chu dare! I will—I’ll hurt you if you do that!”

He held up his hands, mock-concerned. “Right. Curls remain. Violent threats noted.”

She let out a dramatic groan, tipping sideways like gravity betrayed her soul. “And worst of all,” she slurred, “we didn’t even screw! Not even a one-night stand! No closure, Brad. None.”

He gave her a solemn nod. “A tragedy. How dare we not jump each other’s bones. I’ll pencil that in for the next time you’re sober enough to have an opinion.”

She squinted at him. “You’re pokin’ fun! It’s not funny!” Her hands flailed. “This is serious!”

Brad bit down a grin. “Dead serious.”

She gasped. “Wait. Wait-wait-wait. Oh my God… you don’t wanna sleep with me, is that it? That is it, isn’t it?! But why? Is it my—my toes?! It’s my toes, isn’t it?!”

He blinked, caught between confusion and amusement. “Your toes?”

She yanked off a sock and thrust one foot toward him like it held the answer to all his secrets. “These! Look at them! They’re just… there! On a FOOT!”

He leaned back slightly, eyebrows raised, then gently took the offered foot and lowered it. “Looks like a solid set of toes to me. Structurally sound.”

“They’re attached, Brad!” she wailed. “They live on a foot! This is a situation!”

“I am aware and see no reason to redline it, I mean, anatomically speaking, that’s where toes go,” he said, fighting laughter. “I’d be more concerned if they weren’t right where they are.”

She poked his chest, then his shoulder, then maybe his pride. “Why don’t you ever try anything?! Am I not attractive? Not kissable? Do you not want me at all? Am I—oh God—am I old and crusty now, Brad?!”

Brad stared at her for a beat. Then, completely straight-faced: “I can confidently say you are neither old nor crusty. And if I ever teach a course on optimal toe placement, you are going to be the case study. Me not trying anything has nothing to do with any of that, and everything with respect.”

She blinked at him. “That was both weird and kinda hot.”

He grinned. “Yeah. I get that a lot. Me being naturally tentative is considered extremely hot, said nobody ever. Usually nail the weird part without much effort though, so there is that.”

“You never try anything,” she insisted. “You don’t like me. Not like that. I used to be cute. Marriage sucked it out of me.”

He stepped forward, lifted his hand to her face. Brushed a thumb beneath her eye.
“You and your toes are very lovable and kissable and cute, in a non-fetish way,” he murmured. “Very much so. And I like you very much. Probably too much for my own good, but that is another discussion for another day.”

She blinked at him, suddenly serious, as she poked his chest—once, twice, three times—with her index finger. “I want to ask you a very, very personal question.”

He tensed. Braced. God, this was it—she was going to ask what he did, what he earned, why his Italian leather shoes probably cost more than her rent.

“Okay,” he said carefully. “Shoot.”

She leaned in—really leaned in—eyes narrowing, forehead nearly brushing his. “Are these… natural?” she asked, staring at his curls like they held state secrets.

He blinked. Then laughed—sharp and startled. Of all the questions— He tried to pull it together, temper the grin so she wouldn’t think he was laughing at her. “Yes. My mom’s side.”

Her eyes widened with solemn, drunken wonder. She slid her fingers through his curls like they were made of glass, then started gently whirling them in slow, reverent loops.

“Agh, thank God,” she whispered. “Because these are so good.” Then—without warning—she leaned closer, burying her face in his hair, sniffing like she was checking for authenticity. For one breathless second, Brad was genuinely concerned she might bite his coif.

“If they’d been a perm,” she said gravely, muffled by curls, “I would’ve ghosted you. Perms are lies, Brad. Lies. Nothing but lies.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

She leaned back with a victorious sigh and flopped sideways almost falling flat on her face but caught herself. “Okay. That was it. That was my question. You passed!”

Brad raised an eyebrow. “I passed?”

“Yep.” She poked his chest with dramatic flair. “You are a tall, yummy glass of bedroom thoughts on legs, dear sir, and I—whoops—”

She tried to jump up with the grace of someone far less wine-marinated, missed the target entirely, and stumbled sideways into the fridge.

“Steady—” Brad raised up and reached for her but she pushed his hands off.

“Nope, I got this. Bedroom is this way. We have a one-night stand to redo,” she declared. Wobbled. Pivoted. Walked with intense purpose directly toward the hallway, missed by several feet, and almost into the TV—had Brad not quickly caught her.

She blinked up at him from the safety of his arms, pointing with conviction at the ceiling. “Bedroom is that way. Let’s go!” she attempted, aiming at heck knows what, whatever it was it was nowhere near the hallway down which her bedroom was situated, then she suddenly comically slowly slid down his entire front onto the floor at his feet.

He stared.

Viola hugged his legs like a sleepy sea lion and sighed. “You’re so warm. You smell like confidence and hugs. I’m gonna live down here now.”

Brad crouched beside her, carefully freeing himself half amused, half concerned. “You planning to nap at my ankles?”

She nodded solemnly, eyes already drooping. “Mmmhm. You’re very structurally sound. I trust your ankles.”

Moments later, she started to nod off mid-hug. Brad gently pulled her up, guiding her like she was a mix between an oversized ragdoll and an invalid.

He held her awkwardly in his arms—limbs everywhere, the one remaining sock slipping, her breath warm against his shirt.

He’d faced billion-dollar negotiations. Surgeries under pressure. Hell, he’d made life-and-death calls with steady hands. But this, this was almost above his paygrade relationship-wise. How do you straddle decent behavior with an utterly drunk girl who is all over you, caught somewhere between urgently sleeping with you while barely able to stay awake, without any clear idea how to keep her at bay without hurting her feelings in a way she may remember when sober?

She yawned. “But I wasn’t done talking about my shitty week… oh! That reminds me.”

She pulled away from his hold on her, peeled off the remaining one sock with the theatrical flair of a stage magician revealing a rabbit, then flung it over her shoulder like a gauntlet.

Brad watched it arc in slow motion—tumble, twirl, and land perfectly in the lampshade.

He blinked, chuckling. “Did you just—?”

But the moment was already gone.

Because Viola—rumpled, indignant, magnificent in pajama pants and her oversized Team Bennet: No Time for Wickham’s Nonsense tee—was now cramming her feet into two wholly incompatible shoes. One sneaker. One heeled boot. A metaphor in motion.

Brad opened his mouth to ask—well, anything—when she clumsily bumped the coffee table. A half-empty wine bottle teetered dangerously. He lunged. Saved it. Exhaled.

He turned back just in time to see her vanish into the hallway through the wide open apartment door like a woman with a cause and absolutely no sense of direction, limping heroically on uneven shoes.

Brad caught up with her, jogging a half-step to match her pace, her just as she stabbed the elevator button with the conviction of a soap opera villain entering the big crescendo scene.

“Okay,” he said partially amused, partially concerned. “And where are we going now?”

“To Paul’s place, of course!” Viola announced with great authority, already winded from her own determination.

Brad blinked. “Of course. And who might Paul be?”

“My boss,” she said, throwing her arms out. “Of course!”

“Right,” he said slowly. “Paul, your boss, of course. For a late-night visit, as you do. Got it.”

She pointed upward like divine retribution lived in the penthouse. “He needs to hear some things. Personally. About synergy. And being a soulless spreadsheet dictator.” While talking, she rammed her finger into what she assumed was the call button repeatedly.

Brad gently took her finger and redirected it from the drywall before she poked a hole in it. “Okay, love that energy. But maybe not tonight? Or at least fully dressed and with… matching footwear?” He glanced down. “Do we even know where Paul lives?”

“No,” she said breezily, already punching the elevator call panel with determination. “We’ll figure it out.” She turned to him while continuing to call for the elevator.

“Right. Small world,” he murmured. “I get it.”

DING-DONG.

Brad frowned. “That… wasn’t the elevator.”

The door beside them creaked open. An older man in a robe and scowl emerged, clutching a chipped mug that read #1 Litigator of Regret.

Viola stepped forward, peering in with mild suspicion. “You don’t look like Paul.”

The neighbor grumbled. “And you don’t look like boundaries.”

“Apologies, she’s sleepwalking,” Brad said quickly, stepping between them with a diplomatic smile. “Has very vivid dreams. Mostly about unjust performance reviews.”

The neighbor blinked. “She’s wasted. Keep your girlfriend in line. Do better.”

“You need manners!” Viola shot back, wagging her finger at him like a disappointed schoolmarm. “And a better mug.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “And you need God.”

Door slam. Echo.

Viola jabbed the button again. The neighbor’s bell rang again.

“That’s it,” Brad muttered. “We’re unionizing this hallway. Visit to Paul’s has been postponed indefinitely.”

He grabbed her and pushed her back towards her own apartment, she rounded on him with flushed cheeks and pure conviction. “I will not rest until Paul knows he is a lukewarm capitalism meat puppet with the emotional range of a raisin.”

Trying his best not to dissolve into laughter, Brad tried to deflect. “You’re wearing a shirt that says Team Bennet.”

“Exactly,” she said, looking down at herself, while pulling forward the shirt. “Wickham energy deserves consequences.”

Brad sighed. Scooped her up mid-declaration. “Okay, Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Let’s stage a nap-in. Revolution resumes at lunch. Mama would frown at your behavior.”

Back inside, he tucked her gently onto the couch, draped a throw blanket across her, and stood there watching as she mumbled something half-hearted about syndicalist healthcare models into the pillow and struggled in the most hilarious ways with the term redistribution of wealth.

Then, without really deciding to, he turned toward the hallway.

Her bedroom door was ajar.
He paused at the threshold, one hand on the frame.
Pushed it open like a revelation of a forbidden, sacred space.

The room was… her. Clean lines, soft neutrals, cool maritime tones. Calm, curated, ordered—a gentle rebellion against the frenzy of her workday world. She’d made peace out of space. It felt like entering a secret.

The bedside lamp cast a warm golden hush across the room.

He stepped in quietly, like a guest in a chapel, while feeling as if treating himself to a peek at a most private space of hers.

A pair of earrings rested in a ceramic dish. A half-full water glass on the nightstand. And beside it, a book: Small Things Like These.

His fingers hovered over the worn cover. He picked it up. Flipped gently through a few pages. Something about the way the prose breathed between the lines made his chest go tight.

He grabbed one of the pillows off the bed, pressed it to his chest for a moment, then set the book down and backed out slowly.

Before leaving, he reached for the light switch.
Clicked it off.
The room exhaled behind him.

When he returned, she was already asleep—face turned into the couch cushion, fingers curled like she was still arguing with spreadsheets in her dreams.

He stared at her for a long, aching moment. Then at the front door.

Then at the sock still haloed in the lampshade light.

A smile tugged at his mouth. He shut the lights, walked over to the couch, kicked off his shoes. Using the pillow he had intended for her as he lowered himself onto the far end of the couch. Her toes found him instantly, snaking underneath his thighs.

And as he settled into the quiet, eyes tracing the ceiling, getting hung up on the dark silhouette of a sock in a lamp, he whispered “Good night, Viola, you crazy beautiful dream.”

Good Morning, Regret

The first thing she registered was pressure—bladder screaming, limbs locked in something resembling a living rigor mortis, and a headache blooming behind her eyes like a Fourth of July firework finale. Her mouth tasted like cardboard and crushed hope. She blinked awake groggily, mouth cotton-dry, blinking at the unfamiliar angle of…

Ceiling fan?
Wait, what?

She sat up—and immediately toppled off the couch with a graceless thud.

“Ow. Shit—why am I on the couch? Is that a sock on my lamp?!” she groaned, tangled in a throw blanket and the unmistakable aura of regret. Her knee bumped into a takeout container. Something squelched. She fought her way up in a spinning room.

One foot crunched what used to be naan. The other stepped directly into her bra.

She looked around. The carnage was biblical.

“Oh no.”

Memory hit in flickers: venting about work, dismantling capitalism, possibly sniffing Brad’s hair. Brad? Did she imagine him or had he really been here? What did she do to turn her home into such a mess? What day was it even? Oh, shit! Friday!

And then—

“Good morning,” came a warm voice behind her.

She shrieked. Full-body spin. Heart in her throat. Hair exploding outward like a startled porcupine.

Brad was still curled on the far end of the couch, hair mussed in criminally endearing directions, blinking at her like she was a particularly loud sunrise.

“Jesus Christ, Brad!” she gasped, clutching the blanket around her. “How did you get in here?!”

He yawned. “You buzzed me in. Last night. Came to check on you when you abruptly went MIA after a barrage of half-finished text rants.”

“I—oh god.” She clutched her forehead. “Just tell me now: Did we—did I—we didn’t—tell me I didn’t—you and I … you know …”

Brad sat up slowly, stretching with feline grace, as he decided to milk it. “Well … You got pretty lit. You ranted beautifully about your job, your spreadsheet dictator boss, trickle-down economics, and how I dare to come here with my face, curls and voice and distract you from your plans. Your words, not mine.”

“Oh my god.”

“And,” he continued, utterly deadpan, “you definitely called me a ‘walking tall glass of bedroom metaphors.’ You also said I smell like trust issues and cedarwood, not necessarily wrong. But above all, you revealed a concerning obsession with my hair, so long as the curls are not artificial, as, and I paraphrase, perms are the devil.”

She covered her face with both hands. “Please stop.”

“You also tried to redistribute wealth, but got stuck on the word ‘redistribute.’ It was a journey.”

He stood and crossed to her. Carefully tucked a stray curl behind her ear. His hand lingered for half a beat longer than it needed to.

“You offered,” he said gently. “And I was tempted. But you were sideways enough to inspire chivalry. So, to answer your question, no we did not.”

