Brindleton Bay
Maeve Cameron’s Beach House

The knock at the door was soft, almost polite. Maeve glanced up from the kitchen, one hand resting on the curve of her belly. She wasn’t expecting anyone—not today.

She opened the door to find Charles Lockwood standing on her porch, hands clasped behind his back, dressed like he’d just stepped out of a boardroom and into a coastal painting.

“Mr. Lockwood,” she said, wary.

“Miss Cameron,” he replied with a nod. “May I come in?”

She hesitated, then stepped aside. “Okay.”

He entered like he owned the place, eyes scanning the room with the faintest trace of disapproval. “You’ve made yourself comfortable here.”

“I live here,” Maeve said flatly. “What do you want?”

He smiled, thin and practiced. “Just checking in. How are you feeling? The pregnancy going well?”

Maeve crossed her arms. “Fine.”

“Do you know the gender yet?”

“A girl.”

He frowned, just slightly. “Ah. Well. Girls can be… adaptable.”

Maeve’s eyes narrowed. “Is there a point to this visit?”

Charles exhaled, as if settling into the real reason. “Look, child. We know this pregnancy wasn’t planned. Pierce wasn’t careful. It’s unfortunate, but such is life. That said, it presents a… unique opportunity.”

Maeve said nothing.

“We could use an heir. And while a girl isn’t ideal, it’s workable. With the right guidance, the right name. Perhaps a marriage clause in a future prenup—whoever she chooses will take her name. Lockwood.”

Maeve stared at him, stunned. Speechless.

“In exchange,” he continued, “you’ll be well taken care of. For the remainder of your pregnancy, you won’t want for anything. And after the birth, you’ll sign over guardianship and custody to Pierce. The child will be raised as a Lockwood. Properly.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Maeve laughed—sharp, incredulous.

“You think I’d hand over my daughter like she’s a business acquisition?”

Charles’s expression didn’t change. “She’s a Lockwood by blood. That’s not something you can change. She belongs on the Lockwood estate, with her family.”

Maeve’s voice dropped to a hiss. “Get out of my house.”

“Miss Cameron—”

“Out.”

He didn’t argue. Just turned and walked out, as calm as he’d arrived.

Maeve slammed the door behind him, the echo rattling through the quiet house. Her hands were shaking—rage, adrenaline, disbelief. She stood there for a moment, staring at the door like it might open again. It didn’t.

She grabbed her phone and dialed Pierce. No answer. She tried again. Straight to voicemail. Her thumb hovered, then flew across the screen.

> I need to speak to you. Right now.

No response.

She stared at the screen, willing it to light up. Willing him to care.

Then it buzzed.

> Hey. Can I call you back? I’m in the middle of something.

Maeve blinked. Once. Twice.

Then her fingers flew again.

> No. I need you now! This is not something you put off. Your father just tried to buy our daughter like she was a goddamn thoroughbred. I am shaking. I am alone. I NEED you to be here NOW. And you’re “in the middle of something”?

No reply.
She waited. One minute. Two.
Nothing.

The fury rose like a tide, hot and bitter. She threw the phone onto the couch, the screen going dark as it landed face-down.

Maeve sank into the nearest chair, her arms wrapped around her belly, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

She wasn’t just angry.
She was done.
And this time, she meant it.

Later that day

The wind had picked up outside, brushing the dunes with a hush that made the windows rattle faintly. Upstairs in Maeve’s beach house, the bedroom glowed with warm lamplight. Viola stood barefoot in front of the mirror, tugging at the zipper of her dress with a frustrated huff.

“I swear this fit last week,” she muttered, twisting to get a better look. “What do you think? Passable? Be honest: I look like an overstuffed sausage, right?”

Maeve didn’t feel like laughing but couldn’t help a smirk as she shrugged “Well … it’s not ideal. Especially not for a gala like that one. Sorry Vee. I can’t greenlight that dress for you.”

