On An Evening in San Sequoia…

The sun dipped behind the oceanline, scattering molten gold and lavender across the glassy blue. Downtown San Sequoia twinkled to life beyond the cliffs, skyscrapers rising like sculptures behind Chase and Hailey’s sprawling estate—where their daughter Briar Rose now lived full-time again with her daughter Briony in the separate two-bedroom pool house. Their other daughter visited often with her family, staying in the standalone guest house, while additional guests were typically put up in one of the luxurious ensuite bedrooms in the main house. Their eldest, Dr. Connor Cameron, a physician and Chief Medical Officer, had his own home nearby—built for entertaining, with sweeping views and a bar that never ran dry. He’d inherited his parents’ flair for hosting, a legacy from the days when Chase and Hailey’s parties were the stuff of local legend.

The backyard stretched wide and elegant, a private oasis carved into the cliffs above the ocean. At its heart, a sweeping, resort-style curved pool, its surface dotted with floating loungers that drifted lazily in the golden light. A gentle waterfall feature spilled into the deep end, its soft trickle blending with the hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. Around the pool, multiple seating areas sprawled across the stone patio—plush sectionals, cushioned chaises, and shaded tables perfect for lingering over drinks. Lush greenery framed the space: manicured hedges, flowering vines, and tall palms that swayed gently in the coastal breeze. The air smelled of salt, citrus, and something faintly floral.

The family gathered beneath the string lights and swaying palms, lounging across sectionals and wicker chaises. Marble fire pits flickered. Beau and Briony darted barefoot through the manicured grass past the main home with Connor’s black shepherds, Echo and Artemis, chasing a tennis ball, while Chase and Hailey’s mutt, Snuffins, sprawled like royalty beside Hailey’s lounger. Briony lived here full-time with her mother, while her twin brother Beau spent most of his time at their father Jackson’s horse ranch in Chestnut Ridge—but tonight, they were together, wild and laughing under the stars.

Cadence, or ‘Cadie’—Chris’s girlfriend, with a halo of dark blonde curls kissed by a soft balayage—teased him mercilessly over his tragic attempt at grilling. Chris, Connor and Keira’s son and Chase and Hailey’s oldest grandchild, took it in stride, flipping burgers with the confidence of someone who as a med student knew he was better in a lab than at a barbecue. Nearby, Connor and Keira debated the texture of sky in her latest painting, baby Savannah sleeping peacefully beside them in her bassinet. They’d taken guardianship to help Jackson for a while, and the baby had already become the quiet heartbeat of every family gathering.

Iris reclined with a glass of wine, Jasper beside her in a linen shirt unbuttoned just enough to be dramatic. Their two kids—Anastasia, a poised older toddler with a suspiciously perfect side part, and Tate, newly two and already shirtless and sticky with watermelon—tumbled around their feet. Jasper narrated their antics like a nature documentary, while Iris rolled her eyes and stole bites from his plate.

It was chaos, it was comfort, it was Cameron. And it was home.

Then—like a soft spell—Chris Stapleton’s “Tennessee Whiskey” drifted from hidden outdoor speakers.

Jackson was already moving. Boots tapping softly across the stone patio, he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. That look—smoldering, steady—cut through the noise like it always had.

Across the lawn, Bri turned mid-sip of champagne and met his eyes. He reached her just as the first verse began. No words. He took her glass, set it aside, and slid one arm around her waist with the quiet confidence of someone who knew every inch of her already. Briar barely registered the chilled flute being eased from her hand before Jackson pulled her in, anchoring her body against his with the kind of steady surety that had always undone her. His palm splayed wide at the small of her back, thumb grazing bare skin just beneath the hem of her blouse—just enough to make her breath stutter.

The music curled around them, low and thick and heady. Her palm found his chest. His hand settled at her back.

They swayed beneath the open sky, stars blinking awake above them. The world—the laughter, the skyline, the hush of waves below—faded.

Just Bri and Jackson. Just the music. Just a thousand unspoken things.

From across the pool, Iris leaned into Connor and whispered, “He’s definitely trying hard. Look at Casanova Cowboy over there. Wanna bet how long it takes for that whole slow-dance-and-smolder routine to win her back?”

Connor, already smiling, didn’t take his eyes off them. “I think it already has. Mom and Dad swear Bri’s been sneaking out again—like she’s seventeen and they’re too old to notice her putting the car in neutral and rolling it down the driveway before starting it.”

Iris snorted. “No.”

“Oh yeah. She asked me the other day about my hybrid. We almost had to call 911—Mom laughed so hard she choked on her wine. My car makes no sound, Iris. She was doing recon.”

They both looked back toward the couple swaying beneath the string lights.

“She’s so gone, totally gaga-googoo again for him,” Iris murmured.

Connor nodded. “She never wasn’t. I seriously feel sorry for Brad.”

Jasper chuckled, their youngest son Tate now cleaned up and snoring softly against his chest. “Brad’s engaged, remember? We were just at the party with the artisanal mocktails and eucalyptus centerpieces. His fiancée’s great for him—mellow, with just enough kick to keep him alive, but a whole lot more zen than our Bri. Personally, I saw this Bri-and-Jackson revival coming from miles away. I mean, this is round what—umpteenth yeehaw?”

He gestured toward the couple dancing under the lights. “Honestly, I’m more surprised Jackson figured out how to get the music playing tonight. The man once called me to ask if the HDMI cord was ‘the flat one or the snake one.’”

Connor snorted into his drink. “I’m surprised he didn’t shoot it if he thought it was a snake.”

“I’m sure he tried that first,” Jasper said, smug. “And yet here we are. Cowboy Casanova’s got her twirling under the string lights like it’s prom night in a Nicholas Sparks reboot.”

By the fire pit, Hailey exhaled softly, leaning her head on Chase’s shoulder as his fingers threaded through hers.

They all knew—this wasn’t just a dance.
It was a promise. A beginning, not a memory.

Chase tilted his head toward the couple, his voice low and dry. “So… how do we feel about that, Patches?”

Hailey didn’t answer right away. She sipped her wine, eyes tracing the man who’d broken her daughter’s heart—twice—and somehow never stopped showing up.

“I’m choosing not to feel much about that yet,” she said, though her voice was gentler than her words. “You know I love me some Jackson drawl, and that whole cowboy thing does a thing to a girl. But at the same time, I wanna take turns kicking him in the balls, his ass, and maybe strangling him. I love the boy, but I liked Brad better—for Bri and for our sanity. Jackson and Bri are a storm in a water glass on a good day.”