She peeked at him through her fingers. “Agh, thank god. Nothing personal, but that would have been traumatic for both of us. But you stayed? In this mess?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Didn’t want you waking up with one sock on the lamp and your phone swaddled in a paper towel diaper—and no one around to tell the tale or assure you you’re still enchanting at 12% battery.”

Grinning, he plucked the sock off the lamp and tossed it onto the sofa. “Let me know when you’re ready for the story of how it got up there.”

Her lips twitched. “How about at a quarter to never ever?”

She turned toward the clock—and froze.

“Crap. I’m so late. Don’t look at me, I’m a feral Victorian ghost—I need a shower—pants—eyeliner—I’m panicking—”

She bolted for the bathroom. Brad called after her. “I’ll make the coffee. Don’t break something rushing too much.”

Fifteen minutes later.

She emerged mid-sprint—skirt halfway zipped, necklace clasp in her teeth, hair still waging war with gravity.

Brad stepped in, zipped her up with ease, then fastened the necklace like he did it every morning.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, breathless. “I am barely functioning. Pray for me. This is going to be a very long day for me.”

He handed off her toast and coffee like a practiced relay runner. “Here. Soul fuel.”

She paused. Eyes soft. “Thank you. For not… well, just for being you. And for sticking around when I am … whatever you want to call what I was last night. Sorry about all that by the way.”
Brad smiled. “Thank you for liking me when I’m just… me.”
She took a bite of toast. “Brad. Be honest. How bad was I?”
He pretended to weigh it. “Adorably wasted. Passionate. Slightly feral. Aggressively charming.”

She winced. “Did I actually try to seduce you? Be real.”
“Oh yeah. Somewhere between your rant on yacht brunches and the filthy idea of perms. Those are the devil, you know?”

Her face hit her palm. “Okay. Never drinking again. Please tell me there’s a chance you’ll develop a severe case of amnesia and just forget all of this.”

He leaned in like he might kiss her… then just plucked a fuzzy off her blazer and smiled. “Impossible. You’re unforgettable.”

She froze. Then softened.
“I REALLY gotta go,” she said, jamming on one heel and half-hopping to the door when Brad handed her her meanwhile dry and mostly clean phone.

“Okay, at some point I have to know why my phone was in diapers.”

“And you shall, but not now. Go be impressive. Knock ’em dead, tigress.”

She hesitated, hand on the knob. “Brad?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. For everything.”
He nodded. “See you soon?”
She flushed. Grinned. And vanished like a hurricane in heels.

Brad stared at the door for a long moment, then turned back to the mess of impressive magnitude in such a small space.

He grinned down at it.
He was a goner. This girl.
Absolutely gone.

Swiffered and Smitten

She stepped into her apartment with a sigh of defeat and a plastic-wrapped deli sandwich under her arm—and froze.

The space was spotless.

Chaos? Gone. Wine glasses? Washed. Couch? Fluffed. Even her tragically wrinkled throw pillow had been karate-chopped into magazine-worthy shape.

But what stopped her wasn’t the tidiness.

It was the small bouquet of white tulips in a mason jar on her counter.
And the candy—those chewy white peach gummies she always bought and never shared.

And the folded card with her name in deliciously perfect handwriting.

She opened it.

Dear Drunk Shakespeare-in-the-Kitchen,

In the event you still do not remember last night (possible), and fear you danced on tables or insulted my masculinity (did not happen), I just want to assure you:
You were kind, chaotic, and absolutely charmingly yourself. Thank you for trusting me with that version of you.
PS: I’ll never again be able to hear the words “management demonic possession” without laughing like a deranged person.
PPS: You called me “snuggable.” For some very unmanly reason I find that endearing and hope I am THAT, even when you are sober.
PPPS: You mentioned dinner together. Holding you to it.
—Your friendly neighborhood stalker, aka. Brad

She laughed. Full-throated and warm.
Then she sank onto the clean couch, card still in hand, and thought—

I’m in trouble with this one.

The good kind.
The kind you hope stays.
Even though you met him in a bar and took him home to stay the night.

Confections and Affections

They were in her car, it was the weekend and it was a beautiful day. A white VW Beetle convertible that turned heads and made no apologies. Brad hesitated for half a second before getting in—thinking how many hospital board members or business journalists would leap on the sight of him riding shotgun in something that cutesy. But he climbed in anyway. Because it was her car.

She had decided she’d drive—something about how his work vehicle made her feel like she was being chauffeured into a heist. It made him a little sad, he didn’t dare drive his personal car when out with her, fearing she might connect him to the license plate and know everything before he was ready for her to find out.

The top was down, their shared playlist crackling through the speakers, curated from inside jokes and late-night texts. Wind rolled over them as they left the city and turned toward the coast.

He mentioned the Bay—casually, like it was an afterthought. “You’ve never been?”

She glanced at him. “To Brindleton Bay? Nope. Isn’t that the rich town with everyone wearing Ralph Lauren Purple Label, boat shoes, owning yachts parked around tons of lighthouses? Way out of my tax bracket.”

“Just one lighthouse and it’s not all like that,” he said, a little amused. “I grew up around there. There is certainly a lot of that, but also some normal people sprinkled in. Without boatshoes.”

“Did you now? Interesting. Fancy-schmanzy. I can see it. You fit right in here. Me… well…” She tilted her head. “Not so much.”

She wore a soft chambray dress in a light olive tone that hit just above the knees, the kind that moved with a breeze and held its shape with quiet confidence. A warm, sand-colored cardigan with delicate buttons hugged her shoulders—practical, not precious. Her wedge sandals were clean white with brown cork soles, and her hair was down, the waves catching the sunlight like they belonged there, strands flying in the breeze. Oversized sunglasses framed her face, effortlessly stylish. Just absolutely indescribably her.

“You know,” Brad said, shifting in his seat to look at her, “you always look great. Like… pulled together without even trying. You’d fit in anywhere. Even here.”

She turned toward him with a soft, unreadable smile. “That sounded suspiciously like a line.”

“It wasn’t. But maybe I should’ve started using that weeks ago.” He cleared his throat, dropped his voice two octaves, and adopted a tone best described as overconfident game show host while wiggling his eyebrows.

“Hey babe… you ever consider upgrading your coastal views? Because I happen to know a fixer-upper heart in Brindleton Bay with your name on it.”

She let out a laugh so sudden and hearty it startled the seagulls on the pier.

He grinned, unrepentant. “What can I say? I’m not great at lines. But I’m clearly excellent at making you laugh.”

“Yes, you are.” And just like that, something fluttered beneath her ribs.

So they went sightseeing in his town. And he watched her come alive.

Every storefront, every salt-washed pier, every meandering alley with flowers blooming in defiance of cobblestones—she took them in like she was collecting fragments of wonder. She ran her fingers along driftwood railings, peeked into gallery windows, pointed at ceramic planters with so much enthusiasm it made him ache.

Then they passed Ella’s Sweetest Things.

The soft pink awning fluttered above the door, hand-lettered signage curling with quaint charm. Fogged windows glowed golden, and the unmistakable scent of warm sugar and candied citrus spilled out with every open-and-close.

Brad hesitated. Just a beat—but long enough for her to notice.

“What is this place? Smells amazing and dangerous,” she said, already halfway to the door.

“Oh boy,” he murmured. But he followed.

“Oooooh!” was all he heard before she disappeared into the displays, inspecting absolutely everything.

It was like stepping into his own childhood. Trays of lavender bark. Iridescent foil-wrapped caramels. Signs that read like poetry.

> “Rosehip Raspberry Truffles — dark chocolate, floral and sharp.” > “Burnt Sugar Violet Brittle — with a hint of lavender sea salt.” > “Almond Butter & Cardamom Swirls — soft, rich, nostalgic.”

She moved like she was cataloging joy—until she paused at a smaller display near the counter.

“Okay, now this… this feels like you,” she said, lifting a modest box wrapped in ribbon. “Alderwood Honey Caramels. Subtle. Deep. Clean. But special. Ever had them?”

He didn’t speak.

Because she had no idea.

That flavor—that box—was what Briar Rose had introduced him to when they were kids. They’d been his favorite candy since he was eight. A quiet thing he held onto. A sweetness that felt like home.

And he remembered the night he’d told Molly he wanted a divorce—the desperation in her voice as she tried to stall him, to stay. He’d asked, gently, just once: “What’s my favorite candy?” She’d laughed, exasperated. “Men don’t like sweets. That’s a trick question. Seriously, Brad.” Thirteen years together. And she didn’t even know him that far.

But now this woman—this Viola—just walked into a store and picked them like it was obvious.

“Your voice says nothing,” she teased, eyes still on the box, “but your face has that longing expression of a man internally drooling but too cool to admit it. Ergo, I’m buying them. I want to be able to say I predicted your taste perfectly. And if I didn’t… more for me.”

She turned toward the register before he could stop her.

He stood still. Caught in that quiet ache between memory and wonder.

Outside, the breeze curled cool and sweet through the plaza. She approached, holding the paper bag like treasure, her smile irreverent.

“For you, dear Sir,” she announced with a dramatic flourish. “For dedicating your entire Saturday to me and my nonsense.”

He took the bag.

And then he kissed her.

No hesitation. No testing the waters.

Just hands in her hair, breath stolen, gravity defied. A kiss that said: you see me. And that terrified him. But thrilled him more.

She gasped softly—surprised, caught. Then her hands found his chest, and she kissed him back like she meant it.

When they finally parted, she blinked, dazed.

“…So,” she murmured. “That’s what candy does to you. Damn. And I thought I had a serious sweet tooth. Yet I’ve never almost daylight-assaulted someone for buying me sugar. At least not that I recall.”

He laughed—low and real—and rested his forehead to hers.

“No,” he said. “That’s what you do to me.”

They stood there a moment. The street sounds faded. Just her. Just him. Just this.

And Brad couldn’t help it.

He’d promised himself he wouldn’t rush. Wouldn’t get swept away. But every minute with her made it harder to remember why he ever wanted to hold back.

“Are you going to try one?” she asked, nudging the bag in his hand.

He looked at it. Then at her. Something soft opened behind his smile.

“I don’t have to,” he said quietly. “They’re my favorite. Have been since I was a kid. No one ever gets it right. But you… just knew.”

She blinked. “Wait. Seriously?”

“Dead serious,” he said. “I don’t even talk about them. You walked into that shop and picked them like it was obvious. And honestly… it kind of wrecked me.”

“Oh,” she said. A little stunned. “Well. Damn. I am good.”

“You are more than good.” He curled his fingers gently around hers. “You are spectacular.”

Ladle, Lather, Love

Back at her place, dinner started with good intentions.

She pulled out arborio rice, fresh mushrooms, shallots, lemon, and a block of Parmesan she referred to as “the real MVP.” Everything from scratch. Measured, methodical, quietly elegant—like her.

“You can make the salad,” she said, tossing a few radishes, tomatoes, half a cucumber and a bundle of greens his way. “Don’t cut off fingers, okay?”

He dutifully complied, slicing cucumbers and scattering pine nuts. She worked beside him at the stove, stirring the risotto in slow, figure-eight loops, steam rising, her movements unhurried.

She handed him a sliver of cheese—sharp, nutty—and watched his reaction.

He groaned. “That’s ridiculously good.”

“I know,” she said smugly, reaching for more. “Almost obscenely good.”

So he retaliated. Held out a slice of red pepper—bright and crisp. She leaned in to take it, but instead of grabbing it with her hand, she let her lips brush his fingers, teeth catching lightly as she pulled it into her mouth with a sucking motion.

A sharp inhale from him.
And suddenly the kitchen felt smaller.
Hotter.

Neither said a word, but everything tilted. The risotto forgotten, the salad half-tossed. He reached for her, hand curling around her waist. She turned into him without hesitation.

When their mouths met, it wasn’t tentative.
It was low, slow, necessary.

They didn’t leave the kitchen right away. They didn’t rush. But when they finally made it to the bedroom, it was with reverence—like unfolding something delicate that had waited a long time to be seen. It wasn’t just physical. It was warmth meeting warmth. The slow untangling of self-consciousness. A grounding. A kind of welcome neither had known they were searching for.

The hours blurred after that—full of hushes and heartbeats, of skin remembering how to speak without words. No performative heat. Just the soft-spoken truth of wanting and being wanted, wholly, without armor. And somewhere between the echo of their laughter in the dark and the exploration of each other, they let the world fall away.

By morning, it had not returned.

Sunlight spilled through gauzy curtains, painting soft gold across the bedspread.

He blinked awake slowly, the room still hushed with the breath of sleep. Viola lay nestled beside him, her arm draped across his chest, fingertips tracing lazy circles just above his collarbone. Her touch was light, unthinking—like she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone and reached for comfort out of instinct.

His lips curved before his eyes fully opened. “Morning,” he murmured, voice low and rough with sleep.

She hummed, soft and sleepy. “Morning.”

A pause. The kind that holds everything and nothing at once.

Then she tilted her chin up just enough to meet his gaze and whispered, “Come shower with me.”

It wasn’t seductive. Not laced with flirtation. It was soft—like offering tea on a cold morning. He blinked at her, still half-dreaming, and nodded.

She padded to the bathroom, tousled and bare, grabbing his hand. He followed—bare, soul and skin.

Steam curled against the mirror. She stepped beneath the spray, beckoning him with a quiet smile. He hesitated a breath, then joined her.

She didn’t touch him at first. Just let him stand, blinking through the water, the silence between them not awkward—but full.

Then her hands found him—slow, deliberate, reverent. No hunger. No script. Just presence. She worked lavender soap into his shoulders, his back, the hollow of his neck. And he let her.

With every touch, something softened. Slid away. His guard, his grief, the weight of who he thought he had to be. This wasn’t seduction. It was surrender. A kind of knowing. A kind of welcome.

No one had touched him like this.