“Damn it. I want to make Brad look good, not add fuel to the fire of everyone downplaying him as some lovestruck dumbass and me like a power-hungry trashy gold digger. No chance of looking decent in this dress! I make raw silk look cheap like this.”

Maeve, lounging on the edge of the bed with one hand resting on her visibly rounded belly, smirked. “Welcome to the betrayal of buttons, waistbands, and zippers. You’re officially in the club. Spoiler alert: if you think this is bad, girl, then I have really bad news for you.”

Viola laughed, one hand on her own barely-there bump. “Now with the morning sickness under control I don’t feel pregnant. I don’t even look pregnant. I just look like I’m really committed to cleaning every plate I meet. Oink.”

“No, you look like you’re starting to show,” Maeve said gently. “It’s beautiful. You’re growing a human inside you. But also, your body is changing and that dress is not doing you any favors anymore right now. This one’s gonna have to guard the closet till you’re a mommy and back to your old fighting weight.”

Viola sighed. “Great. We fly out first thing tomorrow for the gala. Brad’s already packed and looks dapper in his tux. I was supposed to wear the green one, but the waistband’s a joke now. So, I thought this one, it looked great when I tried it after we got the invite … now what? No shops open anymore. Am I supposed to attend in my bathrobe or yoga pants and loose sweater? At a white tie gala? I am screwed! They don’t tell you about such odd circumference growth spurts when you are thinking about getting pregnant! Too busy scaring you with odd body malfunctions and graphic imagery. Especially when you are married to a doctor!”

Maeve pushed herself up with a grunt and crossed to the closet. “I’ve got you. This one saved me during the ‘nothing fits but I’m not emotionally ready for tents’ phase. Now I’m firmly in the ‘just cover me and don’t make me bend over’ era. Priorities have shifted—cankles are real, and shoes must be slip-on or they’re dead to me.”

Viola snorted. “God help me if I end up in orthopedic wedges by fall. If you see me in Velcro sandals, just push me into the sea.”

Laughing, Maeve handed her a sleek navy gown. “This one forgave me through two breakups, followed by actually eating everything in sight, and a very ill-advised starve-myself-to-death phase as well as my current unshapely condition. It’ll love you and your tiny bump. At any shape and the color will play very nice with your complexion and eyes.”

Viola stepped into the bathroom to try on the navy gown. The fabric was soft, forgiving, and surprisingly flattering. She turned side to side, admiring the silhouette.

“Okay, this is magic,” she called out. “You are my hero, Maeve. I officially love you.”

Then—three sharp knocks at the front door.

Both women froze.

Viola peeked out from the bathroom. “You expecting someone?”

Maeve’s brow furrowed. “Nope. No one ever comes out here besides deliveries and you. Pierce usually only shows up on weekends and when the wife is travelling, but as I learned today he evidently has more important things to handle than his pregnant mistress. Pah.”

She was already moving toward the bedroom door. “Stay up here. I’ll get rid of whoever that is. Won’t be long. Not in the mood for socializing, present company excluded.”

Viola lingered by the mirror, smoothing the dress over her belly. But something in Maeve’s voice had shifted—tight, brittle. A minute passed. Then two.

Then Maeve’s voice, sharp and unmistakable, floated up from downstairs. Viola couldn’t make out the words—just the heat behind them.

She crept out of the bathroom and down the hallway, stopping just before the top of the stairs. She went down halfway to the corner, crouched slightly, peering through the banister into Maeve’s living room and entry. From her vantage point, she could see the front door—and Maeve, standing in the entryway, arms crossed, her posture rigid.

Pierce stood just inside, looking guilty and cornered.

“I just got off the phone with my father,” he said. “Maeve, I didn’t know he’d—”

“Save it,” she snapped. “You didn’t care enough to come when I called.”

“I was in a meeting—”

“Of course you were. You’re always in a meeting. You keep showing me who you are, Pierce, and I think I’m finally starting to believe you. You’re never going to show up for me. Or for my daughter.”

Pierce’s voice rose. “She’s my daughter too!”