Chase exhaled slowly, thumb brushing her wrist. “I always liked Brad. But not for her. Not as a son-in-law. Prince Valium can’t handle a Cameron. I worry about our grandson living with him. At least Jackson’s got some spice. Bri needs the storm. She gets bored without it—or worse, creates it herself. See: her teen years. Eighty percent spent in parental incarceration.”

“Well, yes. Because of… drumroll… Jackson. And some of it Brad. But Nate’s fifty percent Cunningham. He’ll be fine. Our kids are fifty percent Hanson. It mellows out the Cameron in them.” Hailey winked, her face still youthful despite the years.

“I’m wondering if Hanson didn’t magnify it. See my earlier comment about Bri being grounded all the time. She takes after her mother. And Connor does too, Iris is all me and she barely ever got in any trouble at all. And Con-Bear was always a hunky dork, so that helped keeping him on the straight and narrow. But Bri was all you, babe, like back when you snuck me into your bedroom window when we were 16 … and your father caught us.” Chase chuckled, dodging Hailey’s playful swats.

Across the yard, Jackson and Bri moved—slow, melting into the rhythm beneath the wide San Sequoia sky. The moment he began to move, she followed instinctively. Like the years hadn’t unraveled them. Like no time at all had passed.

“You’re as smooth as Tennessee whiskey …” he murmured with the next line of the song, voice low and dusted with heat. His lips hovered just beside her temple as they turned together in rhythm.

The way he held her—close and firm, their bodies flush, her pashmina slipping down her arms unnoticed—spoke of old ownership. Not control, but the intimacy of long history. Of knowing how she liked to be held, when to lead, and when to let her sway free.

But she didn’t want space.
Not tonight.

She tilted her head back to meet his eyes—green locked in blue—and just like that, they were teenagers again sneaking out to the waterfall, twenty-somethings making up after another breakup, thirty-somethings trying to raise twins in two different zip codes.

His hand slid from her waist to the curve of her hip, fingers pressing through silk and memory. His forehead brushed hers. His voice, suddenly more felt than heard, breathed the line— “You’re as sweet as strawberry wine…”

And there was a beat—a moment where the air between them tightened, suspended on an invisible thread.

She blinked up at him, lips parted like she might protest, say something clever—but nothing came. Because he dipped his head, not to kiss, not yet, but to let his nose skim the length of her jaw, breathing her in like a man starved of something he once called home.

She clung a little tighter.

“You’re as warm… as a glass of brandy.” His voice cracked ever so slightly against her skin—raw, real.

And then she smiled. That smile. The one only he knew. The one that meant: I see you. Still. After everything.

Out across the pool, Chase and Hailey had gone quiet again, watching without watching. The music floated around the patio like a spell, like dusk itself was holding its breath.

“She’s gonna let him in again,” Hailey whispered, a blend of awe and trepidation.

Chase gave a slow nod, eyes never leaving their daughter in the arms of the only man who’d ever made her forget to be guarded. “I think she already has. Where do you think she was that day she came home with that freshly screwed glow? She was gone almost half a day. Came back in his flannel, hair a mess, and tried to sell us that lame-ass story about tripping and falling into his pond. Like we were born yesterday. Does she think we have Alzheimer’s?”

“GUMP! Seriously? That’s our little girl!”

“Yeah, right. She’s 34, has twins and a baby because she holds hands with the best of them.”

Hailey groaned, but her smile betrayed her. “Well, then again, who can blame her. Brad is handsome, elegant, eloquent, sweet, smart—not many women would say no to him. But Jackson? Oh boy. Jackson. His drawl, that smile, that swagger. Yes, please. A big helping of that, and seconds too.”

“Hey now! Your husband is sitting right here and you’re talking about boys who could be our children—the fathers of our grandchildren!”

“I didn’t say I would. I just said I get it. Iris and Keira agree, by the way.”

From the chaise nearby, Iris didn’t even look up from her phone. “Yeah, I like Brad. He’s sweet. Polite. Smells like cedar and ambition. But dating him? Marrying him?” She made a face. “Cringe. He’s Prince Valium. We need men with spice, not a bedtime tea.”

Keira, lounging beside her with a glass of rosé, snorted. “You said he was like a human cashmere blanket.”

“Exactly,” Iris said, finally glancing up. “Soft. Expensive. Puts you to sleep in under five minutes.”

Hailey sighed, but her smile tugged at the corners. “You girls are impossible.”

“Just honest,” Iris replied, eyes flicking toward the dance floor. “Brad’s the guy you bring home to impress your parents. Jackson’s the one you sneak out the window for. And Bri’s always been a window girl.”

“There you have it, Patches, your husband knows best…Brad’s a sweet kid, but our daughters need men with a pulse to keep them interested, just like their mother.” Chase said, then leaned over and kissed her in a way that reminded her exactly why she’d chosen him all those years ago.

Back on the patio, Jackson leaned in, voice thick as the whiskey he once loved. “I gave up on alcohol ‘cause it let me down,” he rasped in time with the next verse, “but found someone I can’t put down…”

The way he said it—the way it wasn’t just lyrics but confession—shook something deep in her. She buried her face briefly against his chest, pressing her lips to the shirt where his heart beat fast and solid beneath.

When she looked back up, her eyes glistened, but her voice was steady. “You think you get to sing that and I’ll just forget everything?”

Jackson’s gaze didn’t waver. “Nope. But I’m hopin’ maybe you remember what it felt like before all the rest got in the way. Before Brad dragged you into his golden world like a gilded caveman.”

And for once—Briar didn’t answer with words.

She pulled him closer, arms wrapped tight around his neck, and they moved like the world had shrunk to the span of one slow-burning song, melting into the velvet twilight of San Sequoia.

“There’s only one caveman in my life,” she murmured, “and it’s not Brad. Poor Braddy. He’s everything but a caveman. I still feel bad for breaking his heart.”

“Yeah, real tragic,” Jackson muttered. “How ‘bout you focus on the one you got, instead of cryin’ over the one you didn’t even really want anymore.”

“Says who? I wanted Brad. Still do. The problem was just… there was always interference from the one I wanted more. The one who forgot to give me back my heart after he broke it. Over and over again.”

“I didn’t forget nothin’, darlin’. I didn’t give it back ‘cause you still got mine. And I don’t want it back. I only ever meant to give it once.”

“Oh yeah? Let’s see… there was that girl before Taylor, then Taylor, then someone after Taylor, then Taylor again, then me, and some Taylor, then me and then Billie Rae,—”

“Who cares?” he cut in. “I don’t. I don’t remember none of ‘em. All I know is there was only ever one that got a hold of my heart. And she’s got a death grip on it.”

“Can’t wait to meet that poor girl,” Bri teased.