Not Molly, whose marriage to him had been little more than a well-tailored illusion. Sex had been rare, measured—something scheduled, never shared. She’d never pulled him into the shower. Maybe she had with the men she chose instead. But not him. He hadn’t even known such intimacy could live in such small, sacred spaces.

Until Bri.

Briar Rose had pulled him in laughing, warm. Her hands, her eyes—everything about that moment had cracked something open. She’d shown him passion didn’t have to be performed, that vulnerability could bloom quietly in the steam. It hadn’t lasted, but it had mattered. She had loved him enough to teach him how love could look. And when she left—loving someone else more—she’d still left him better.

But this—Viola—was something else entirely.

Where Bri had revealed the possibility, Vee was the truth of it. She wasn’t performing trust. She was offering it. She didn’t need to prove anything. She was just present.

And in that moment—under the steady rhythm of water, with her thumbs brushing the line of his spine and her breath a soft current at his shoulder—he knew.

This wasn’t just comfort. This was clarity.

She didn’t know his real name. Not the one on the plaques or the inked contracts that shaped continents. Not the childhood manor. Not the legacy in his blood. She didn’t know the children who curled into him on hard nights. She only knew Brad.

And somehow, impossibly, she still chose him. Not the weight he carried. Just the way he was, when he was with her.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He just reached out, laced their fingers beneath the stream, and pressed his forehead to hers.

And when her lips brushed his chest—a question more than a kiss—he answered her the only way he knew how.

He touched her back. Kissed her shoulder. Let the soap run cold, the water drum steady, and everything else fall away.

When they finally came together, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t sex. It was choosing. It was being chosen.

And in the stillness afterward—her breath tucked beneath his jaw, his arms wrapped tight—Brad knew with devastating certainty: This wasn’t just the beginning.

It was everything.

He hadn’t just fallen.

He’d landed.

Dating the Deal

The weekend was gone, flown by like a bird, here it was Monday again.

Brad adjusted the cuff of his shirt like it mattered. These meetings always dragged. A series of vendors pitching infrastructure for the planned expansion clinic in Sulani—his long-delayed project for combining western surgical methods with local holistic wellness approaches. It was the kind of thing his brand loved, but he hadn’t felt particularly involved lately.

His mind was elsewhere and just couldn’t be reeling to care about business. He had been planning and plotting the big reveal, flip flopping ideas from quietly telling her in her apartment over take-out to just taking her to his estate and showing her. Either one bore risks. He hadn’t been ready to do it yet, for fear of repelling her.

This was what was occupying his heart and mind, not silly bids and plans and medical facility blueprints. But he had to go through the motions, hoping it would be over fast so he could go back to planning more important things.

He trailed behind his negotiators into the sleek corporate boardroom, already tuning out the buzz of small talk. Thoughts in the clouds.

The door opened.

Brad stepped into the boardroom at Cunningham Medical Group, flanked by two of his senior execs—Lance from Strategy and Corrigan from Operations—both mid-pitch discussion, gesturing over tablets and numbers he wasn’t really interested in this morning.

This meeting was just a sign-off. A final roundtable with Linear Solutions, one of the shortlisted vendors. Someone else had already vetted the details. All he had to do was sit through it, maybe ask a question or two, then give the nod.

Seating was normally assigned, but no one would tell him where he should sit. No one dared.

So, he stopped by an empty chair at the end of the table—far enough from the fray where executives would spar over semantics, close enough to witness the damage. The seat directly across from a woman tucked quietly at the far end—half-shielded by her laptop, head down, typing up a storm. Probably last-minute edits.

The Linear reps—two men in nearly identical navy suits—stood as they were introduced: Gordon Lively, VP of Client Engagement, and Paul Barnes, Director of Strategic Rollouts. Both confident, affable, used to pitching to billionaires.

They shook Brad’s hand with the kind of practiced humility that comes from knowing who signs the checks.

“If I may, we brought our Project Manager,” Paul added, gesturing behind him, “who led the bid and will be coordinating with your operations team if selected… Please meet Miss Viola Miller. Viola, this is Dr. Bradford Cunningham.”

He heard the name.

Brad’s head turned. Fast.

She looked up at the same time, eyes already wide, and stood like it wasn’t her body doing the moving but pure muscle memory. She hadn’t expected to be introduced. Hadn’t expected him.

Her hand extended slowly, her face struggling for composure beneath the cracking surface of Oh no. WTF.

“Dr. … umm … Cunningham,” she said with professional brightness that almost sounded real.

They shook hands.

Her fingers were ice. His grip was off. Their palms met like strangers who had once shared something secret and now couldn’t admit it. He dropped her hand too fast. She turned to sit, knees stiff, laptop repositioned like a shield. Brad turned to sit as well, heart ticking like a metronome with a grudge.

Neither of them said another word.

Her bosses didn’t notice—too busy launching into the PowerPoint now onscreen, muttering to each other—just as Brad’s senior execs were. Viola sat down quickly. So did he. Both staring at each other, wide-eyed.

Slides began—Q4 integration models, projected ROI, strategy phase gates—but neither of them was in the room anymore. Viola’s pen hovered blankly above her notebook. Brad stared blankly at a slide about projected quarterly integration.

Then—fwip—a tiny triangle of paper struck him square in the chest. He looked down. Then up.

She wasn’t looking at him. Staring at the screen like mesmerized.

He opened the note beneath the table. Read, in big, bold capital letters:

WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK?!?!

He reached into his inner jacket pocket, found a pen, and scribbled on the back:

I was going to tell you, I swear. Soon.

He waited until one of her bosses turned a page, then slid the note back across the table like a napkin at a mob dinner.

She opened it. Read it. Didn’t smile. Wrote something beneath the fold. Waited. Then: flick.

Sniper-level accuracy. It landed under his fingers.

As if on instinct, he pulled it under the table without breaking line of sight to the screen.

If your legal name is really Bradford, I will mess up your curls so bad your own mother won’t recognize you. What kinda name is that?!

His lips twitched. A cough covered the laugh. Barely.

Lance gave him a glance. Brad gestured subtly for him to turn back toward the screen.

When the man obliged, Brad scribbled back:

Bradford, yes, guilty as charged. Named after some ancestor I never even knew. I’ll tell you everything. Tonight. Just… please let me.

He slipped the note across the table when no one was looking.

She read it. Took her time.

Then: flick.

It hit his lap. He opened it.

Your explanation better be good. P.S. I would’ve guessed it’s short for Bradley. You look like a Bradley. But even Bradford is still hotter than this long, lame meeting—I’m seconds from walking into traffic. Are these meetings always like this?

A snort escaped him before he could stop it.

Too loud.

Heads turned. Barnes’ droning halted.

Corrigan arched an eyebrow. “Everything alright, Brad?”

Brad cleared his throat, coughed into his fist. “Fine. Just—sorry. Misread a figure. Continue.”

Everyone turned back to the screen.

He slouched a little lower in his chair, as if that might rewind time. Then, casually, he jotted one more note:

Yes, they are. I am just thrilled I finally got to meet the infamous Paul in person. Want me to relay your drunk thoughts on him as a boss and person? For what it’s worth… I can see how you arrived at the description of meat puppet with the emotional range of a raisin. Very spot-on.

He passed it over like he was handing someone a live grenade.

She read it. Pressed her lips together—hard—but her shoulders gave her away, trembling with silent laughter. Behind her laptop, Viola was fully cracked—arms tight, trying not to shake the table.

And then—a hiccup. An involuntary squeak.

Heads turned.

Barnes paused midsentence. “Miss Miller?”

She straightened fast. Nearly knocked her laptop over.

“Yes. Sorry. I—” Her eyes darted to her notes. “Dr. Cunningham had just posed a very complex hypothetical, and I was attempting to respond.”

Barnes blinked.

All eyes shifted toward Brad. He didn’t blink.

“Apologies. Yes, I was the disruptor. I asked Miss Miller whether projected cost recoveries in Q3 reflect the impact of vendor renegotiation… or if we’re still working off last year’s margin assumptions.”

A few pages flipped. One exec scribbled something. Close enough to pass.

Corrigan nodded. “Good one. I’d like that answered as well.”

Gordon stammered. “Yes—we’ll get you something definite by end of business today.”

“Thank you,” Brad said smoothly, turning toward the screen. “If we could resume then. Not to be rude, but—riveting as this is—I do have a rather full schedule today.”

Slides advanced with a beep.

Peeking at him from behind her laptop, Viola mouthed: THANK YOU.

He gave a near-imperceptible nod.

Both turned back to face the screen, determined to power through—until:

Thunk.

A wadded-up paper missile hit him square in the forehead.

He flinched—visibly—and blurted, “Jesus!”

Silence again.

Everyone stared.

Brad adjusted his sleeve like that might take time itself backwards. Then said, deadpan:

“Apologies. That… Q2 cost delta just hit me harder than I expected.”

Chuckles. Someone nodded solemnly, like yeah, those margins are brutal—makes you wanna pray for the bottom line. Corrigan’s brow stayed raised, but he let it go. What else could he do? Brad was definitely acting very much out of character today, but if Cunningham wanted to dance on the table, nobody had the authority to stop him. His building. His table. His company. His bottom line.

Viola, behind her screen, was wrecked. Shoulders bouncing. Breathless.

Brad turned—slowly—and locked his eyes on her. She didn’t look at him. But her soul was gloating. He picked up the offending projectile, weighed it like he was judging its strategic value.

Then tossed it across the table.

Direct hit. Bounced off her forehead.
She jumped and snorted.
Attention was summoned yet again.

Brad handed her a Perrier without a word, expression cool.
“Miss Miller, perhaps a sip of water? For your… cough?”

She reached for it primly. “Thank you, Dr. Cunningham. The air’s a bit dry in here.”

Someone else took a drink like it was contagious. Heads turned back forward.

Brad faced the screen again, unreadable.

But in the corner of his eye: her hand twitched. Then—without even glancing up—she extended one perfectly manicured middle finger in his direction, subtle as a scalpel.

He smiled. Didn’t look at her. Just nodded once.

Truce accepted. War postponed.

The moment this meeting ended, they both knew: this was the end of the presentation, but not of this.

But hours later, after pacing his office and ignoring half a dozen calls, Brad felt like he was going insane. The memories flooding back. Missed opportunities to tell her everything. He closed his eyes, trying to shake the memories, but then found himself engulfing himself in one as it folded around him like a warm hug of nostalgia.

Suddenly his office faded away and they were on her balcony, curled up under a shared blanket, sipping whatever bubbly white she’d claimed was “good enough to impress but cheap enough not to cry over.” City lights blinked quietly beneath them.

They were laughing—some half-drunken story about her aunt confusing cayenne for cinnamon—and the laughter faded just enough for her to look over, amused.

“Wait. Do I even know your last name?” she asked, frowning slightly, as if the question had just occurred to her mid-sip.

Brad smiled—too smooth, too practiced. “Do I know yours?” Deflecting masterfully.

She tilted her head, clocking the dodge. Then offered a quiet shrug. “Touché.”

A breath passed.

“Fine,” she said, leaning back against the pillow. “It’s Miller. Viola Miller. Thompson before that, but… I left that name where it belonged.”

She took another sip of coffee, but the ease in her voice dimmed slightly, like a candle drawing into itself.

“Viola isn’t your usual first name, that’s why I go by Vee. My mom named me after her favorite Shakespeare character. Viola from Twelfth Night. She said I’d need to be clever, resourceful. That I’d survive the wreck.” She gave a half-smile. “Turns out she was right.”

Brad went still—careful not to interrupt whatever was unspooling now, sacred in its unfolding.

“My dad split when I was a kid. Left us with nothing but debt and a busted Pontiac. I heard later that he died not long after that, but that’s all I really know. My mom picked up third shifts at the textile plant just to keep our heat on. Never complained. Just… worked. And I did too. School, scholarships, night jobs. I taught myself how to sound like I belonged in boardrooms by reciting TED Talks and reading every biography at the public library. To better ourselves, make her proud.”

She glanced at him like she was half-apologizing. “I loved learning. Still do. History, literature, all of it. It made sense to me, when nothing else did.”

She shifted the cup between her hands.

“I married too young I think. Maybe 22 isn’t all that young per se, but it was for me, I wasn’t ready, I think. Thought he was the safe choice. Educated, stable, well spoken. For ten years I told myself maybe I just didn’t understand marriage—maybe love wasn’t supposed to feel like oxygen. Until I caught him celebrating their one-year anniversary on his phone calendar.”

Brad blinked. “Their?”

“His ‘colleague.’ Who, surprise, was not hypothetical.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Turns out there’s nothing like an affair to make you re-learn your name.”

He wanted to reach for her hand—but didn’t.

“So I left,” she said. “Ugly divorce. Lost more than I kept. Came here—San Myshuno—because it was big and anonymous and not his. I signed the offer letter for Linear Solutions on a Tuesday.” Her voice caught a little. “My mom died that Friday.”

Brad swallowed.

“She was so proud of me for leaving. For starting over. For not letting myself become her. But then I got here and… now it was just me. No friends, no family, new job, thirty-two then and trying to prove to myself that I could still build something worth living in.”

She smiled faintly. “Most days, I’m not sure that I actually can.”

There was a silence, but it didn’t feel empty.

It felt holy.

She looked at him. Honest. Unprotected. Like someone who’d fought to own her story and was offering it—not as a sob story, not to be comforted—but as truth.

“There,” she said quietly. “Now you know. How was that for TMI.”

She hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t lied. Hadn’t held back.
And that… that gutted him.
Because she had just given him all of herself—while he still hadn’t even given her his last name.
And somehow, even still, she was the most open person he had ever met.
He looked at her—really looked—and knew with terrifying certainty that he was already halfway hers.
Maybe more.
And she didn’t even know it yet.

He leaned forward and kissed her—quick, warm, distracting. A deflection disguised as affection. Her fingers laced into his shirt like she’d been waiting for it all along.