Maeve’s eyes flashed. “Then act like it. But don’t you dare think you can show up now and fix this with a bouquet and a half-hearted apology.”

“Maeve, please,” he said, exasperated. “I never wanted a child. You knew that. You decided this for all of us, and now you’re angry that it’s complicated? I’m trying here. I’m trying to find a way through this maze without blowing up everything.”

“Trying?” Maeve’s voice cracked. “Trying to what—smooth over the fact that your father came to my house and tried to buy my baby like she was a damn thoroughbred? Tried to offer me a trust fund and a townhouse if I just handed her over like a signed contract? Does he not realize who I am related to? I don’t need his filthy money!”

“I didn’t know he’d do that!”

“But you didn’t stop him either! I was very upset, Pierce. I needed you. And you didn’t even bother to pick up the phone.”

“I told you—I was in a meeting!”

“Then go back to your meeting!” she shouted. “Stay in meetings forever, for all I care! Don’t’ come here anymore, you are officially no longer welcome at my home! Go breed heirs with your own wife, if you’re quick she may have a couple heirs left in her with the right fertility treatments!”

Pierce’s expression hardened. “You can’t seriously think you can raise a child alone. You don’t even have family nearby. How is that supposed to work? You need me. I’m her father. I have rights.”

Maeve’s voice dropped to a low, dangerous calm. “Yeah? Well, you have the right to fuck off. Now.”

He didn’t move.

She stepped forward, tore the front door open, and leaned against it, arms crossed. “Out.”

Pierce opened his mouth to argue—but then Viola stepped into view at the bottom of the stairs, calm and composed in the borrowed navy gown. Her presence was quiet but unmistakable: the wife of one of the most powerful men in the Bay, standing behind Maeve without saying a word.

Pierce hesitated. His eyes flicked to Maeve’s belly. He reached out, maybe to touch it—some instinctive, too-late gesture.

Maeve swatted his hand away.

He looked at her one last time, jaw tight, then turned and walked out. She slammed the door behind him.

The silence that followed was thick and trembling. Maeve stood frozen for a moment, then crumpled, her breath catching in her throat.

Viola was there in an instant, arms around her, holding her as she sobbed.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “I’ve got you. You need a break from this. You are coming home with me.”

“I can’t leave Nugget …”

“Then pack the damn cat too!”

Rosebriar Haven
The Cunningham’s estate

The next day, the sun filtered through the tall windows of Rosebriar Haven, casting soft golden light across the polished floors and the pale blue walls. The scent of fresh coffee and something faintly citrusy lingered in the air. Maeve sat curled into one corner of the oversized linen couch, a mug balanced on her belly, her ankles tucked beneath her. It was clear she hadn’t gotten much sound sleep that night before.

At her feet, Nugget, her cream Himalayan, sat in a travel carrier that had been opened hours ago—but which he continued to treat as both fortress and throne. His favorite toy, a slightly mangled stuffed shrimp, lay just outside the carrier’s door, untouched. He blinked slowly at the unfamiliar room, tail flicking with the kind of passive-aggressive judgment only cats could master.

Viola padded in from the kitchen, barefoot, holding a plate of lemon shortbread. “I swear, if I don’t eat something every ninety minutes, I start seeing stars.”

Maeve smirked. “You’re just using pregnancy as an excuse to eat cookies before noon.”

Viola flopped down beside her. “Damn right I am. And I’m not even sorry.”

She leaned back against the soft couch, the plate of lemon shortbread balanced perfectly in her lap, the aroma filling the air. “Want one? I made them with extra sugar, just how we like it!” she exclaimed, eyes glimmering with anticipation as she broke one in half, revealing the soft, buttery center.

Maeve smiled, rubbing her very pronounced bump, the curve of her belly now impossible to ignore at 34 weeks. “I kinda lost my appetite, but I’ll try one—only because you’ve twisted my arm,” she chuckled, reaching for a cookie as her baby delivered a well-timed kick like it was seconding the motion.