Jackson grinned, then spun her suddenly, twisting like he might toss her into the pool. She squealed, laughing, but his grip never loosened.

“Ya beggin’ to go swimmin’ again?” he drawled. “Like in the pond at my ranch?”

She laughed harder, breathless. “Only if you promise not to let go this time.”

He didn’t answer. Just held her tighter. He wasn’t ever gonna let go again.

And under the string lights and stars, they danced like no one was watching—even though everyone was.

From the far end of the patio, Jasper leaned toward Connor, swirling his wine like it was a prop in a scene he was about to steal. “Ten bucks says she’s knocked up before anyone can say ‘second chance.’ Or third. Or however-manyeth chance they’re on by now.”

Connor didn’t even look up from his bourbon. “I want to slap you in the mouth so badly for being so obnoxious about my little sister, then I remember you married the other one and know how Bri is. And I’m a medical professional. I notice things. I see things. I know things.”

Jasper blinked. “What does that even mean?”

“It means I live with an artist and I’m a doctor. So I’m observant, overeducated, and deeply concerned.”

Jasper raised his glass. “A-ha. Here’s to cryptic commentary on fertility and poor judgment.”

Connor clinked his. “And to Jackson—who I might castrate like one of the horses. Lasso his legs, kneel on top, snip-snap.”

Hard laughter.

Later that night, after the kids were tucked in, the wine bottles emptied, and the fire pits burned low, Jackson and Bri slipped away—quiet as shadows—across the lawn and through the side gate that led to the guesthouse. Her pool house. Their old hiding place.

From the kitchen window, Hailey stood rinsing glasses, Chase beside her drying. They both paused, watching the silhouettes disappear into the soft glow of garden lights.

“You think they’re just talking?” Hailey asked, though her tone said she knew better.

Chase snorted. “Sure. Talking. With their mouths. And maybe their hands. And definitely other body parts.”

Hailey elbowed him, but her smile was fond. “They’re older now. Maybe it’s different this time. Maybe they learned a lesson and know how to take it slow and steady now.”

“Maybe,” Chase said. “Or maybe it’s exactly the same. Just with better lighting and worse knees.”

Before she could reply, Jasper appeared behind them, arms slung around both their shoulders, chin wedged between their heads like a nosy parrot.

“Yup,” he said cheerfully. “There they go. Making you another grandbaby. Or two. You know multiples run in the family.”

He shrieked as Hailey sprayed him with the sink hose. Jasper yelped, slipping on the tile, and bolted for the hallway.

Chase tossed the dish towel aside and took off after him. “You better run, Broadway!”

Laughter echoed through the house as Hailey leaned against the counter, shaking her head and smiling out the window—where the lights still glowed, and the night still held its breath.

Because some stories don’t end.

They just pick up where they left off.

Ranch Confessions

Some weeks later found Briar Rose on another little road trip.

The highway stretched long and sun-bleached, winding out of San Sequoia’s coastal sprawl and into the dry, open heart of Chestnut Ridge. The landscape shifted slowly—palm trees giving way to scrub oak, then to wide plains dotted with mesquite and cedar. The air grew drier, the sky bigger. Somewhere along the way, her playlist faded into background noise, and the hum of tires on asphalt became its own kind of meditation.

By the time she turned off the main road and onto the gravel drive that led to Jackson’s ranch, the sun was still low but already warm. Dust kicked up behind her sleek white car as she passed the weathered wooden sign that read Kershaw Ranch, the letters carved deep and proud.

The cabin came into view just beyond a cluster of trees—simple, hand-built, and stubbornly standing after more than a century. Behind it stretched a vast fenced pasture, where horses grazed or trotted lazily between open shelters. Beyond that, the land sloped down toward a ridge, and though the swimming hole wasn’t visible from here, Bri knew it was tucked just out of reach, hidden like a secret you had to earn.

The ranchhands were already deep into their morning chores—tall, sun-browned men in worn jeans and sweat-darkened shirts, their movements efficient and unhurried. One was tossing hay into a trough, another leading a dappled gray mare toward the far paddock. They looked like they belonged to the land—rugged, capable, and carved from the same dust and grit as the hills around them.

A few of them glanced up as she pulled in, recognizing the sleek luxury SUV and the woman behind the wheel. One tipped his hat. Another gave a low whistle, not disrespectful—just impressed.

They’d all seen the white Mercedes-Benz GLE Coupe pull up—sleek, low-slung, and clearly expensive. Not the kind of car that belonged on a working ranch. And then there was her—designer heels, sunglasses that probably cost more than their monthly feed bill, and that unmistakable air of someone who didn’t just visit places like Chestnut Ridge—she descended into them.

Some of them didn’t know her name, but they knew who she was. Beau’s mama. Jackson’s ex-wife. The one who came around sometimes and made the boss look like he’d been sucker-punched by the past.

Others knew more. Knew she was from that famous music family. Knew she was a famous artist herself, had a voice that could hush a room and a face that often was on billboards all around the largest arenas around the world. But even the ones who didn’t know the details could tell—she wasn’t from here. Not really.

And yet… she walked like she belonged. Like she’d done it before. Like she knew the rhythm of the place, even if she didn’t live in it.

And there he was.

Near the corral, sleeves cuffed high on a short-sleeved checkered shirt, Jackson stood with one hand resting on the gate, the other tucked casually into his pocket. The fabric clung to his back in places, damp from work, and his hat was pulled low, casting a shadow over his eyes—but not enough to hide the way they tracked her every step. The morning sun caught the edge of his jaw just right—sharp, golden, and wholly unbothered. Behind him, a few horses shifted lazily in the paddock, one of them—a white mare with brown spots—lifting her head as if to acknowledge the moment. He looked like he belonged to the land, carved from the same dust and grit, and entirely unaware of how good he looked doing it.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t call out.

Just looked at her like she was the only thing worth seeing.

She didn’t rush.

Didn’t need to.

The gravel crunched beneath her heels as she walked toward him, the morning sun warming her back, the scent of horses and hay and something faintly smoky curling in the air. A few of the ranchhands discreetly turned away, giving them space. Even the horses seemed to quiet, ears flicking as if they, too, were waiting.

Jackson didn’t move.

Just watched her with that unreadable expression—half curiosity, half knowing. Like he already sensed something was coming.