And just like that, the question disappeared into the wine and the wind and the feel of her mouth against his.

But later—later—it would echo.
Because he remembered every word.
And she would now remember that he hadn’t answered. And know why.

Doorstep Confessions

Brad showed up outside her building. Suit still on. Tie loosened. Fingers gripping a bouquet of roses like they were penance. He breathed a breath of genuine relief when he buzzed him in.

She opened the door in leggings and a sweatshirt that looked like she’d changed out of that blazer in the hallway. Her mascara was slightly smudged. Not messy—just human.

She blinked.

“Hi,” he said. “I—um.” He held out the flowers, awkwardly. “I thought about texting. Calling. Screaming into the void. This felt less… theatrical. Plus, I think I owe you a face-to-face talk. Or a cheek you can slap. I know I deserve it.”

She leaned against the doorframe, one brow lifted, nodding.

“I wasn’t hiding it from you,” he said. “Not… deliberately, at least not at first. And then I didn’t know how to tell you, afraid everything would change. It wasn’t a game. I swear.”

“Really?” she asked quietly. “Because I introduced myself to you before, weeks ago. Fully. Completely. You never gave me the same courtesy. I had to find out who you are at work. Do you know how daunting it is as a little Project Manager to be tasked with a bid to an industry giant like Cunningham Enterprises? But it becomes expert level when that old adage about ‘just picture the audience naked’ becomes a farce—because the guy I was supposed to impress, I actually have seen naked. Do you realize this means I could lose my job? A job I need, Brad! I get why you wouldn’t open with all this that you are, but it’s been months and it should have come up.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” he said, voice low, amused. “But don’t worry—you’re not losing your job.”

A beat. His gaze locked on hers.

“And if I have to make awarding the project dependent on your continued employment… then that’s exactly what I’ll do. Just say the word.”

Viola blinked. Somewhere, a legal department probably shuddered.

He softened, lips tugging into something halfway between a smirk and a real smile. “For what it’s worth… you impressed me. Professionally.” He tilted his head slightly. “And personally. Obviously.”

She didn’t return the smile. He exhaled.

“Vee, I didn’t know how to bring it up. Not once we got started. I just wanted to stay in that space with you where I wasn’t… all this.” He held up his security badge like it was evidence. “I liked who I was in your apartment, in your car, eating your risotto and sleeping on your couch. I liked being just Brad with you. You have seen how they treat me at work. I am not complaining, but it’s just not … you can’t meet someone real like that.”

“And you thought that hide and seek would last forever?”

“No. I was just hoping it’d last long enough that when you finally did find out, it wouldn’t matter. That it’d feel like… context.”

She didn’t say anything. He watched her fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the door.

“I wanted to tell you,” he said. “So many times. I almost did that night with the jam. I almost did when you kissed me in the kitchen. I almost did that morning in the shower. Even just before the presentation today all I was thinking about was the best way to explain all that to you without running you off. But I was afraid to lose it. Lose you. I just wanted one more day of just-Brad. Then another. And now…”

She closed her eyes briefly. “I’m not even that mad about you not telling me,” she said. Her voice was softer. “I guess I get it. I just feel like such an idiot now. Humiliated. Toyed with, in a way. Like the Brad I…” She broke off, then steadied. “The guy I thought you were doesn’t even really exist. Instead, I have this scary dude, larger than life, a guy my bosses are obsessed with. They legit worship you. But honestly, I was mad at you, so furious, until I remembered, it’s my own damn fault. I never asked. I mean I did, several times, but I let you distract me with that smile, kisses, diversions. I could have pressed, but I didn’t, I slept with you not even knowing anything about you. That’s fully on me. I can’t be mad at you for that. But you should have tried harder. This doesn’t feel good.”

That landed hard.

Brad nodded. “I deserve that. Yes, I should have. For what it’s worth, God honest truth, I spent the last weeks trying to figure out how to tell you everything without scaring you off or causing you to feel the way you do now.”

A silence pulled between them. She stood still for a breath. Then stepped back.

“Fine. Come in, Brad.”

He moved like a man walking into judgment.

He followed her to the living room and stared at the couch. The same couch where they’d eaten takeout, fallen asleep in each other’s arms, laughed so hard at their lack of gaming skills and coordination.

He tried to hand her the flowers, but she didn’t take them, so he set the roses down.

She sighed and reached for a vase, filling it at the sink, carefully cutting each stem in silence. Water ran. Glass clinked. Small, ordinary sounds that only made the tension louder.

“I know I should’ve told you, weeks ago,” he said behind her, voice soft. “I didn’t, it was cowardly and wrong. You deserve truth. Not performative half-truth.”

She didn’t look at him.

“I didn’t mean for it to get so far without telling you. I kept waiting for the right moment, but the more I fell… the harder it got to admit I hadn’t told you already.”

Her eyes finally met his, rimmed red but unflinching.

“That’s the problem, Brad. Yes, you should have told me. Like I said, I get why you wouldn’t in the beginning, but we’ve come a long way in a short amount of time. You say you fell for me. But you didn’t trust me enough to fall into me. I did. I laid it all out on the table for you, my soft underbelly, my flaws, everything. But not you, no, I have to walk into a meeting with you to find out your last name. I mean, maybe under different circumstances this would have some fairytale prince on a white horse flair, but right now all I can think of how dumb I feel and how this is probably a serious conflict of interest at work.”

He didn’t know how to answer that. Not with words.

Her voice cracked.

“I told you about my mom. About starting over with nothing. About San Myshuno. I told you the ugliest parts of me—because I thought we were being real.”

She pressed another stem against the cutting board, too hard, too fast.

It slipped.
The vase tilted.
And then—

Crash.

Glass exploded across the counter, the roses sprawling in a defeated heap. Shards skittered to the floor.
She let out a sharp sob, barely a sound—and reached instinctively, fingers curling around the largest piece like she could somehow reverse it.

“Viola—”

“I’m fine!” she snapped, blinking fast, blinking furiously, even as blood welled along the cut on her palm.

Brad was already there. “You’re not.”

She tried to pull her hand back. “It’s just glass, it’s nothing, I—”

“I am a doctor,” he said gently, catching her wrist before she could turn away.

That stopped her.

She gave a small, broken laugh. “Right. Of course you are.”

She didn’t fight him after that.

He guided her to a stool, washed the wound with careful hands. Then ran to the bedroom to get the small case he had found snooping weeks ago, applying Neosporin, then a perfectly sized Band-Aid. She winced once, then went quiet—too quiet.

And when she finally looked up through the shimmer of unshed tears, her voice was barely a breath. “Was any of it real?”

He met her gaze. Steady. Open.

“All of it,” he said. “Just omissions. No lies. Not ever.”

She stared at him—angry and aching and something else underneath it all.
Then she exhaled. Like something had finally cracked open inside her—and light had found its way in. She looked at him—really looked this time—and after a beat, sat beside him.

“I’m going to give you a choice,” she said. “A chance to set the record straight. Because I can’t lie—this did knock the wind out of me. But even know, I know better, but I … can’t just … pretend none of this happened. I can’t just turn my back.”

He nodded. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

She pulled her knees up under her.

Then, gently: “What’s your real name, Brad?”

He winced. “Doctor Bradford Owen Cunningham the Second.”

She blinked. Then let out a short, disbelieving breath that might’ve been a laugh. “God, that’s so much worse than I expected. A doctor too? Like a real doctor? Or some on-paper type title?”

“Surgeon,” he said. “Real enough?”

“Are you married, Brad?”

“No. I was. Twice. The most recent divorce became final a few months before I met you.”

“Kids?”

He exhaled. “Three. Two by my first wife. There is Graham—he’s fourteen. Lauren’s twelve. And Nathaniel just turned one. He’s with my second wife. The kids live with me full-time. Their mothers have visitation.”

“Wow.”

“Do you… have kids?”

“No.” Then, more gently, “And I’m asking the questions here.”

He offered a faint smile.

“Why did you get divorced?”

Brad looked down at his hands. Then answered.

“My first wife was… a mistake. I was young. Devastated after losing Briar Rose—my high school sweetheart. Our families tore us apart, and I was broken. Then there was Molly. Someone I barely knew. One drunk night turned into a pregnancy. Our parents insisted. It was doomed from the start. She didn’t love me, I didn’t love her. I tried to make it work for years. When I asked for a divorce, she got pregnant again. I stayed. Until I couldn’t.”

He paused. Then, softly:

“My second wife was Briar Rose. We reconnected later. Fell in love again. Had our son. But… she realized she still loved someone else. And she left. Again. All that took just over one year. Left me dead inside again until … until I met this girl at a bar.”

He looked up.

“I thought Bri was it. The love of my life. Since I was sixteen I thought that. No matter how fleeting our time, I thought that kind of love only happens once. That I’d never feel it again.”

Her eyes were unreadable. Watching. “But then I met you. And I did. I am.”

“Glad you brought that up. Tell me—what does a man like you want with a woman like me? You could have anyone. You have had better. I mean… Briar Rose? The singer? Are you even being serious right now? How am I supposed to measure up to that?”

He stood abruptly, something restless rippling beneath his stillness. Then he turned and faced her squarely.

“There’s no competition. Bri and I were good—ARE good friends, good history. But romantically she’s my past and I am hers. You’re not just my present. You’re what’s next. And I don’t have a perfect answer for how it happened or why—all I know is that I wasn’t looking for anything that night at the bar. But you found me. And once you did… I didn’t stand a chance. I fell. Hard. In a way I didn’t even think I was capable of anymore.”

He took a slow step toward her, then another.

“It wasn’t fate or sparks flying the second we met. It was quieter. Realer. It was coffee laced with your sarcasm. It was how you played the exact song I didn’t know I needed. The way you handed me Alderwood caramels—somehow knowing they’ve been my favorite since I was a boy. You adding your music to my jazz playlist and feeding me lemon risotto like it was communion.”

Another step. Her breath faltered.

“And I’ve fallen all over again. Deeper than ever this time. Past every warning I gave myself. Too fast, too soon, too much—and somehow still not enough.”

He lifted her chin gently with his hand.

“Yes, I’m saying it. Yes, I mean it. I’ve felt it for a while, but I wasn’t ready to admit it—to myself, let alone to you. But now…”

He looked her in the eyes, steady.

“It needs to be said.”

He stepped into her space, no pretense left.

“I love you, Viola. With every fiber of my being, I do.”

She stared. Silent.

And in the span of that breathless, suspended moment—it was like the whole world leaned forward to hear her next word.

She didn’t move at first. Didn’t look away. Didn’t rush to fill the silence.

Brad stood there, breath caught somewhere in his chest, feeling like his entire life had narrowed down to this apartment, this moment, her.

Finally, she exhaled. Not in anger. Not in hesitation. Just a deep, emotional release—like the weight of what he’d said needed somewhere to land.

“I love you too, but I am not so sure that is a good thing, I think that might be a problem. I feel like I somehow against better knowledge left myself open to the same mistake as before, even though this feels different. There is more emotion, more resonance from you. You and … vibe, I guess. I think we shouldn’t, but I feel like I am supposed to decide something here and I just don’t know what.”

He nodded—no flinch, no disappointment. Just quiet understanding.

“I don’t want perfect,” she added. “I want honest. And if this is what that looks like—messy and convoluted and layered—I can meet you in it. But … no more … omissions.”

Relief washed through his features, slow and reverent, like sunrise over water. And still, he stayed quiet. Still didn’t press.

“I want to meet them,” she said after a beat. “Your kids. I understand this is delicate and has to be handled with care, but I want to know that part of your world—not just the windows you’ve let me peek through. You can tell them I am a colleague or something.”

He swallowed hard. “Are you sure?”

“No,” she said, eyes shining. “I know nothing about kids, but I have to do this. I have to see the real Brad. You as a father. You at home. You being you when you are the real Dr. Bradford Cunningham.”

“You already know him. By any name, it was always me with you, just without all the noise. What you need to see is the packaging. And the world around me. But you already know me. That much I can say for certain.”

He reached for her hand—tentative, hopeful—and she laced their fingers. And then, softer she asked a question that made his heart jump, as he realized it wasn’t just for the moment. “Will you stay?”

His breath hitched. “Always, if you’ll let me.”

She pulled him close—not the desperate kind of embrace, but something grounded. Something earned. They spent the evening in slow conversation. Not repairing. Rebuilding. Piece by piece. Honestly. Emotional nakedness.

Trial by Fire

It was Sunday. A beautiful morning. Viola sat cross-legged on the chaise lounge with a cup of mint tea cooling beside her on Brad’s poolside patio. Down in the yard, Graham was chasing Briony with a water balloon, Nathaniel was squealing in his jumper seat, and somewhere near the pool Lauren was explaining pool noodles and floaties to him.

Brad was on the far end of the patio with Briar Rose, his very famous ex-wife, the two of them laughing softly as they shared a memory Viola couldn’t hear. She watched them for a long moment.

No sharp pang. Just the strange weight of witnessing your person’s history in motion. And knowing you’re part of what comes next. Even though you are not a beautiful, famous singer like his ex-wife, but luckily, Vee and Bri hit it off right away.

Bri moved with ease—comfortable here, still deeply tethered to her child’s world and the man she had been married to. It was clear that she and Brad shared something deeper still, but it wasn’t threatening. When Nathaniel cried, she swooped in before Viola could stand up, lifting him fluidly into her arms. The baby sighed into her neck, already soothed.

Vee remained, just out of sight.
Watching.
Respecting.

And maybe, for a flicker of a moment, letting herself hope she could become that too. Someone with muscle memory and built-in lullabies. Someone steady.

Later, Brad found her curled in a hammock under the wisteria, pretending to nap.
“She’s incredible with him,” Viola murmured without opening her eyes.
He didn’t pretend not to know who she meant.