From the hallway came the sound of small feet and a delighted squeal. Nathaniel came barreling into the room in his dinosaur pajamas, clutching a stuffed fox. Brad followed behind him, still in his work suit, hair slightly mussed.

“Someone refused his nap,” Brad said, scooping Nate up with practiced ease. “So now we’re deep in the pre-nap negotiation phase. It’s like hostage talks, but with more raisins.”

Maeve grinned. “He’s got your stubborn streak.”

Brad raised an eyebrow. “Nope, that is all Cameron, not claiming that. He’s also got his mother’s flair for drama. Bri must be thrilled.”

Viola smirked. “Oh, I’m sure she’s thrilled every time she has him for a week or two and gets to deal with it.”

“No, then she just blames me for everything. I have the text messages to prove it, threatening me from spankings with a wet noodle to nipple twists next time we meet,” Brad said, deadpan. “Apparently, according to Bri, I’m the reason he thinks bedtime is a suggestion when I KNOW she lets him fall asleep in her lap when she is enamored by something on TV.”

Just then, Nathaniel’s eyes locked onto the plate of golden cookies. His mouth dropped open dramatically as he pointed an accusing finger. “Coooookie!” he gasped, wriggling in his father’s arms like he’d just spotted an endangered species in the wild.

Brad sighed, shifting Nate to his hip with practiced precision. “And here comes Exhibit B: sugar-laced hostage negotiations,” he said, loosening his tie with one hand. “I’ve done rounds in the ICU with less drama.”

Nate reached out with chubby fingers, eyes trained on the treat in Viola’s hand like it was life-saving medicine.

“You want a cookie?” she said, holding one up just out of reach. “Take it up with your physician.”

Brad cleared his throat. “As your attending parent, I’m prescribing one cookie followed by one nap, immediately. Side effects may include peace and quiet for approximately 90 minutes. Take it lying down—literally.”

Maeve grinned. “Did you just write him a bedtime prescription?”

“Technically off-label,” Brad replied, mock-serious. “But I’m willing to risk the lawsuit.”

Nathaniel paused, clearly considering his options. “Two cookies,” he countered, holding up both little hands, making grasping motions.

Brad narrowed his eyes. “Ah yes, negotiating with toddlers: where logic goes to die.” Brad smiled grateful when Viola broke one in half and stuck one half in each toddler’s hand.

Viola leaned over to Maeve. “See, this is how you buy your stepchildrens’ love without angering the attending parent. Doesn’t work so well for the teen, but had some luck with Lauren. I have it on good authority that while Bri might attempt to curb his sugar addiction, Chase fuels it when nobody is looking. So, I am in good company, and will just blame his grandpa for setting a bad example.”

Maeve chuckled. “That’s what grandparents are supposed to do, spoil the grandbabies as payback for all the hard times their parents gave them as kids. My parents are the same with my brother’s twins. Get them bouncing off the walls, then send them home with mom and dad. You’re lucky you all get along, that whole ex-spouse/shared custody situation thing. Most people can’t even be in the same room as their ex’s new partner.”

Viola shrugged. “Yeah, well, I don’t know about lucky, I got both extremes. One too nice to be an ex—makes me wonder how he ever let her go. The other so ghastly I still don’t understand how he married her in the first place, let alone managed two great kids with her.”

“I married her under protest and at proverbial gunpoint of my late father, whom you had the pleasure to never have to meet, Vee. And whatever you do, please don’t say Molly’s name three times,” Brad muttered. “She’ll appear in a puff of entitlement and litigation with claws and fangs out, ready to strike.”

“Bradford!” Viola scolded, in her best schoolmarm tone. “It’s not Molly, it’s Margaret now were you not listening to her showboating that fact? She said it often enough, literally every time we see her. Show some respect for the woman who once tried to sue you for her cheating on you. I am still trying to make that make sense in my brain.” She nudged Maeve laughing, turning to her. “But Bri’s awesome, as you would know best, since you are cousins. And she’s the one who insisted Nate stay with us while she still travels a lot, but also that she is going to want him more permanently once the touring is done and she is nesting with her current pregnancy. So, enjoy this little man while we have him.”