Briar Rose was a vision of San Sequoia cool—chocolate brown tailored shorts that showed off long, sun-kissed legs, paired with a crisp white blouse that cinched at the waist just enough to hint at the curves beneath. Her heels were strappy and unapologetically impractical for ranch terrain, but she wore them like they belonged. Her sunglasses were oversized, her lipstick a muted rosewood, and her warm blonde hair was swept into a high ponytail, curtain bangs framing her face with effortless precision. Around her neck, a delicate gold chain caught the light—at its center, a small horseshoe pendant, worn smooth with time. Jackson had given it to her over a decade ago, before their first wedding, before the twins. A silver guitar pick hung beside it, an homage to her daddy, but it was the horseshoe he noticed first.

Jackson didn’t move.

Just watched her with that unreadable expression—half curiosity, half knowing. Like he already sensed something was coming.

When she reached the fence, she stopped just shy of it, arms crossed loosely, sunglasses still on.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he echoed, voice low and rough from the morning air. “Didn’t expect you till the weekend.”

“Yeah, me neither, but, well, things came up.”

His eyes dropped to the pendant. He reached out, fingers brushing the charm gently, like it might vanish if he touched it too hard.

“Still got this?” he asked, voice low.

She didn’t hesitate. “Of course. Hey, can we talk. In private?”

He nodded once, then pushed off the gate striding along. “C’mon. Let’s go inside.”

As she stepped past him, he reached out—easy, instinctive—and let his hand settle at the small of her back. Not possessive. Just there. Like it had always belonged.

They walked in silence, boots crunching over gravel, the morning sun casting long shadows behind them. His thumb brushed once against the hem of her jacket, just enough to remind her he was still there. Still him.

The cabin rose ahead of them, weathered and familiar. She’d been here before—many time, even lived here for a long while, years ago, when things were simpler, or at least felt that way. The porch creaked under their steps as Jackson pulled open the screen door and held it for her without a word.

The house smelled like coffee, leather, and something savory—maybe smoked meat or roasted peppers. The floorboards creaked under Bri’s heels as she stepped into the kitchen, which opened straight into the living room. The place was old, built over a hundred years ago by some Kershaw ancestor with more grit than insulation. The walls were thick, the windows deep-set, and the whole place carried the quiet weight of generations.

Jackson moved toward the stove, still wiping his hands on a rag. “D’cha eat yet?”

She shook her head, distracted.

“Good,” he said, already pulling something out of the oven. “Made tamale pie last night. Smells like heaven, tastes like sin.”

He set the cast iron skillet on the counter and cracked the lid. A wave of heat and spice hit her like a freight train.

Bri’s face went pale.

“Oh no,” she whispered, then turned and bolted past the living room area and straight towards the bathroom.

Jackson didn’t move. Just stood there, blinking once, then twice, as the bathroom door slammed shut and the unmistakable sounds of retching echoed back.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, coffee in one hand, and waited.

A few minutes later, Bri reappeared, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her ponytail slightly askew and her pride clearly bruised.

Jackson didn’t say a word. Just raised an eyebrow and took a slow sip of coffee.

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t.”

He tilted his head. “What? I didn’t say nothin’.”

“You were thinking it.”

He set his mug down, picked up the skillet, and walked it over to her with exaggerated care. “Yeah? Well then, sure you don’t want a bite? Might settle your stomach.”

She gagged audibly and lunged for the sink.

Jackson chuckled, watching her with the kind of smug patience only a man who’d seen her at her worst—and still wanted her—could pull off.

“Y’know,” he said, voice low and amused, “I may be a redneck, a hillbilly, and a borderline neanderthal, but I ain’t stupid.”

She groaned, still hunched over the sink. “I didn’t think you were, why do you think I am here. I came to tell you. Just was trying to lead up to it …”

“You just did. With sound effects.”

She turned, glaring at him through watery eyes. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He shrugged. “I mean, I ain’t thrilled you puked on my good sink, but yeah. Kinda.”

She leaned back against the counter, arms folded, trying to look composed and failing miserably. “So. That’s out there, now what?”

Jackson nodded, sipping his coffee again. “Yep.”

“You mad?”

He shook his head, calm as ever. “Nope.”

“Scared?”

A beat. Then, with a quiet honesty that caught her off guard— “Hell yeah.”

She blinked. “Really?”

He gave her a crooked grin, all grit and truth. “Bri, I been thrown off horses, shot at by a drunk neighbor, and married to you—twice. ’Course I’m scared. But I ain’t runnin’. Not this time. I learned my lesson, and I learned it good. Ya can call me a lotta things, but never a bad daddy. We got this. Together,” he drawled, his voice low.

She stared at him for a long moment, then let out a breath that sounded like it had been sitting in her chest for weeks.

“Okay,” she said softly.

“Okay,” he echoed.

Then, without another word, he reached over, grabbed a clean dish towel, and handed it to her.

“Wipe your face, darlin’. You look like you lost a fight with a chili pepper.”

She took the towel, dabbing at her face, then tossed it onto the counter with a sigh. “This is insane.”

Jackson leaned back against the opposite counter, arms crossed again, watching her like he was trying to memorize the way she looked in this exact moment—messy hair, flushed cheeks, eyes still sharp despite the nausea. “Yeah. But so’s everything that ever mattered.”

She gave him a look. “Don’t start with the cowboy fortune cookie wisdom.”

He smirked. “Ain’t wisdom. Just truth.”

Bri exhaled, then pushed her hair back and met his gaze. “So what are we doing, Jackson? What is this? Are we… dating again? Friends with benefits? Co-parents with bonus complications? Because I need to know what language we’re speaking before I start making decisions that affect more than just me.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her, long and steady, like he was weighing every word before letting it loose.

“I don’t know what to call it,” he said finally. “But I know what it ain’t. It ain’t casual. It ain’t temporary. And it sure as hell ain’t just friends.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So what then?”

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until he was right in front of her. His voice dropped, low and certain. “Yer my wife.”

She blinked. “Jackson—”

“No,” he said, gently but firmly. “We both stood before a minister and swore to the Lord above to be wed ’til death do us part. And yeah, we been through some shit. We both been married again. You got a baby. I got a baby. We been divorced twice—from each other. But I ain’t dead. And neither are you. So death never parted us. Far as I’m concerned, you never stopped bein’ my wife from the day we said them vows the first time. I never said ’em again to another woman—only you. Or if I did, I sure as hell wasn’t sober enough to remember, back on that drunken night with Boone in Vegas. You might’ve said it with yer Braddy, but I surely did not. So yeah… far as I’m concerned, we were married in the eyes of the Lord the same day our twins were born, and that ain’t never changed.”

She stared at him, lips parted, somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope. Then she blinked and said, “Oh my God—did I just fall back in time to the sixteenth century? You can’t just declare that like it’s a fact. Divorces are real, Jackson. They’re legally binding. You can’t just override them with cowboy theology.”