“She is,” he said softly. “It’s always been that way with Bri. Everything seems to come easy to her, but if you know her better you learn, it’s not. She just makes it seem that way.”
She cracked one eye open. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

He shook his head. “No. Because she’s his mom. And I’m his dad. And you’re here, holding pieces of all of it without flinching. You really impressed me, and even Bri mentioned it. She likes you a lot.”

Viola smiled.

Don’t Be Too Brad

Bri sat beside Brad on the veranda again, now quieter, the air full of cotton clouds and grilled peaches.

“Braddy,” she said suddenly.

He glanced at her.

“I’m really happy for you.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched Vee in the distance—holding Nathaniel, who was trying to chew on her hair while she patiently hummed, slightly off-key, while watching Briony and Lauren build sand castles Vee was supposed to judge, lined by snarky teen boy commentary from Graham lounging nearby pretending not to care.

“She’s perfect for you,” Bri continued. “I mean that. And the kids… they love her. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”

Brad let out a breath. “Especially since she’s learning diapers in real-time. She doesn’t have kids and was a little afraid at first. But look at her now.”

Bri laughed. “Yikes. I remember that phase. Everything was new and scary and I was constantly afraid to screw up. Poor thing.”

“She makes it work. Somehow.”

“She’s got that childlike joy about her. I think that’s why they trust her. She doesn’t act like an adult around them—she becomes part of their tribe.”

Brad nodded, eyes warm.

“I’ve laughed more in the past few months than I have in ten years,” he said. “She’s a chameleon, Bri. I could drop her onto Jackson’s ranch or walk her across a red carpet and she’d just… blend and fit in.”

Bri gave him a soft smile. “Yeah, that’s the impression I got. And she’s genuine, Brad. I am totally ship’ing this. So… when are you proposing?”

He barked out a laugh. “God, not you too. I cannot tell you how many people have asked me that. Every time I take her out somewhere, people either assume we are already engaged or seem to think we should be. All this has moved so much faster than I meant it to, I don’t think I should propose to someone new the same year our divorce was finalized.”

“Agh, don’t worry about that. You and I are and have always been a different story defying all logic. And people like us, Brad, are always gonna be tabloid fodder no matter what we do. I don’t even hate that you found her so fast. Actually, to be perfectly honest, I am relieved. Helps with my own guilt for having to hurt you. So, I’m Team Brad and Vee, no notes. Put a ring on it already. Want me to go browse some jewelry websites with you?”

“God Bri, have you always been this pushy?”

“YES! Especially when I see you being too ‘Brad‘ for your own good again.”

“Can’t say I heard many stories of guys being pushed into a new marriage by their ex-wives.”

“I am not your ex-wife right now, but a friend. One that knows you better than most. Sometimes things should be planned, carefully, take your time. And sometimes, Brad, you need to jump in with both feet. So, jump.”

And Brad smiled and listened.

Becoming Us

He kept his promise: slow and steady. He didn’t push. He just showed up.

More dinners at her apartment. More weekends at the estate. Family outings. Meet his mom. The rhythm between them shifted gently—less like falling, more like leaning.

At first, they both made a show of keeping the guesthouse ready for her—fresh towels, turndown service courtesy of the housekeeper—but the only thing that ever took up real residence there was her luggage. She always ended up in Brad’s bed. Not out of obligation, but gravity. Except that one time, when Brad had snuck into the guesthouse, but then Lauren had a bad dream and couldn’t find her daddy which really didn’t help keep their gravitational pull much of a secret.

Intentions blurred.

What began as caution slowly unraveled into late-night check-ins that turned into sleepovers. Then breakfasts. Then staying through Monday because “traffic will be awful anyway.” Before long, two nights apart felt like a drought.

He started talking about her moving in. Casually at first—hypotheticals laced with maybe and one day.

Viola laughed it off, kissed him slow, and reminded herself of the vow she’d once made alone in a too-quiet apartment: I need to be on my own. I need to know who I am when no one’s orbiting me.

But lately, “on her own” had started feeling less like healing and more like exile.

The apartment she once loved—her little victory with warm light and city sounds—began shrinking. Every chipped tile, every cranky neighbor, every creaky pipe became symbolic of a life she no longer wanted to live solo.

She told him as much—halting, gentle, careful not to sound ungrateful.

She told him she wasn’t ready.

Because moving in with the man whose company paid her employer’s rent was a conflict. Because people would talk. Because she would question if she was still her own person or just someone conveniently folded into Brad Cunningham’s polished narrative.

Because “trophy girlfriend” had always been her worst nightmare—and also, her biggest fear of how she might be perceived.

But it wasn’t about the optics.

It was about how much she wanted him.

His house had children’s laughter in the background, mismatched socks in the laundry basket, and sticky fingerprints on the fridge despite his housekeeper’s best efforts. It had Graham pulling her aside with a crush confession—”Dad doesn’t really do this stuff…”—and her answering with just enough wit and empathy to earn his trust.

It had Nathaniel curling up against her chest like she’d been custom-built for him. It had Lauren’s full dedication to having another female figure in her home full of boys.

It had love. Not just Brad’s. But the kind that builds in small, consistent moments—helping with homework, scraping pancake batter off the stovetop, finding a picture Lauren drew of the five of them under a crooked sun.

Brad’s second wife, Briar Rose, had no issue with her. If anything, she seemed supportive—genuinely caring, especially about Brad, kind even, gracefully intuitive. Almost a friend. Definitely an ally.

His first wife, Molly, was another story.

Vee hadn’t meant to meet her. She was sick—fever high, throat on fire—and Brad insisted on bringing her to the estate so he could monitor her all weekend. She’d managed to talk him down from dragging her to the hospital where he sometimes practiced, but not from this. Needless to say Vee wasn’t at her best.

Then Molly arrived.

The first ex-wife. Polished. Curled. Elegant in that curated, practiced way that looked effortless but wasn’t. Nothing like Bri—who always called ahead, who coordinated visits even at the last minute, who fit herself around Brad’s life with grace and intention.

But not Molly.

Molly didn’t call.

She just showed up. Unannounced. Unbothered. And absolutely unimpressed by Viola’s existence.

She walked in like she held the deed to the place—wearing perfume that could’ve doubled as a battle cry and a smile that sliced beneath the surface. The kind of woman who didn’t raise her voice because the look did enough damage. No theatrics. Just quiet destruction and precisely placed disdain.

She scanned the room with bored amusement, gaze finally landing on Viola for one prolonged second.

“Oh,” she said, smile flashing. “This is her? Wow, Brad… your taste has really taken an interpretive turn.”

She perched on the arm of the nearest chair like a cat laying claim, then turned to Brad with a bright, rehearsed kind of glee. Molly glanced at the untouched bottle. “Oh—meant to tell you,” she said, smoothing her skirt like it mattered. “I’m engaged. Again.” A bright little pause. “That means, I am actually moving back to the Bay very soon. It just feels right. Full circle, don’t you think?”

Viola blinked. Paused. Swallowed slowly.

Brad didn’t miss a beat. He didn’t even look up from the wine bottle he’d just opened. “How nice,” he said dryly. “The kids will get to see you more.” Then he poured half a glass, offered none to Molly, and passed it directly to Viola. “Does he know that’s what’s happening?”

Molly laughed. “You’re funny. It was his idea. His family’s very old Brindleton, he just moved away after his parents died some years ago, but kept the house. I am sure you know the family. I think Winthrop will suit me better this time.” She smiled down at her reflection in the wine glass. “I’ve even gone back to Margaret. It just… elevates the tone. Margaret Winthrop, has a ring, wouldn’t you say?”

“Molly always felt too warm for what you were going for,” he said flatly.

Viola choked. Quietly.

Molly’s – pardon, Margaret’s – smile faltered just enough to show the seams.

Later, over dinner she hadn’t been invited to but still sat through, she tilted her head just enough to look like empathy—and delivered another blow with surgical cheer, leaning in close:

“Good for you, Violet. Enjoy it while it lasts. Brad’s always had such a… curious relationship with consistency. Especially with his women. Like most men born into old money—he bores easily.”

Viola corrected her the first time. “It’s Vee-ola, actually,” she said, softly but clearly. “Like the letter V. Not, Violet, and not Vy-ola. Vee-ola.”

The second time, she tried again. A polite smile. A gentler tone.

By the third, she stopped.

It wasn’t forgetfulness. It was a tactic. A branding decision.

Violet wasn’t just a misstep. It was Margaret deliberately rewriting the narrative. A subtle way of saying: You’re not important enough to remember properly. Not worth the syllables you’re asking for.

And yes—it landed.

Viola kept her composure. Smiled where appropriate. Laughed when expected.

But when the night was over—

Brad found her curled on the carpet of his office. Not sobbing. Not breaking. Just… unraveling. Quietly.

As if falling apart too loudly would confirm every awful thing whispered in a woman’s voice behind well-manicured teeth.

He didn’t say anything. Just sat down beside her. Close. Steady. Present.

Then Margaret’s voice echoed down the hallway, smug and syrupy as ever:

“BRADFORD! Your son is crying and I can’t find the nanny. Or your bed bunny—what’s-her-name again? Violet? Did you run her off already?”

Brad stood. Kissed Viola’s temple. “Ignore her. She does not matter.”

He moved to the door. Opened it.

Margaret caught sight of Viola on the floor. Raised a perfectly arched brow. And lobbed one last strike, just loud enough to carry:

“What’s with her? Is she mentally unstable?”

Viola didn’t hear Brad’s reply.
But she heard the tone.
Low. Controlled. A kind of stillness that warned even Margaret to back away.

Minutes later—she was gone.

She didn’t return to the house. Not for the kids. Not for anything.
When Viola finally asked about it, Brad’s answer was quiet, final:

“Our future Mrs. Winthrop, by any name, seemed to have trouble remembering yours. So, I made it simple for her, with her apparent memory issues—now she won’t have to remember the way to this house at all. Truth is, she’s never come here since the divorce. Not once. So, I can only assume she showed up because she wanted to meet you—and throw a few low-class punches while she was at it. I let it slide. For the kids. Graham and Lauren love her, and they should. They deserve their mother. But not like that. And not here. If she wants to come back to the Bay and try on a new name like it’s a designer tag, that’s her business, I am entitled to my thoughts on that but ultimately it’s her and her new husband’s business. But my children don’t need to watch her act like that, and you don’t need to carry the weight of it. My kids like you, Vee. A lot. By choice, not because I asked them to. Which makes me very happy. So, I won’t let our Molly/Margaret make them question that. Not twist it. Nor turn this into a battleground. Especially not in my home.”

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t frame it as gallant.
He just had her back.
Every time.

While Brad and Viola were perfectly happy coasting, change was underfoot, faster than they anticipated.

It started, as most seismic shifts do, quietly.

Contingency Plan

Brad picked her up from work one Thursday, all warmth and rolled shirtsleeves, saying he missed the way her apartment smelled like basil and fabric softener. They stopped at the market for wine and shallots, argued about which pasta shape was superior (she won, naturally), and carried brown paper bags through the front door like any other couple making dinner after a long day.

Then she opened her mailbox.
And the letter ruined everything.

She waved it like it had personally insulted her. “Three hundred more? For what? An extra draft in the kitchen and the mystery stain in the hallway?”

Brad took the paper and squinted, ever the reasonable one. “It’s steep, but not terrible for San Myshuno. Within range for this area.”

“Brad,” she snapped. “Maybe within range for YOU. To me, that’s a kidney’s worth of credits.”

He tilted his head. “Anything I can do to help? That you’d actually let me do?”

She didn’t miss the way his voice softened at the edges, or the way his hand grazed the small of her back like it belonged there.

“Yeah,” she muttered. “Give me the names of lonely rich dudes with low standards and loose morals. Some people I can pimp my body out to so I can afford to stay in this shoebox.” She chuckled at her bad joke.

He raised one brow. “Not needed. I have a solution for that.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You are NOT paying my rent!”

“Okay. I have another solution then … move in with me.”

“Braaaaad!” she groaned, smacking his arm, laughing despite herself. “You and this damn merger proposal thinkin’. We barely have known each other for six whole months.”

He didn’t push. Not then.
But the universe had decided—slow wasn’t in the cards.

Two weeks later, her company announced they were cutting 401(k) contributions and entering a “restructuring phase.” Which, in corporate translation, meant we’re thinning the herd but haven’t told you who yet.

Overnight, work became a warzone.
Everyone was either laying low or quietly hunting for escape routes.

For weeks Vee came home drained, defeated. Each day at work was more trying than the next. Morale was at an all time low and each mistake anyone made was magnified and blasted publicly.

Brad rubbed her feet while she drank cheap wine straight from the bottle, even though he had brought champagne with him, mascara already surrendered to her cheeks.

“Champagne is delicious and precious and made for celebrating. I am not celebrating, I am getting wasted. Cheap it is.”

“If you lived with me,” he said gently, “you wouldn’t be one pink slip away from panic. Nor would have to get drunk on cheap booze. You could do it on 12 year old reserve, like a decent trophy girlfriend.” He joked.

She scowled. “Oh, great. Yeah, I’ll just become the estate’s resident trophy girlfriend. Maybe get a tiny tiara while literally everyone makes fun of us. Bet your kids would love it.”

He didn’t laugh.

“You worked hard,” he said. “You built a life. You have proven that you can achieve the goals you set for yourself. I’m not asking you to stop working either, if you want a career, have a career. If not, don’t. But if this company fails you—and let’s be honest, it might—you don’t have to scramble. You’d be safe. Covered. Rent-free. Stable. With me.”

And for the first time, it made sense.

She said she’d think about it. Then got too drunk to do much productive thinking at all, but it was very amusing to Brad, keeping her contained until she collapsed into bed. He stayed and came back the next evening to dry her tears about another rough day in the proverbial coal mines.