“Well, Bri is great,” Brad said. “But no matter how highly I think of her the ‘how permanent is this’ conversation is still ongoing in regard to Nathaniel’s living arrangements. She’ll have a baby to worry about and only a weekend kinda dad. I am home every night, and if not, we always have a nanny. I am not sure I am willing and ready to hand over Nate.”

Nate stood in the middle of the living room with suspiciously empty hands and crumbs dotting his onesie like confetti. He looked up, wide-eyed. “’Nother cookie …”

Viola arched a brow. “Nice try, Sir Crumbles-a-Lot. That was two cookies, well two halves but deal is a deal. And the deal was cookie, then nap.”

He blinked. “But was broken.”

“Still counts.” She kissed his head. “Now, go give Auntie Maeve a kiss nighty-night, and Daddy will take you up. Nap time, NOW, no negotiations.”

Nate sighed like a tiny, sugar-deprived martyr and waddled over to Maeve, arms outstretched. He planted a sticky kiss on her cheek, smearing a bit of royal icing as a parting gift.

“You’re lucky you’re adorable,” Maeve said, brushing his curls back. “And that your family’s drama is only mildly more manageable than mine.”

Brad swooped in, lifting Nate with a practiced ease. “Alright, nap time, little velociraptor.” As he pivoted toward the stairs, his gaze lingered on the coffee cup in Maeve’s hand. “You do know that’s not decaf, right?”

Maeve met his glance with a raised brow. “You’re off the clock, Dr. Doom. And unless you’ve personally experienced pregnancy rage, I suggest you don’t test the caffeine boundary today. It’s this or gin—and I didn’t see any G&Ts offered.”

Brad chuckled. “Just pointing out, caffeine and pregnant women—not a great combo.”

Viola gave him a look. “Brad, hush and go swaddle the child. Maeve earned that coffee and then some. Honestly, she’s already compromising.”

“I know, I know. I just worry. Stress is no joke during pregnancy. I may have to track down a certain suitor and give him a friendly medical lecture.”

“Brad, you’re sweet,” Maeve said. “But reasoning with the Lockwoods is like debating with a wall—polite, exhausting, and ultimately futile. I’m decompressing, I promise. And thanks for letting me hide out here. I needed not to see any of them for at least seventy-two hours.”

“Stay as long as you like,” Viola said with a soft smile. “Cat included.”

Brad vanished up the stairs with their protesting bundle of cookie-fueled chaos, and Maeve leaned back against the couch, exhaling deeply.

“I’ll admit,” she said, “I used to think Brad was way too tame. Like, human beige. But you’ve cracked him open. He’s charming now—funny, even. Bri sort of had that effect on him too, but she flits in and out like a hummingbird. You’re the one who stayed. I’m really happy for you. One of us had to get it right.”

Viola smiled. “We try. It’s not perfect, but it’s ours. And it is great, until his first ex-wife shows up. Now that she is moving back here to the Bay, I realize how lucky I have gotten with Briar Rose. Cos Molly, I mean Margaret, is nothing like her. Good grief that woman is becoming the bane of my existence.”

“Agh, ignore her. She is kinda harmless, a walking resting bitch face personified.”

Nugget emerged from his carrier at last, stretching with exaggerated drama before hopping onto the arm of the couch. He sniffed Maeve’s coffee, sneezed once in disapproval, then turned his back on everyone and began grooming his tail with the air of someone who had tolerated enough.

Maeve leaned back with a sigh. “Speaking of resting bitch face – He hates me now.”

Viola glanced at the cat. “He’s just mad all the attention isn’t solely on him. I am not a cat person but even I can see that clear as day.”

Maeve smirked. “Probably right. He’s lucky he’s pretty cos otherwise, this cat doesn’t have much to offer. That’s the only thing keeping him alive some days.”