“Sure I can,” he said, tipping his head. “I jus’ did.”

She rolled her eyes, but it was half-hearted. “Gawd, you’re like a walking country song with a superiority complex.”

“And you’re still wearin’ that horseshoe. Gave ya that long before we were ever married.”

She looked down at the pendant, fingers brushing it unconsciously. “You gave me that back at my childhood home in Brindleton Bay when I was in college. We were standing in the garden. I was basically facing the exact same question then ‘what are we to each other’—minus two stripes on a pregnancy test. That doesn’t mean—”

“It means enough,” he said. “Ya came here. Ya told me. Y’all didn’t have to. But ya did. So maybe we ain’t got no name for it yet. But I know what it feels like. And it feels like home. Like a marriage. I know I messed up, Bri. I know I ain’t perfect. But I’m still yer husband—and the father of the two kids we already got… and the one you’re carryin’ now. The babies with have with other people, those were accidents. THIS baby here is the good Lord showin’ us the right way.”

She let out a breath, slow and shaky, her arms folding across her chest like she was trying to hold herself together. “Jackson, PLEASE, calm your bootie… it’s still so early. Like, barely a few weeks. I am barely far enough for it to even register on a test stip. A lot could happen. There might not even be a baby. Especially not with my history.”

He didn’t interrupt, just let her say it.

“My body’s been through hell,” she continued, voice quieter now. “The twins were hard enough, and the second pregnancy nearly broke me, more and more scar tissue for my poor lonely little ovary to work through. My doctors weren’t exactly optimistic about a third pregnancy ever even happening, let alone every being feasible. So before you start picking out names or building a crib, just… don’t. I am only here to share with you something scary I just discovered myself, because I feel you have the right to know.”

Jackson stepped in, slow and steady, like he was approaching a spooked horse. “I hear ya, darlin’. I do. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that our babies, they don’t come easy, but they come strong. They’re part Cameron, part Kershaw. That’s grit and fire in equal measure. We’re gon’ be parents again, THAT ya can take to the bank, Bri.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him—really looked at him—like she was trying to decide whether to believe in that kind of faith again.

Then, with a dry little laugh, she muttered, “God, you’re like a Hallmark movie with calluses. Disgustingly optimistic here. I came here not only to tell you, because I feel you have a right to know, but because I honestly didn’t know what to do. This isn’t great Jackson. It’s crazy and scary and foolish. I have no idea how to make this work, let alone how to tell people. My parents will try to give me up for adoption, at 34 years old.”

He grinned. “Damn right. It’s crazy as hell. That’s our brand, alright.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the ticking of the old wall clock and the faint rustle of wind through the trees outside.

Finally, Bri whispered, “We need a baby like a hole in the head.”

Jackson grinned. “Yep. But we done gone do dumber things. None come to mind right now, but I know there were.”

She let out a soft laugh. “Lots come to my mind! Like us at 17, me stealing my brother’s car to come see you like he wouldn’t notice. Or sneaking away from that party at Connor’s with the neighbor’s spare key—just so we could hook up in her guest room while she was in Cabo? Only for her to realize it and blame Connor and Keira for canoodling in her good sheets. And since my brother isn’t stupid, he knew.”

He chuckled. “Those were memorable, and pretty dumb, yeah.”

“Or how about both of us getting arrested as teenagers because you tried to steal Prairie Rose back from Brad? You showed up at his parents’ mansion with a horse trailer and a vengeance and I was trying to keep you out of trouble and ended up arrested as well like two horse thieves in the middle of the night. My poor parents!”

He laughed, full and unrepentant. “Well yeah, all that. But also more. Like gettin’ divorced. Twice. That was our dumbest idea yet.”

She laughed again, despite herself. “God help us.”

He stepped in, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her in like he’d never let go again. “Already did, darlin’. He gave us another shot.”

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t argue.

She just let herself be held.

Rosebriar Haven Moments

Some weeks after their heart-to-heart on the ranch and now a few days after Brad and Viola’s wedding, Bri lounged by the pool at Rosebriar Haven, sipping homemade lemonade with a sprig of mint and a suspicious amount of crushed ice. Brad, in swim trunks and sunglasses, sat beside her, looking more relaxed than she’d seen him in years.

The wedding had been two days ago—sun-drenched, chaotic, and perfect. Viola was now officially Mrs. Cunningham. Most of the guests had flown home, but Bri and Jackson had stayed a few extra days so Briony could spend time with Lauren, who was just a year older and practically her sister in spirit.

Jackson had taken Beau and Graham to the stables, likely to return dusty and smug from a trail ride. Briony and Lauren were shrieking through some chaotic version of water ball with Viola, while baby Nate snoozed in a shaded crib nearby, blissfully unaware of the chaos.

“So,” Bri said, tilting her head toward Brad with a sly smile, “how’s married life treating you? All two days of it.”

Brad laughed. “So far, so good. Vee’s already reorganized my office, my calendar, and my sock drawer. The kids adore her. Lauren’s been testing out ‘Mom’ when she thinks no one’s listening. Graham’s still pretending he’s too cool to care, but he asked her to help him pick out a new sailing gear, freaked her out as she knows nothing about sailing, but she listened to my advice to just use good taste and logic. Both had fun, so I’m calling that a win.”

They both chuckled.

“Wedding was perfect,” he added. “And for once, no one was secretly pregnant.”

Bri raised a brow. “You sure about that?”

Brad blinked. “Wait—what?”

“I’m pregnant,” she said casually, sipping her drink.

Brad nearly choked. “Is it Jackson’s?!”

She gave him a flat look. “What do you think?”

“Well—it could’ve been me.”

“It’s been eight months since our divorce. I’m not an elephant.”

“True, but it hasn’t been eight months since … well, don’t mind me. Congrats. Does he know?”

“That was one time. One slip-up, Brad. No, it’s Jackson’s, I am sure. And yeah, he knows. My parents too. Kids don’t, at least for now, until we can be sure there will be something to tell. And unless someone gives my mom wine, it’ll stay that way.”

“So… are you two getting married again?”

“God, no. We’re not even living together. I’ll just have another baby to juggle. Connor and Keira are already helping Jackson with Savannah, and my parents and I when they are working. So no, a baby wasn’t planned. Far from it.”

“I wasn’t gonna ask. I remembered—you’re a Cameron. You don’t plan things. Especially pregnancies.”

Plep. A lemon slice hit his cheek. Laughing, he tossed it into the shrubs, then stood and pulled her into a hug. Near her ear, he whispered, “Congrats.”