It seemed to make her sick. She was off for days—cried a lot, low energy, waves of cramps that got worse instead of better. She blamed her bosses. Stress. Caffeine. Maybe a stomach bug.

Despite her honest attempts, she had to leave work early one Friday after nearly fainting during a team huddle. She got home, curled into herself with a heat pack and ginger tea, and finally—reluctantly—called Brad.

By the time he arrived, she was pale, clammy, and barely lucid through clenched teeth.

“You said it was just cramps,” he murmured, brushing her damp hair from her forehead.

“It was,” she gasped. “It’s just… everything hurts. Like deep.”

“Vee, I know cramps. This isn’t just cramps. Cramps are a symptom. This is something else,” Brad said, a doctor’s edge replacing the boyfriend’s worry.

He didn’t waste time. He scooped her into his arms—hoodie, slippers, the works—and carried her to his car. Twenty minutes later they were walking through the private entrance of one of his facilities. He owned it. Every hallway, every machine, every person knew his name.

He gave his credentials at the nurses’ station, voice clipped. “Doctor Cunningham. I need imaging and surgical consult.”

Within the hour, scans confirmed it.

Her IUD had dislodged. Perforated the uterine wall and triggered a cascade of internal inflammation and bleeding. A surgical team was prepped that night. They removed the device and drained the fluid buildup that had begun spreading into her lower abdomen.

The surgeon said if she’d waited through the weekend, things might have looked very different.

Brad didn’t leave her side. Not that night. Not the next day. Not even the next week.

Recovery wasn’t straightforward. Pain ebbed and surged. Sleep was patchy and restless. Her body, always resilient, felt foreign. Weak.

Brad made her soup. Washed her hair. Set alarms to wake her for painkillers. Read her bad headlines in increasingly ridiculous voices until she wheezed laughter through the ache. He didn’t push, didn’t ask. Just stayed.

When she finally stirred more steadily, he shifted into surgeon mode—reviewing her post-op labs with practiced intensity, scrolling through imaging reports from the tablet balanced on his knee. His tailored jacket hung on the back of the chair; his laptop hummed quietly on the nightstand.

“You’re frowning again,” she whispered.

“Still a little elevation in your CRP,” he murmured, not looking up.

She watched him for a moment. “Can you stop being the owner of the world for two minutes and just… hold me? I am high on meds now and just want snuggles, not scary data.”

That broke him. He set the tablet aside, exhaled the tension clinging to his shoulders, and slipped onto the bed beside her. She tucked herself under his arm, face pressed to his chest.

They stayed like that a long while.

Her phone buzzed sharply against the nightstand.

She picked it up without thinking, thumb sliding across the screen. The second her eyes flicked over the message, her face went pale—color draining as if the words had siphoned her blood.

Brad noticed instantly. “Vee?”

She didn’t answer. Just turned the screen toward him with a hand that trembled slightly.

He took the phone from her, read the email once—then again, slower. His jaw tightened with each line.

“They fired you while you’re recovering from surgery? Effective immediately?” he said, voice cool and razor-sharp. “No severance. No meeting. Just this? That’s …. awfully bold of them.”

He stared at the glowing screen a moment longer, then handed it back without a word—shoulders suddenly too square, breath too still.

She nodded, voice tight. ““Yup. Just… thanks for playing. There goes years of my life down the drain. What a bunch of assholes.”

That was the thing about Brad: he didn’t explode. He calculated. And what he was calculating now, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. “Oh, that doesn’t sound very legal to me. Let’s check …” He reached for his phone, but she placed a hand gently over his.

“Please don’t. I don’t want you to fix it,” she added softly.

His gaze flicked to hers. “Yeah, I figured,” he said. “But they’ll still regret thinking they could discard you like inventory. I have a lot of levers I can pull to make them squirm. Just might, if only for my personal amusement.”

She huffed a laugh—small, tired. “You sound like a boardroom shark.”

He arched a brow. “I am a boardroom shark.”

“Can you just be an attentive, loving boyfriend for now? That’s what I need. And some input. Cos this just occurred to me: without that job, I can’t keep paying rent. And laid up like this, job hunting is a bit hard,” she said quietly.

“Concern acknowledged and solved: Rosebriar Haven is ready. Has been. I was just waiting for you to say yes.”

“Fine. You win. I’m saying it now.”

“You’re not saying it because you have to?”

“No. I’m saying it because I want to come home. To you. I’m tired of trying to do the right thing—what’s expected—even when we both want something else. We hold back so it won’t seem too fast, but all it does is make us miss each other while jumping hurdles. Like in that game we played.”

His expression softened as he leaned in and kissed her temple. “Yeah. Best give up fighting fate now, before you fling me off another virtual ledge and we both explode into sparkles like in the game.”

A little while later, after her pain meds had dulled the sharp edges and the IV drip clicked into its quiet rhythm, she spoke again.

“Hey… can I ask something weird?”

He tilted his head, inviting.

“Will this… change anything?” Her hand hovered lightly over her lower abdomen. “I mean, if I ever did… want kids.”

He didn’t answer right away. Not out of avoidance—he was just thinking carefully, which somehow made it worse. She studied his profile, bracing.

Finally: “We won’t know for a while. We’ll monitor the healing. Run some tests in a few months. Even if there’s scar tissue, even if it’s complicated… it’s not the end.”

She nodded, trying not to let the relief show.

He looked at her then, really looked. “Do you want kids?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “You know, funny thing. My answer to that question used to be an instant and resounding ‘NO!’, but … I don’t know. Sometimes I think I do. Sometimes I think I missed my window.”

“You haven’t missed anything,” he said gently. “You’re thirty-four. And for the record, I wasn’t planning on falling for someone who might want to start again. But… here I am. Add it to my ever-growing list of things I didn’t think would be relevant to me again.”

She blinked fast, eyes damp. “I didn’t mean now, obviously. That’d be—”

“Wild,” he said. “But not unimaginable. We’re not exactly famous for taking this slow, Vee.”

They both laughed, quiet and breathless.

Together hung in the air—unspoken but deeply understood.

He reached for her hand, lacing their fingers. “One step at a time. First, we get you better. Then we build whatever future we want.” He paused, then tilted his head theatrically as if weighing something very serious. “For the record—assuming those hypothetical kids were with me, I have to admit… I’m almost ecstatic.” A crooked grin slid across his face.

She arched a brow. “Well, actually I was thinking… your poolboy.”

Brad blinked and brought a hand to his chest in faux betrayal. “Bad luck. I don’t have a poolboy.” He dropped into mock seriousness. “The gardener cleans the pool. Rugged guy in his sixties—six kids, twelve grandkids. Pretty sure he’s not ready for that kind of commitment again.”

She gasped, overly dramatic, clutching the blanket like pearls. “You don’t have a poolboy? What kind of rich guy cliché are you? That’s disgraceful.”

He leaned back slightly and gestured broadly, like introducing a TED Talk. “I’m the kind who doesn’t live in a balmy climate. Even heated, our pool sits dormant half the year. Brindleton Bay isn’t exactly known for year-round sunshine. It’s where most people have summer homes, for a good reason. The other part of the year is spent somewhere without sideways rain and morning fog layers that clear just long enough to make room for the evening fog to roll in.”

She gave him a long, slow blink of mock disappointment, then snorted. “Well, I guess you’ll have to do then. At least we already know you make pretty babies.”

He grinned, all teeth and amusement, and kissed her knuckles like a seal on a royal pact. “A tragic downgrade, I know. But yes, at least the disappointing rich man cliché has good genes.”

Despite the teasing, something passed between them—unspoken, deliberate. A message was quietly sent and received. She’d never wanted children before. Not with her ex. Not with anyone.

But she could picture it now—with him. And Brad? Brad had never felt better.

Terms & Conditions

Brad booked the trip the day after they moved the last box into Rosebriar Haven. “We both need vitamin D,” he claimed. “And uninterrupted time together, without doorbells, diaper emergencies, or ghost sightings in the kitchen, per Lauren.”

Viola had raised an eyebrow. “You’re taking me on a tropical vacation so I can get sunlight and not be disturbed by your haunted appliances?”

“Allegedly haunted. Only hand drawn pictures by one witness to prove otherwise. And yes, exactly,” he said. “Essential wellness. Much needed Vitamin D in its purest form, doctor’s orders.”

And that was how they ended up barefoot in Sulani—a little island bungalow tucked between hibiscus hedges and turquoise water, the kind of place where shoes felt too formal and clocks too rude.

By the third day, time had dissolved into something slower, deeper. They snorkeled with sea turtles, drank passionfruit cocktails on boats with questionable licensing, and napped in hammocks tangled together like limbs belonged that way.

On the last night, everything shimmered.

Dinner was at a beachside restaurant perched on stilts just above the waves—open air, lantern-lit, a singer humming love songs in the local dialect beneath the hush of the tide. Viola wore a pale lemon dress, gauzy and low-backed, her skin warm with sun and the faintest scent of jasmine. Her hair was pinned loosely, salt-waved and soft. Brad hadn’t stopped looking at her since the appetizer.

He wore a cream button-down and tan linen trousers, no watch, skin bronzed and content. He looked, for once, exactly his age—young, alive, absolutely undone by the woman across from him.

After dinner, they wandered to a tucked-away beach bar glowing with rhythm and rum. Locals and tourists alike danced barefoot in the sand under woven lanterns and stars. Viola pulled him into the sway, laughing when he messed up the steps, twirling with tequila and sea breeze in her blood. They kissed like teenagers in the fringe of it all, swaying to a ukulele cover of “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”

Later, they walked along the surf—shoes in hand, water teasing their ankles, the moon spilling like spilled milk over the waves. The breeze was warm. Soft. The kind that never quite lets go.

Then Brad stopped.

Viola turned, barefoot toes brushing the tide.

“What?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just reached into his pocket and knelt in the sand.

Her breath caught.

“I love you, Viola Rose. I loved you somewhere between waking up at your apartment after talking all night and the way you talk to my kids like they’re real people, not puzzles. I want everything with you. Slow mornings. Loud dinners. Big messes. All of it.”

He opened the pouch. A delicate platinum band, a single pear-cut diamond—clean and timeless.

He looked up. Hopeful. Unshaking.

“Be my wife.”

She didn’t speak. Just dropped to her knees and kissed him. Mouth, cheeks, fingers, the ring, everything.

“Yes,” she whispered against his grin. “God, yes.”

She kissed him breathless, they shared confessions of love, still kneeling in the sand, ring glinting under island starlight.

Then she pulled back, blinked, grinned.

“So let me get this straight— I have a millionaire surgeon with dangerously obsession-worthy curls, who moved me into his McMansion, flies me to paradise, and proposes on a moonlit beach in a way that ruins all other love stories forever… and you expect me to say yes without asking the most important question of all?”

Brad raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”

She widened her eyes with mock gravity. “Where’s the nearest bathroom? That cocktail went right through me.”

He burst out laughing—so hard he had to sit down in the surf. She took full advantage and shoved him backward with both hands.

He landed with a splash, soaked from chest to knees. “Oh, come on—”

“Oops,” she said, backing up, laughing wildly. “Guess love’s a beach.”

Before she could retreat, he lunged and grabbed her around the waist. She shrieked as they toppled together into the surf, a tangle of wet silk and messy joy.

“Brad!” she gasped. “My dress! My hair! I look like a wild raccoon that licked an outlet now!”

He kissed the corner of her mouth, voice low and wicked.

“You won’t need that dress much longer. And your hair’s going to be a mess by sunrise either way. Only real question is—do we make it back to the cabin … or not?”

She stared at him, breathless, soaked, in love.

And suddenly, she didn’t care about hair. Or fabric. Or timelines. Or other people. Just this—him.

She looped her arms around his neck and whispered, “Cabin’s are overrated.”

“Al fresco it is!” he agreed and they celebrated their engagement in style, right there on that beach.

The next morning, the sun rose slow and syrupy over Sulani, casting golden light across the bungalow’s whitewashed walls and tangled sheets. Viola stirred to the sound of waves and the faint clack of a laptop keyboard.

She padded barefoot onto the balcony, hair a salt-kissed halo, Brad already perched in a lounge chair with coffee in one hand and his laptop balanced on his knees. She kissed him. He looked up, grinned, and tilted the screen toward her.

“Morning, fiancée,” he said, voice still husky with sleep. “Thought you might want some inspiration for our wedding registry.”

On the screen: Margaret Evans & Derek Winthrop – Wedding Registry.

Viola blinked. “Oh my God. Is that real?”

He nodded solemnly. “Found the link in my inbox this morning. I don’t know how to feel about getting sent that by my ex-wife after a less than amicable divorce, but maybe it’s for the kids, assuming they will be invited to her wedding and should bring gifts.”

She leaned in, squinting. “Is that… a monogrammed oyster knife set? Why though?”

“With matching pearl-handled caviar spoons,” he confirmed. “And a donation fund labeled ‘Legacy Yacht Maintenance.’”

Viola snorted. “What does that even mean? Like… emotional maintenance for the drama of owning a boat? Or actual barnacle removal?”

Brad scrolled. “Beats me. There’s also a Baccarat crystal decanter shaped like a swan. And a fondue set described as ‘heirloom-worthy.’”

She dropped into the chair beside him, laughing. “I can’t tell if this is a wedding registry or a Bond villain starter kit. If I were to send this to anyone I know they’d send police over for a welfare check, thinking I am high or seriously at the cusp of insanity.”

He handed her the laptop with a straight face. “Well, anyway, here you go in case you need inspo.”

She gave him a long look. “Well, that $700 cheese dome might just be it, Brad. We need that in our lives.”