Nugget paused mid-lick to glare at her, then resumed with even more theatrical disdain.

Maeve rolled her eyes. “Don’t look at me like that, you idiot. You’re the one who tried to run outside through a glass door the minute we got here even though we have glass doors and windows at home and you sit in front of them for hours, staring.”

Viola snorted. “He’s probably got a headache. Is there such a thing as cat-aspirin?”

Maeve muttered, “With all that fur to cushion him the only thing hurt on that cat is his pride. I am not worried. I have seen him do worse to himself when he thought he smelled food. That cat will go through walls for certain treats.”

Maeve’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. She glanced at it—Pierce.

She declined the call.

It buzzed again. Then again. Then a string of texts lit up the screen.

> Maeve, please. I need to talk to you.
> I shouldn’t have said what I did.
> Can we meet? Just talk. Please.
> I’m sorry.
>Please pick up
>Maeve, answer me!
>I didn’t mean it like that, but I HAVE to speak to you.
>Where are you!? I am at your house, let me in!

Then it rang again. And again.

Maeve’s jaw tightened. She set the phone upside down, face hardening.

Viola noticed. “Good grief. Is that him?”

Maeve nodded. “It’s been nonstop. Texting. Apologizing. Begging. That’s why I am still here, he would not dare just show up here. I bet he’s been camping out at my house for hours.”

Viola hesitated. “Are you going to answer? Want me to?”

“No. I don’t know,” Maeve said. “I want to scream at him. I want him to hold me and tell me everything will be alright. I want to never see him again. And I want him to show up and be the man I thought he could be. All at once. Until I can make any of that make sense, no use communicating.”

She picked up the phone again, staring at the screen. “His father tried to buy my daughter. For a trust fund and a townhouse- somewhere far away from the Bay, of course – if I’d hand her over. Said they’d raise her as a Lockwood.”

Viola’s face darkened. “He what?”

Maeve nodded. “Yeah. Just before you came over that day before your gala with Brad. Like I was some incubator for the much-needed heir they could pay off. Some afterthought of a surrogate. Oh, this still makes me so mad … I just … ”

The Emergency

Before Viola could respond, Maeve’s breath hitched. Her hand flew to her belly.

Nugget, who had been mid-groom, froze. His ears flattened. Then, in true feline panic, he launched off the couch with a startled yowl, skidded across the hardwood, and bolted behind the nearest armchair like the walls had just declared war.

Then again—sharper this time. A deep, twisting pain that stole her breath.

“Maeve?” Viola sat up straighter, alarmed. “What is it?”

Maeve’s face had gone pale. “Something’s wrong.”

Viola was already on her feet. “Brad!” she shouted, voice rising. “Brad! Get in here—now!”

From somewhere deeper in the house—maybe the study or the back garden—came the sound of hurried footsteps. A door opened, then slammed. Brad’s voice echoed back. “Coming!”

He appeared in the doorway seconds later, changed into casual slacks and a cashmere sweater layered over a white button-down, eyes immediately locking on Maeve.

“What’s going on?”

“She’s cramping,” Viola said, moving to Maeve’s side. “Hard. She said it’s different.”

Maeve was hunched forward, one hand braced on the arm of the couch, the other gripping her belly. “It’s not like before,” she gasped. “It’s sharp. Deep. And it’s coming in waves. Brad, something is wrong, I can feel it!”

Brad was already kneeling in front of her, his tone shifting into clinical calm. “Maeve, look at me. How long ago did it start?”

“Just now,” she said, breathless. “But it’s bad.”

He gently pressed his hands to her abdomen, feeling for tension. “Okay. You’re contracting. How far apart?”

Maeve shook her head. “I don’t know. It just started.”

“Any bleeding? Fluid?”

“No. Not yet.”

Brad nodded sharply, already rising. “Vee, call her family. I’ll handle the hospital.”

He pulled out his phone and dialed. The call was answered on the first ring.