“Thanks. Funny, isn’t it? When we were sixteen and I was told I couldn’t have kids, your dad did everything to make sure you’d be a happy dad one day, without me. Wonder how he would feel about being such a tyrant then if he could see me now, staring down the barrel of child number four, while number three is with none other than you.”

Brad’s voice softened. “I think about that too sometimes. But it always ends in anger, so I try not to dwell. Just be happy for the chance we finally gave ourselves, and while it may not have worked out, it left both of us with a precious son.”

Brad and Bri traded knowing glances when Brad’s twelve-year-old daughter with his first wife, the one before Bri, came bounding over, dripping wet and grinning, a beach towel trailing behind her like a cape.

“Daddy! Bri! Guess what?” Lauren chirped, eyes wide with the kind of excitement that usually preceded either a heartfelt confession or a minor disaster.

Brad turned, still holding his lemonade. “What’s up, bug?”

Lauren beamed. “Mom- I mean Vee – and I am on a team and we are winning! Briony says I swim like a dolphin and Beau says I swim like a frog, so I told them I’m a dolphrog now.”

Viola grinned. “That sounds like a very powerful creature.”

“Obviously,” Lauren said, then dashed back to the pool, yelling, “DOLPHROG ATTACK!”

Brad shook his head, amused. “My kid is going places one day, Bri.”

“Or start a dolphrog cult,” Bri muttered, sipping her lemonade.

Viola strolled over, wrapping a towel around herself, then grabbed Brad’s lemonade, and took a sip. “I need a break from all that youthful energy. What’d I miss?”

“Vee,” Bri said, “I just told Brad I’m expecting.”

“Oh, I’m so happy for you! Congrats! Does your cowboy know?” Viola immediately knew.

“Of course. But the kids don’t, so keep it hush. We’re waiting, pregnancies have been complicated for me in the past. Brad can explain.”

Viola grinned. “Sounds like a celebration. How about some champagne? I know you can have a little sip.” She winked, and both women turned to Brad expectantly.

He sighed. “Oh, that was my cue? Fine. I’ll go get something bubbly to clink glasses with.” He bowed dramatically and headed inside.

Bri turned to Viola, lowering her voice. “I have not seen him like this in … oh, I don’t even know. Never I think. You are medicine for him, Vee.”

“I think we are each other’s medicine. I am trying to be a formidable partner for him, to enhance him, not embarrass him and I think he appreciates that. But I still sneak him pieces of his favorite candy in his suit pockets when we kiss goodbye so he finds them with a little love note at some point and remembers to come home on time.”

“Oh, good grief! You make all other wives look like cheap trash! And you are officially not allowed to be alone with Jackson at any given time. Don’t give that guy ideas. That is disgustingly sweet and so good for Brad. That is what he needs and craves in his life. And you are so good with the kids. Are you even real?” Bri laughed, and Viola’s tension cracked into a smile.

“Well, there is one thing I am thinking about doing for him that I was never ever EVER NEVER going to do, but I know it would make everything perfect for him.”

“A baby?”

“Yeah. I know you don’t know me that well, but do you think I could pull that off?”

“Of course you could! And yeah, you got that right! Braddy is obsessed with the idea of being a daddy. And he is a great one, which is why I agreed to leave my son with him. I do travel a lot and he is too young to handle all that. With Jackson I won’t have a choice, but Nate does have one, and maybe when he’s older he will come live with me for a while, since I always have people there to help out. I think you would be a great mom and I know you wouldn’t regret it.”

“Really? You think I should … tell him or just … go for it?”

“Either way would work, but if you really want to see Brad as excited as he will ever get, tell him you would like to have a baby with him. He’ll be doing cartwheels for the rest of the day.”

Viola just smiled and nodded, as Brad returned with a tray of champagne and a bowl of strawberries, pointing at them, smiling at Bri “Something healthy for the cravings.”

The women burst into laughter. Jackson walked in with Beau and Graham, who exchanged a look that clearly said, adults, sigh, before running off to the pool.

“What’s so funny?” Jackson asked, laughing as he reached for Bri’s glass. She tried to hold on, but he stole it easily, emptied it in one gulp, then kissed her, and popped a strawberry into her mouth.

“How much of this sparkly ya been feedin’ them girls, Brad?”

Brad raised his hands. “Just came out with it. One small glass is fine for Bri, just let her enjoy a taste. Congrats, by the way.”

Jackson grinned, wrapping an arm around Bri’s waist. “No Sir, no booze under my watch while my woman is growing us another baby, doc. And yeah, figured she’d tell ya. Guess I marked her as mine again. Maybe that’s my new plan—just keep puttin’ babies in her so nobody else can claim her.”

Bri let out a scandalized hoot, half gasp, half laugh. “Jackson!” She swatted at his chest, eyes wide. “If you said that in public, you’d get sued out the wazoo. Or canceled. Or both!”

Brad snorted, shaking his head. “Good grief. You’d be trending for all the wrong reasons, cowboy.”

“As if he even knows what social media is. Jackson probably thinks Instagram is the modern version of sending a telegram,” Bri muttered, still laughing.

Jackson didn’t flinch. “I know what that is,” he said, catching her wrist and tugging her in until she bumped against his chest. “Use it to keep up with you when you’re off travelin’ again. Gotta keep an eye on ya somehow.”

Bri rolled her eyes, but her grin betrayed her. “You online stalk me now?”

“Just monitorin’ the situation,” he said, not missing a beat. One arm looped around her waist, the other still holding his drink, and he didn’t even glance away from Brad and Viola as he added, “Gotta make sure no one else gets any bright ideas.”

Bri gave a dramatic sigh and leaned into him, mock-exasperated. “You’re lucky I find your caveman routine charming.”

Viola raised her glass wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. “Charming is one word for it.”

“Hey Bri,” Brad called, laughing, “my new wife thinks your cowboy’s sexy—like that country song.”

“That was a tractor,” Bri shot back, “but hell yeah. You should see the girls swoon when this guy shakes his bootie line dancing.”

Before she could wriggle away, Jackson caught her again—this time with practiced ease, spinning her slightly and pinning her gently against his chest. His grip was firm but easy, his smirk lazy, and he still hadn’t broken eye contact with Brad and Viola.

“Bootie shakin’s extra,” he drawled. “Y’all gotta pay for that show.”

Bri squirmed, laughing, but her protest melted into a grin as she gave up and leaned into him, her cheek brushing his collarbone when he stuck a strawberry in her mouth.

That sent the women into another round of wheezing laughter. Bri tried to steady herself against Jackson, but when Viola doubled over again, she gave up entirely, tears streaming.

Brad just shook his head, smiling as he poured the champagne. “You don’t wanna know, cowboy. Just drink the bubbles and pretend you do. I know you prefer beer and whiskey, but just drink this for now.”