He sipped his coffee. “With the deepest respect, I am afraid to admit we actually own one like that. But I think you should start a registry.”

“You mean ‘we’ should, right? You are going to be at our wedding, right?”
Brad raised an eyebrow, all mock-serious. “I don’t know… I was kind of optional at my first wedding, and throughout the entire marriage and Bri was already so pregnant, I felt more like medical supervision than a groom. I won’t know what to do with myself being an actual part of the entire wedding thing. And a registry, never been part of one. Molly wanted her things not my input and Bri and I never went there.”

Viola smirked. “You better be at our wedding, cos if you don’t show, I’m handing your vows to the poolboy and making it legally binding.”

He leaned in, warm and close. “Joke’s on you. I am the poolboy. Just ask the gardener.”

“I would, but between his twelve grandkids and your petunias he is just too busy for questions.”

“Well, guess I will have to try and make it then. And even help with a registry.”

That earned him a kiss—quick, smiling, until he deepened it, just long enough for the laptop to slide off her lap onto the cushion beside them.

When they finally broke apart, breath tangled and amused, she whispered, “Okay, but the registry planning has to wait.”

He blinked. “Really? We were on a roll. I was just about to pitch matching kimono robes and a decorative soup tureen shaped like a flamingo.”

She laughed, rising and stretching with a contented sigh. “Hold that thought—or get a head start and I’ll review it post-shower. Your ‘poolboy’ was insatiable last night, and I need to decrust myself before I can form opinions on porcelain poultry. Shower, coffee and then—maybe—the flamingo.”

Brad tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “You want help with the shower part?”

She paused in the doorway, draped in light and island air, and tossed a slow grin over her shoulder. “Are you offering as fiancé… or as poolboy?”

He rose, fluid and already halfway to her, voice low with mock solemnity. “Whichever one gets me in faster.”

She bit back a smile. “Well, in that case… it’s only fair you get to scrub me clean—in the dirtiest way imaginable.”

He caught her by the waist just before she disappeared around the corner and murmured against her temple, “We should have finished the registry before the shower because I can already not remember my own name now and have not wasted one single thought on work. I might have developed some form of amnesia.”

She leaned into him with a wicked little laugh. “Let’s test. What’s your stance on ornamental bird-themed fondue sets?”

“Violently opposed.”

“Your mind is fine. So, let’s go. We’ve got soap to waste and fake registries to sabotage.”

They vanished into the steam with the sound of laughter, ocean breeze curling through the open balcony behind them—flamingos officially uninvited.

After a long shower, now back on the balcony with room service breakfast, Viola scrolled on Brad’s laptop, eyes wide. “You know what we should do? Make a fake registry. Just completely unhinged. Like… a diamond-encrusted whip, a life-size butter sculpture of us in formalwear, and a subscription box for artisanal lube.”

Brad choked on his coffee. “Please tell me that’s not a real thing.”

She grinned. “Only one way to find out. Think of the craziest shit possible that would absolutely make your first ex cringe and add it to the private registry I am creating. We’ll call it The Violet Collection, since she seems to love that name so much. Send the link to old Molly-Margaret as a thank-you for calling me by the wrong name and for treating you like shit for thirteen years.”

He leaned back, laughing. “You’re diabolical.”

“I am spirited and practical,” she corrected. “It’s a polite way to send someone a serious ‘F*** you’ message. And hey, maybe we’ll end up with a Thank You note from her future husband, if she happens to find some inspiration for her own bedroom. Or a nice set of diamond crusted pliers to remove that stick up her ass. And crystal butt plugs with her own face and initials on them so she can visualize how I feel about her.”

Brad made a strangled sound somewhere between a wheeze and a dying bird and lurched sideways, nearly toppling out of the lounge chair.

“Jesus, Vee!” he gasped, hand clutching his chest like she’d physically taken him out. “You can’t just—her face on butt plugs? That’s a war crime in three countries!”

Viola was cackling now, doubled over, eyes glinting with wicked delight.

Brad straightened, still breathless, laughter snagging in his throat as he wiped imaginary tears from his lashes. “I’m gonna need to call my therapist. Just to process that sentence.”

Viola reclined smugly, one brow arched in victory. “You don’t have a therapist.”

He pointed a finger at her like she’d just given him a revelation. “I do now. About to marry her. And the first session is just me reading that registry entry verbatim.”

With mock grace, she lifted his coffee mug and took a sip like it was a trophy. “You’re welcome. Bill is in the mail.”

He grinned, still half stunned, still fully hers. “I’ll ask my future wife to pay it. Would you like me to pour you your own coffee so you don’t need to drink mine?”

Viola widened her eyes in faux innocence. “Aww, you got the hint. About damn time. I’ll make a decent husband out of you yet.”

Brad smirked, reaching for the coffee pot and pouring. “We definitely do not need a crystal-encrusted whip. You manage just fine without one. I’m already a poor, abused husband.”

She gave a snort, snatching the mug as he handed it over. “Poor and abused, huh? I think the word you’re looking for is delusional.”

He raised an eyebrow, expression sly. “Now you just sound like Molly.”

Without hesitation, Viola snatched a corner of toast from her plate and lobbed it at him. A nearby seagull intercepted it midair like it had been waiting for this moment its whole life.

Unbothered, she lifted her chin. “That’s Margaret now. Get it right.”

Brad leaned back, savoring the coffee and the chaos. “Sure thing, Violet.”

Viola narrowed her eyes, a dangerous sparkle dancing behind them. “Careful, Cunningham. You’re within pastry-launch range.”

“Not worried, I got my crew on standby,” grinning he pointed at the seagulls.

After breakfast they sat there for a while, sun warming their skin, laughter still lingering between them like salt on the breeze. Eventually, Viola rested her head on his shoulder and murmured, “Let’s register for a hammock. Just one. Big enough for two.”

Brad smiled, fingers lacing gently with hers. “Done. No initials, no crystals.”

“Nope, just us.”

Polished and Dangerous

The estate had long since become their home, but tonight it bloomed in full celebration—ivy curling around stone columns, gold lanterns strung like constellations above the courtyard, and a garden that seemed to know this night would matter.

They’d sidestepped the obvious choices: Viola vetoed sterile hotel ballrooms and even the Silvercrest Yacht Club, local stomping ground for the high society. Brad banned red carpets with a flat “I’m not proposing to shareholders, nor hoping for an Oscar.” What they created instead was magic steeped in twilight.

The theme wasn’t thematic so much as tonal: intimate elegance. The dress code read: “Formal if you want, casual if you don’t.” A live string quartet murmured from the gazebo. Fairy lights bathed the pergola. The air smelled of lemon thyme and jasmine and very good decisions.

Viola wore blue silk—the exact shade of Brad’s eyes. Bias-cut, floor-length, low-backed. Her hair was swept up, lips matching the single garden rose Brad tucked behind her ear when she descended the staircase.

Brad wore navy blue paired with slate gray. Bow tie. Cufflinks etched with both their initials, shirt perfectly crisp despite Nathaniel’s pre-party handprint near the hem. He couldn’t stop looking at her. Wouldn’t, even if asked.

Brindleton Bay’s old guard shimmered into view: the Covingtons, the Aldridges, the Barclays, the Banks, among many others—even that one senator whose handshake came with a three-second squint and a vague scent of entitlement. And then… the others.

The executives. The socialites. The curious ones with too much jewelry and even more interest in watching the drama unfold like a slow-poured whiskey.

And of course, Pierce Lockwood—crisp in custom-tailored navy, jaw clenched like the night itself offended him. His wife Katherine walked beside him in beige, everything about her expression neutral enough to pass as serene. Except for the way her eyes never drifted from the center of the party. As if she were watching for the cameras, not the conversations.

Maeve Cameron, however, made no such effort.

She stood near the east garden, gown clinging to her pregnant silhouette in a shade of green just vibrant enough to feel like a dare. Her heels were expensive. Her smirk? More so. A hand rested on the curve of her belly like punctuation.

She didn’t look for Pierce—but he looked for her. Over and over. Eyes catching across topiary hedges and champagne flutes, and lingering just a second too long before snapping away like a schoolboy caught mid-daydream.

No one said anything aloud. They didn’t have to. It was painfully obvious. A secret that wasn’t one.

The rumor mill had already spoiled the ending—an affair that wasn’t technically one, a baby with no press release, and a beach house lit at night with his car parked nearby when Katherine was out of town.

But still—no statement. No confirmation. Just glances, tension, and the visible discomfort of a man trying too hard to maintain a marriage as if silence alone made it real.

“Is that woman here alone?” Vee murmured as she and Brad passed near the fountain.

“Yes, that would be Maeve Cameron. She RSVPed,” Brad replied coolly. “Didn’t expect her to actually show. But yes, that would be her and here by herself, as always. I dread the day that may change, as it will most definitely create something unpleasant.”

“She’s gorgeous and glowing,” Vee said.

“She’s also dangerous when bored,” Brad added, pausing to offer a tight smile to the Lockwood matriarch gliding by with a martini and murder in her eyes. “Let’s hope the party and Briar Rose keep her entertained enough to not start some crap with one of the Lockwoods. In case you didn’t know, Bri and Maeve are cousins on their fathers’ side. And Maeve is pregnant by Mr. Pierce Lockwood, who is here with his wife. Over there.”

They moved through the crowd that spilled from the French doors into the manicured yard, all laughter and champagne flutes.

Vee glanced at Pierce, watching Katherine speak to an elder gentleman with the warmth of a glacier. “I figured, by the way he keeps staring at her. You think he even remembers who he came with?”

“Oh, he remembers. That’s the problem. Hates every second of it. Worst thing is, his wife knows about the affair—and that Maeve’s baby is his. Welcome to Brindleton Bay’s upper class. We really do not need TV for entertainment.”

“Good grief. They ought to film Real Housewives here,” Viola giggled, snagging a flute off a passing tray while Brad leaned in. “No way. The Bay Old Guard buries secrets deeper than Vegas ever could—at least from outsiders. On TV, it’d be pure fiction: all Mayberry charm, perfect smiles, distinguished gentlemen, Stepford wives, and flawless façades.”

They had just escaped a painfully long conversation with some distinguished old gentleman whose name escaped Vee and who smelled vaguely of mahogany and litigation when Brad leaned in beside Vee’s ear, voice low and deliciously amused.

“See the man by the portico? Navy tux, looks like his ego wouldn’t fit in our wine cellar? That’s Robert Claiborne. Perfect hair. Artificial smile like a toothpaste ad. Woman on his arm looks like she stepped off a Vogue cover because… well, she did. Married a Latina supermodel to breed perfect little heirs with. I’m sure it’s real love. She loves his money and he loves how she looks on his arm.”

Giggling, Viola turned, scanning until her gaze landed on them. The man looked immaculate—self-made polish gleaming just a little too hard under the patio lights. His companion was radiant, otherworldly, draped in red silk that clung to her like a secret she didn’t plan to tell.

“WOW. Do you actually know him or just invited the name and cliche?”

“Mmhmm. I know him.” Brad nodded. “Former college buddy. Former golf buddy. And—drumroll—the last man Molly cheated on me with before the divorce.”

Viola kept watching, curiosity piqued. “And you invited him? Why?”

Brad took a slow sip of champagne. “Because this is Brindleton Bay’s distinguished society and just what we do and because I genuinely couldn’t care less about it anymore. Let’s just say he was a lot more interested in Molly – or Margaret – when she was wearing my last name.”

Viola’s lips parted. “Seriously?”

“Oh, painfully so. Wouldn’t have touched her before our wedding. But the moment we became Mr. and Mrs.? Suddenly he was everywhere—convenient dinners, ‘just checking in’ texts, offers to help with business ideas.” Brad chuckled darkly. “When the divorce papers were still warm, he picked her up from the courthouse with a Hollywood-style kiss. Extra middle finger to me.”

Viola blinked. “Classy.”

“He even showed up at a gentlemen’s meeting at the Yacht Club playing Mr. Brotherhood. Then poof—one charity gala later, he’s beaming with his very pregnant now-wife on his arm like Molly who?”

“Subtle,” Vee muttered.

Brad shrugged. “The minute I filed for divorce and Molly lost the name and custody… he disappeared. Probably realized without the Cunningham reputation and connections, she wasn’t quite as compelling.”

Viola turned to him, arching a brow. “Wow. That is… incredibly specific schadenfreude radiating off you right now.”

He grinned. “I’m not proud of it. But it answers your question as to why he was invited in the first place. Now if he starts lingering around you, I’m throwing down with him.”

She kissed the edge of his jaw, warm and slow. “No worries, I am not into the trust fund sleaze types. But I love your slightly demonic side.”

He tilted his head, eyes twinkling. “I don’t have a demonic side.”

Another kiss, this time at the hollow of his throat. “Oh, not the public version of you, but the real Brad does—and I love it.”

Then she leaned back, eyes dancing as a string quartet swelled in the background.

“It only highlights how sweet you usually are. It’s charming. Sexy. Plus, a reminder that karma never forgets.”

Brad laughed softly, pulling her close again. “You’re trouble, Viola Rose. And now I am sexy too? You’re gonna turn me into someone as vain as Claiborne.”

“Of course you’re sexy, you think I would get engaged to trash?”

Brad raised a brow, fighting a grin. “You realize you’ve got me talking trash at an upscale event filled with the crème de la crème from Brindleton Bay to San Myshuno? You’re a terrible influence.”

Viola shrugged, smug and radiant. “And yet, you’ve never looked hotter.”

He leaned closer, voice like silk and sin. “Careful. Keep flattering me like that and I’ll start scandalizing the rose garden with you.”

“Oh no,” she gasped in mock horror. “Not the petunias, Brad.”

“That’s what you turned me into. A savage with no control over his carnal urges,” he said, eyes dark with affection. Then added, dry and low, “Which is probably why I bought two cases of champagne and hid them from the guests. Those are reserved for us at some later point.”

She smoothed her hands over his chest, grinning against his jaw. “Two cases? Oooh, I love it when you talk booze orgy coma to me, Dr. Cunningham.”

He kissed her. Deep and grinning. She giggled through it, still whispering sweet nonsense against his mouth until he finally glanced up—eyes scanning the lawn.

A couple near the dessert table was definitely watching. Someone else not-so-discreetly raised a brow. A young man walked straight into a shrub while staring at them.

Brad groaned into her hair. “Vee, we probably shouldn’t completely obliterate every rule of etiquette. We’ll be the scandal of the week by dessert.”

Viola pulled back just enough to raise one eyebrow.

“Brad, baby I don’t know how to break it to you,” she said with a soft laugh, “we are literally the reenactment of The Prince and the Pauper. You just got engaged to some poor chick who lived in a shoebox she could barely afford on a meager salary, whom you met at some shady bar none of your kind ever willingly would have entered even at gunpoint. And she took you home and had a few kisses and rolls in the hay without even knowing your last name. You think that is proper Brindleton Bay etiquette?”

“Touche.”

And they turned back to the garden, a little smugger, a little more in sync, a whole lot untouchable. Brad had just nudged her elbow—subtle warning, incoming—when two executives from Viola’s former company stepped into their orbit, their starch and deference stretched thin as veneer.

Paul Barnes, her former boss greeted her with a brittle, “Viola … You look… well.”

The other, Gordon Lively, offered a nod, eyes skating over her dress and pausing just a little too long on the ring. “Miss Miller, always good to see you. I’ll admit, when we had to make those cuts, I never expected you’d land quite so… lucratively. But I suppose the market finds its own balance. Not everyone needs to be a standout to end up somewhere interesting.”

Viola’s throat tightened. The words sank in fast and bitter—neatly fired, quietly insulted, and now implied to be little more than a lucky social climber. A gold digger. Ouch.

Brad felt the shift instantly.

His hand found her waist with practiced calm, the kind that looked casual but meant don’t even try it, his voice quiet but thrumming with intent.

“Speaking for both of us,” he said, tone easy and lethal, “we’re thrilled. Success, after all, isn’t always about the bottom line and numbers.”

Their laughter faltered.

“We’ve always appreciated your business, Cunningham. Hope that continues,” Gordon said quickly, voice suddenly thin.

Brad’s smile didn’t falter—but the edge had sharpened. “That depends,” he said. “You know the market always finds its own balance.” The words were a soft echo of the man’s earlier barb. “And of course, on how well you choose to deal with certain circumstances.”

Viola raised her glass then, smile gleaming and precise. “To unexpected circumstances,” she said, voice like ice in champagne.

They drifted away, brittle goodbyes trailing behind.
But not fast enough.
As the execs reached the steps, Paul leaned toward Gordon, muttering just loud enough for both Viola and Brad to catch:

“Guess sleeping with the king gets you the crown. Her lady garden must be like opium to get him this hooked this fast.”

Their laughter was crude, empty of joy.
Viola froze.

She’d braced herself for this. Of course people would whisper—how convenient, how fast, what could she possibly offer someone like Brad? She had wondered the same. How long until he would wake up and realize she had nothing to offer him but herself? Would that be enough to keep a man like him interested long-term?

But hearing it aloud—shameless and snarling—still sucked the air from her lungs.
Her breath caught, but she stood straighter. Didn’t flinch.
Brad’s entire posture shifted. Just slightly. Enough.

His jaw flexed once. Then he turned to her, fury wrapped in flawless composure.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “they still need me more than I’ll ever need them. So… how bad do you want me to hurt them? I’ve got a few levers that tug right at their bottom line.”

Viola didn’t blink. “The only bottom line I want to hurt is theirs—with a swift kick to their gleeful arrogant asses.”

The moment was still delicate, still bruised beneath Viola’s polished exterior—but Brad knew exactly how to shift the current.

Brad gave a short, approving laugh. “God, you’re sexy when you look like a million dollars and sound like a common street thug.”

That pulled a breath of surprise from her—half a laugh, half a sigh. Viola glanced at him, the corners of her mouth twitching despite everything.

She exhaled. “Look, we both knew people would talk. But it still sucks. I worked my ass off for them. Kept my integrity. And they still talk about me like I’m some cheap whore who angled herself the biggest fish in the biggest pond through cold calculation or something.”

Brad turned, brushed a kiss to her temple, voice low and certain.

“Oh baby,” he murmured, “that’s jealousy oozing from every pore. Learn to ignore it or it’ll drive you crazy. The only one you ever need to impress is me—and your big fish from the big pond thinks you’re extraordinary. Every thought I have about you is wonderful… some of them just happen to be a little X-rated.” He winked.

Viola smirked, some of the ache in her chest dissolving under his certainty, when he told her with that distracting boyish smile of his.

“I think he’s bitter he didn’t promote you when he had the chance,” Brad murmured against her hair, his tone casual, almost amused. “Sure, maybe they needed to cut your old position—but he could’ve made a better one. Especially now, with you engaged to the man behind their biggest and most-coveted account. Keeping you on payroll would’ve been… strategic., so he knows he screwed himself in the worst way,” Brad murmured it against her hair like punctuation.

Viola took a slow sip, eyes following the ex-boss in question. “I prefer my current promotion,” she replied, tone light but loaded. “And the positions you like to put me in. The closed-door variety.”

His ears turned that telltale shade of pink.

“I’d love a full briefing on those positions later,” he said, voice low. “Maybe even a hands-on demonstration?”

She didn’t flinch. Just met his gaze, deadpan.

“That can be arranged. But I have to warn you—apparently, certain areas of mine are highly addictive.” Then she winked—sharp, electric—before turning back to the crowd like nothing had just combusted between them.

Brad leaned in, smiling. “No need to tell me. All of you is highly addictive.”

Not long after this they clinked glasses with Briar Rose, who looked luminous in navy one-shoulder silk. Jackson, beside her, managed a full suit without the cowboy hat, though his eyes lingered more on the nearby pasture to the east where some of Brad’s Thoroughbreds still lingered than the prosecco. Even Iris and Jasper made it. Somehow, Jasper and Viola’s sense of humor resonated, sounded rehearsed instead of accidental—like they’d cracked a private frequency. Brad’s mother arrived with her husband in tow, nodding in subtle approval that said, ‘finally, he got it right. Took him long enough to find you.’

Graham wore a wrinkled blazer and the weight of teen admiration. Lauren teetered confidently in her first real heels, delivering unprompted fashion critiques like a diplomat on loan from Vogue. Nathaniel barreled out in one shoe and a bowtie, chewing a breadstick with the swagger of a man owed more cheese.

Later, Brad tapped his glass.

The quartet trailed off. The crowd hushed.
He wrapped an arm around Viola’s waist and cleared his throat.

“I had a very eloquent speech prepared,” he began, cheeks a bit warm. “But nothing about this relationship has ever been scripted, streamlined, or orderly. Neither of us was looking—but we found each other anyway. We tried to follow the rules we were told to follow, only to realize those rules didn’t apply to us. So, we listened to something better—our own rhythm. And our hearts.”

He paused, catching her eyes.

“I know some of you may judge—too soon, too much, too fast. And maybe you’re right. But I’ve made a lot of bold decisions in my life…” His eyes scanned the crowd, lips twitching. “And many of them ended in disaster.”

He paused just long enough for people to wonder.
Then lifted his glass and turned toward the garden table where Bri and Jackson sat, both already grinning.

“To you, Bri. And you, Jackson.” He winked. “You know why.”

The laughter broke like a wave.

Briar Rose rolled her eyes, shook her head and frowned, grinning, Jackson calmly flipped Brad off with a lazy grin, only for Bri to intercept his hand and cover the offending finger with a perfectly timed napkin like this was not their first rodeo.

Brad waited for the laughter to settle, smile crooked, voice softer now as he looked at Viola.

“But her?” He gestured to Vee, eyes locked. “She was a lightning strike I didn’t see coming. Quiet chaos. Saying yes to her made everything that came before make a little more sense.”

He glanced toward the kids. Toward his family.

“We’re thriving. All of us. So, here’s to unexpected meetings in unfamiliar places. To listening to your gut. And to finding home in a person.”

He lifted his glass.

“To Viola Rose Miller – soon to be known as Mrs. Viola Rose Cunningham. And yeah, that’s right, Bri, I found myself another Rose.”

The crowd awed. Glasses clinked.

Bri’s hand flew to her chest with exaggerated flair. “I knew you had a type,” she called out, grinning through glassy eyes.

Laughter rippled through the garden—warm, genuine, the kind that tugged at the ribs and didn’t let go.

Viola blinked against the spotlight, flushed and glowing, her fingers tightening just slightly around Brad’s. He leaned close, voice low and teasing.

“That’s right, Bri, you get it—once I had a Rose, I was never going back to weeds. Only another Rose would do. And since third time is a charm, this wedding will be my last one, my forever with my Forever-Rose.”

Viola kissed him then. Deep, sure, scandalously satisfying.

Then she turned, lifted her own glass high.

“To us. And to disasters in barrooms that turn out to be destiny in ballrooms,” she declared.

“I drink to that!” Jackson chimed up loudly in his signature drawl.

Ever After Party

The garden had gone quiet.

Lanterns still glowed in the trees, casting warm amber halos over half-drained champagne flutes and forgotten heels. The laughter had thinned, the music a faint echo now. Only the sea remained constant—rolling and rhythmic, crashing softly against the dark below.

Brad stood at the edge of it all, leaning against a quiet railing, eyes on the lighthouse just beyond. The beam swept wide and slow, painting silver across the waves.

Behind him, soft footsteps.

“I always knew when it was you, Bri,” he said without turning.

A familiar giggle. “Jeeze, wonder what that says about the way I walk.”

She slipped up beside him, laying a hand on his arm. He turned just enough for their eyes to meet—both smiling, both tired in that way good days make you.

“Thanks for coming. To your cowboy as well.”

“Thanks for inviting us. And congrats again. You look so happy. Both of you.”

“I am happy, Bri. Seemed out of reach after … well, you know.”

He turned to face her fully, the lighthouse sweeping behind them as if on cue.

“After I lost you—again—I thought that was it. You know how the market is for men like me. But fate… fate helped me out one more time. She likes to shower with me, Bri.”

“Oh jeeze, TMI, Braddy,” she said, giggling as she swatted him.

He grinned. “It’s not like that. No details. I mean the symbolism. For some reason that is just very special to me. You were the first—hell, the only one who ever did that with me. And that moment… that, and you kissing me up on that lighthouse over there”—he gestured toward the bluff—“those were pivotal.”

She looked out toward it, expression soft.

“You changed me. Not into who everyone wanted me to be. Into who I actually was. You showed me who I could be. I figured out what I like, what I don’t, how to ask for things. How to take them. Because of you.”

His eyes fell.

“I didn’t think I’d ever meet someone who could enrich my life the way you did, let alone whom I would love as hard as I loved you, and maybe in a different way still do. But then I met Viola. And it turns out, she’s so much like you, it’s almost cosmic. That joyful chaos. The crude jokes. Naughty ideas I never saw coming. She is classy as can be, but if the occasion calls for it, she’s got the mouth of a sailor—yet somehow still manages to look like a Vogue editorial while saying it. She brings me to life, makes me laugh, oh we laugh so much, and she makes me feel seen.”

Bri laughed gently, brushing something from his lapel.

“She’s spunky. Sophisticated. Composed,” he continued. “Kind of like you… without the constant traveling and the cowboy dragging me into brawls. I guess I’m just saying thank you. Even if we didn’t make it. Maybe we weren’t supposed to. Maybe you were there just long enough to help me grow—and point me toward her.”

Bri leaned in and kissed his cheek.

“I’m happy for you, Braddy. Honest. Hurting you was the hardest thing I ever had to do. But you’re amazing. You deserve… this.”

He nodded slowly.

“Is it crazy I’m thinking about kids with her? She’s incredible with mine. What do you think?”

Bri smiled, folding her arms.

“I think you’re a damn good daddy. You’ve got the heart, the home… and let’s be honest, the budget. You’ve got the nanny, cowboy. Go for it. Make some more babies.” She bumped his shoulder. “Yee-fucking-haw, I say.”

They both laughed—real, warm, unburdened and pulled each other in a tight hug. Then Brad’s body stiffened just slightly as Jackson appeared a few paces away, hands in his pockets.

Bri noticed and stepped back with a smirk. “Just friendly. Don’t worry.”

Jackson raised his hands. “Ain’t worried ’bout nothin’. Just ready to get on outta here. Nice place. Great party. Like yer fiancée. Congrats again… but I need to scoot. ’Nuff’s ’nuff. No offense and all. Ya ready, darlin’?”

Bri walked to him and kissed him.

Brad smiled. “No offense taken. Thank you both for coming.”

They nodded, and then it was just him again—only not for long.

Because he turned, and there she was. Viola, barefoot now, heels dangling from one hand, the other reaching out for him.

“Thought I’d find you hiding out here. You can come out, everyone’s gone,” she murmured, stepping into him without hesitation.

Brad wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in until her head rested against his chest. They stood like that for a long moment, wrapped in quiet, the lighthouse sweeping across the sea once more.

“Do you want to take a last walk through the garden before we shut the lights?” she asked, voice low.

He looked down at her, that slow smile returning. “Only if you promise to keep putting your cold toes on me in bed later.”

She smirked. “Non-negotiable. Comes with the ‘Forever-Rose’ package.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Best deal I’ve ever made.”

And with fingers intertwined and bare feet rustling over grass, they walked—through fading candlelight and leftover champagne, past laughter still lingering in the air, toward the rest of their life.

The end

… for now.