“Oh, drink up, you both need it …” Bri mumbled cryptically.

Viola suddenly grabbed Bri’s wrist mid-laugh and pulled her along, sending a blinded-by-tears Bri stumbling. “Come with me. Before you say something you’ll regret—or I do.”

Still giggling, Bri let herself be tugged inside, the screen door swinging shut behind them.

They made it as far as the kitchen before Viola stopped, bracing herself against the counter, still catching her breath.

Bri leaned against the island, wiping her eyes. “God, my stomach hurts. I haven’t laughed like that in weeks.”

Viola nodded, then looked at her—really looked at her. “You’re glowing, you know that?”

Bri snorted. “I just threw up in a sink yesterday. That’s not glow, that’s survival.”

“No,” Viola said softly. “It’s something else.”

Bri tilted her head. “You okay?”

Viola hesitated. “I never wanted kids. Not with my ex. Not during the ten years I was married. I used to say I didn’t have the gene for it.”

“All it took was for you to find the right guy, huh?”

Viola looked toward the window, where Brad was laughing with Jackson, champagne in one hand, his other gesturing animatedly as he told some story. The sunlight caught in his hair, and for a moment, he looked younger. Lighter.

“Yeah. The right guy. I mean, I don’t have to explain Brad to you, but I look at him,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “and I think… he’d be such a good dad. He already is. And I think about what it would be like to give him that. Not because I have to. But because I want to.”

Bri’s smile softened. “You’re allowed to change your mind, Vee.”

“I know. It just… surprises me. I never thought I’d want that. But now I do. Not someday. Not maybe. I want to make a baby with him. And not because it’s the next box to check. Because I want to see what kind of magic we’d make.”

Bri stepped closer, wrapping her arms around her. “You’d make the kind that wears bow ties or stilettos to preschool and corrects your grammar before kindergarten.”

Viola laughed, a little watery. “And probably tries to run a startup by third grade.”

“God help us all.”

They stood there for a moment, the noise of the pool and the patio muffled behind the thick old walls.

Then Bri pulled back, eyes twinkling. “So… you gonna tell him?”

Viola smirked. “Eventually. Maybe after I seduce him in his office. Maybe I should get him drunk first.”

Bri grinned. “Now that’s the Vee I know. But I got a better idea. I will be your wingman. Go to his office, stay put, do not move, do not get cold feet and do not change your mind. I will send him your way and you will tell him exactly what you told me, word for word.”

A moment later, Bri stepped back out, cheeks flushed and eyes still dancing as she wrapped her arms around Brad.

“Braddy,” she said sweetly, using that I-want-something-and-you-can’t-say-no tone, “can you go to your office? Your wife has something she wants to talk to you about.”

Brad blinked. “In my office?”

“Yup.”

“Now? While we have guests? When she threatened me within an inch of my life not to even look at my office after it was decided you guys, Briony, and Beau were staying a few extra days? Is this a trap? Was the life insurance policy a mistake?” he deadpanned.

“Probably,” she said, grinning. “But a sweet one. Don’t be so suspicious, you’re newlyweds and your Missus misses you, good grief, Bradford! GO!” she gave him a light shove.

He shrugged, still confused, and headed inside. As soon as Brad disappeared inside, Jackson turned to Bri, one brow raised. “So… what was that all ’bout? I ain’t as easily dazzled as him, so dontcha try.”

Bri didn’t answer right away—she was too busy popping strawberries into her mouth from the small bowl Brad had brought out earlier. One after another, like she hadn’t eaten in days.

“Mmm,” she mumbled around a bite. “Shhh, big secret, do not tell anyone, but Vee’s thinking about having a baby.”

Jackson blinked. “And she needs to ask you and him for permission? She’s his goddamn wife.”

“Yes, silly.” She reached for another berry. “But look, she never wanted kids, so that’s the latest memo Brad has on that situation. But being with Braddy and the kids softened her up and now she does want a baby, but doesn’t know how to tell him. I told her to just say the words and then watch her new husband do backflips all the way into the plane that takes them to their honeymoon—aka babymaking central.” She grinned, licking juice from her thumb. “Braddy loves kids, and therefore will be highly motivated. And he and I may be divorced, but I still think he is so cute, and I am all in favor for more baby-Braddies. Those cute curls .. look at my baby with him. Nate is going to be such a heartbreaker as a teen. I may have a million grandbabies, all oopsies, by just him. Brad will never have to worry about the Cunningham lineage going extinct. My lil Nate will flood the world with Cunningham and Cameron genes. And curls.”

Jackson let out a low whistle. “Jeezus. I got about sixty things I wanna say to that, but then I remember I ain’t exactly got the moral high ground, so I’m just gonna stand here, smile, and keep my damn mouth shut.”

“Wise choice,” Bri said, reaching for another berry. “I’m familiar with your thought process. It’s like a rodeo clown fell into a philosophy textbook and got sick all over some theology studies and a survival manual.”

Jackson watched her for a beat, eyes narrowing slightly as she reached for yet another berry.

“Ya know,” he drawled, “where I come from, they say if a girl eats a lotta strawberries when she’s expectin’, it’s a girl.”

Bri froze mid-chew, then narrowed her eyes. “You’re watching my food intake now?!”

“Hard not to. Yer inhalin’ them berries like they’re oxygen.”

She popped another one defiantly. “They’re good.”

He smirked. “So’s the baby, apparently. SHE is livin’ her best life already.”

Bri rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away. “Well, spoiler alert, cowboy—guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

Jackson leaned back, arms crossed, grin lazy. “Hope she’s got her mama’s sass and her daddy’s patience.”

Bri snorted. “Please clarify: Was that sass or ass?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Sass. I seen yer ass. I don’t need no daughter of mine equipped with that badonkadonk—or I’m gonna need me another shotgun.”

Coffee and Common Ground

The house was too quiet.

With Nate in San Sequoia for the week, Graham and Lauren at school until late afternoon, and Brad called into the office for a last-minute meeting, Viola found herself alone for the first time in weeks, maybe even months. The stillness felt foreign. Not unwelcome—just unfamiliar.

She made herself a cup of coffee, stared at it for a few minutes, then set it down untouched.

A walk, she decided. Just to clear her head.

The coastal breeze was cool and salty as she made her way down the winding path toward the beach. The sun was still climbing, casting long shadows across the sand. As she passed the small beach house tucked just off the trail, she slowed.

Maeve Cameron’s place.

Viola had never been inside, but she knew the house. Everyone did. It had belonged to the Lockwoods, who used to rent it out to tourists before Maeve bought it—quietly, discreetly, but not quietly enough to avoid the local gossip mill. Especially not with the baby bump Maeve now carried, and the very public knowledge that the father was Pierce Lockwood, whose sleek black Mercedes S-Class was still seen parked near the beach house whenever his wife was out of town, like clockwork.

Viola hesitated but walked around to the front, then squared her shoulders and walked up the three steps to the door.

She knocked.

It opened a moment later to reveal a striking brunette with olive-toned skin, sharp cheekbones, and eyes the color of stormy sea glass. Maeve’s Tartosian heritage was unmistakable—so was the fire behind her gaze.

“Yes?” she said, one brow arching.

Viola offered a tentative smile. “Hi. I’m Viola Cunningham. I—”

“I know who you are,” Maeve said, not unkindly. “I came to your engagement party. And you live literally up the hill from me. I can see your house from my bedroom.”

Viola blinked. “Oh. Right. Of course.”

Maeve studied her for a beat longer, then stepped back. “You want to come in?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

The inside of the house was warm and elegant, with a very modern take on coastal flair, soft music playing and the scent of fresh coffee lingering in the air. Viola followed Maeve into the living room, where sunlight spilled across a low couch and a stack of well-worn books.

Maeve moved with a grace that was almost feline, but there was tension in her shoulders, a guardedness in her posture that Viola recognized instantly.

She’d worn that same armor once.

“Coffee?” Maeve asked.

“Please.”

They sat, mugs in hand, silence stretching for a moment before Viola spoke.

“I’m pregnant.”

Maeve’s eyes flicked to her, surprised. “Already?”

Viola nodded. “We got back from our honeymoon about six weeks ago. We were trying. Brad knew I was nervous—I never wanted kids before—but he was so excited. And it happened fast.”

Maeve let out a soft breath. “You’re lucky. It was the same for me with Pierce. I wanted this baby. He… needed a little time to catch up. But yeah. It happened fast. Most women wait a year or more.”

Viola smiled. “I know. I didn’t expect it to feel so… right.”

Maeve gave a small smile, and this time it reached her eyes. “Me neither.”

Viola hesitated. “I know this can’t be easy. Being here. Everyone knowing.”

Maeve’s jaw tightened. “They don’t know anything. They think they do. But they don’t.”

Viola nodded slowly. “I get that. I used to think I had to be perfect. Polished. Untouchable. But it’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

Maeve looked at her for a long moment. “It is.”

Viola tilted her head. “Bri is a good friend, maybe my best friend aside from Brad, which is odd considering she is my husband’s ex-wife. She’s also your cousin, right?”

Maeve nodded. “On our dads’ side. She’s the reason I didn’t slam the door in your face. I really don’t do social things with the Bay crowd at my house. I may go to theirs, if invited, ya know, playing the game, but I don’t let people in normally. The only reason anyone would want to come see me is to pry. No thanks. I grew up in the entertainment biz and around royalty, so we are just not gonna.”

Viola laughed. “Good to know.”

She glanced toward the window. “I’ve seen Pierce’s car outside a few times. That Mercedes is hard to miss.”

Maeve’s expression didn’t change, but her voice softened. “He comes when he can. And we have an apartment in San Myshuno—downtown. It’s quiet there. No eyes. No whispers. Just… us.”

Viola was quiet for a moment, then asked gently, “Do you love him?”

Maeve looked down at her coffee, then out the window, where the ocean shimmered just beyond the dunes.

“I do,” she said finally. “In the way that makes you furious and soft at the same time. In the way that makes you wait longer than you should… and still hope anyway.”

Viola’s voice was even quieter. “And does he love you the same way?”

Maeve’s smile was small, but sure. “He’s learning how.” She turned to Viola. “Look, I’m sure you’ve already picked up on the fact that high society here in the Bay is a very close-knit community. You can’t just make a ton of money and join. The newer generations are changing—realizing it’s not the 1950s anymore—but the older ones are still in power. They don’t raise children with love and understanding. They raise them like hedge fund bulldogs, conditioned to choose their future partners strategically—bank account, status, attractiveness—so they can breed worthy lineage torch-carriers. Pierce wasn’t raised to love. He was raised to perform. I taught him that was wrong. And he agrees. He’s trying.”

Viola tilted her head. “Are you training him to open his eyes and get a divorce?”

“No. I actually told him to stay with her. He wanted to. He was ready to set his life on fire for me… and I was tempted, I’ll admit that. But I stopped him.” Maeve’s voice softened. “Look, I grew up very spoiled and very sheltered. But that didn’t protect me from real heartbreak. Until last year, I’d never lived alone a day in my 28 years. I always thought of myself as independent, poised, smart—until I realized I was only those things because of who I attached myself to. It was hard to learn how to live on my own. Alone, but not lonely.

“If I accepted Pierce’s sacrifice, I’d be sacrificing my freedom and my liberation all over again. I love Pierce. I hate this situation. But I’d hate both of us if I changed it. And my daughter—she’d be held to those Bay standards, too. I don’t want that for her.”

She paused, her voice steady but low.

“To a degree, sure, I will play that money-game of who is who and keeping her closer to our station. Some of it’s inevitable. But to you, it’s new. I was born into wealth. It changes more than people realize. It rewires how you see the world. You stop trusting so easily—because more often than not, it’s not you they care about. It’s your last name. Your access. Your net worth.”

Maeve looked at Viola, her expression soft but serious.

“Now that you have the Cunningham wealth, you’ve got to learn how not to let it crush you. Wealth isn’t all shopping and being lazy. It’s a chore, too. A performance. And if you’re not careful, it’ll start performing you.”

Maeve’s gaze held steady. “I like you, Viola. If you want, I’ll teach you how to be a worthy Mrs. Cunningham. Brad’s from one of the oldest families in the Bay. As the older ones retire, he’ll slowly become their unofficial king. And that’s your chance to change the rules—for everyone. Every strong man has an even stronger woman behind him. I’ll teach you how to move in this society without letting anyone get too close. That’s where they strike—when you’re vulnerable.

“I think we both could use a real friend here.”

They sat in silence again—the kind that wasn’t awkward, but full of understanding.

Over the next weeks and months, the two women found themselves drawn together more often—yoga classes, long walks, evenings with Brad and, surprisingly, even Pierce in a kind of double-date situation. Somewhat awkward for the guys, but the girls loved it. They swapped stories, swapped recipes, swapped pregnancy symptoms. And somewhere between the laughter and the late-night texts, they became something neither of them had expected: friends.

Real ones.

The genuine kind who didn’t flinch at the mess.

The kind who stayed.