“It’s Dr. Cunningham. I need Shackleford and his team prepped—thirty-four weeks, placental history, active contractions. Possible preterm labor. We’re en route. ETA under twenty. I’ll have her in the car in two.”

His voice was calm, clinical—but his eyes never left Maeve.

Viola was already moving, phone to her ear, her tone steady despite the panic tightening her jaw.

“Bianca? It’s Viola—Brad’s wife. It’s Maeve. She’s in labor. Early. Brad’s with her, we’re heading to the hospital now. You need to come. Yes, now. Get Gavin and Jake. I’ll text you the hospital name and flight options. Just get here.”

She hung up and immediately began typing, her fingers flying across the screen as Brad disappeared down the hall to call for the driver.

Maeve let out a low, pained breath. Viola was already at her side again, one hand on her shoulder, the other still clutching her phone.

“We’ve got you,” she whispered. “You’re not doing this alone.”

She hung up and fired off a group message with flight options and hospital details, her fingers moving fast, her heart pounding.

Not much later, the car sped through the winding roads of the Bay, the engine humming low beneath the tension in the backseat. Maeve sat between Brad and Viola, her hands clenched in her lap, her breathing shallow and uneven.

Brad had already assessed her at the house—contractions, bleeding, likely placental rupture. The hospital had been alerted. Now it was a matter of time.

“Driver,” Brad called out, his voice clipped. “Step on it. We need to be there five minutes ago.”

“Yes, sir.”

Maeve shifted suddenly, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. “Oh—God. Something just—” She looked down. “It’s wet. I think my water broke.”

Brad was already leaning in, one hand steadying her shoulder, the other checking beneath the blanket Viola had thrown over her. His jaw tightened.

“Okay. It’s progressing. We’re close. This is going to happen today. Just hang on, Maeve.”

Viola reached across Maeve’s lap and took her hand. “You’re doing amazing. Just breathe. We’re almost there.”

Maeve’s eyes were glassy. “I’m scared.”

Brad’s voice softened. “I know. But you’re not alone. You’ve got us. And baby is strong. She’s already fighting.”

Another contraction hit, and Maeve doubled forward, groaning. Viola held her tighter, whispering steady encouragement.

Brad pulled out his phone again, checking the ETA. “Two minutes. They’ll be ready.”

Viola’s voice cracked. “Brad… what if this happens to me?”

He looked at her, really looked—saw the fear behind her composure, the way her free hand had drifted to her own barely-there bump.

“It won’t,” he said gently. “But if it does, I’ll be right there. Just like now. You’re safe, Vee. I promise.”

The car turned sharply, tires squealing slightly as they pulled into the private emergency entrance.

Brad was already moving. “Doors!”

The medical team was waiting.

The car hadn’t even stopped moving before Brad was out the door, calling to the team already waiting at the private entrance.

“She’s thirty-four weeks,” he said as they transferred Maeve to the gurney. “History of placental complications. Water broke en route. Moderate bleeding. Contractions every two minutes.”

Maeve cried out as another contraction hit, her hand gripping Brad’s wrist.

“I’ve got you,” he said, walking beside her as they wheeled her in. “You’re going to be okay. Baby’s going to be okay.”

Viola followed close behind, her phone still clutched in her hand. She’d already received confirmation—Maeve’s family was en route. Her mother, father, and brother had booked the next flight out of Henfordshire. They’d be there by morning.

Inside, the team moved quickly—monitors beeping, voices low but urgent. Brad stepped back as they took over, but not far. He stood just outside the curtain, issuing instructions with quiet authority, his eyes never leaving the controlled chaos unfolding just feet away.

“Vitals every two minutes. Keep her lateral. Let’s get OB and NICU in here now. I want a neonatal isolette prepped and waiting.”

His voice was calm, clipped, but his hand was clenched at his side.

Viola stood beside him, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her knuckles white. She looked pale, her breath shallow, one hand resting instinctively over her own belly.

Brad glanced at her, then reached for her gently, pulling her into his side. She leaned into him without hesitation, her forehead pressing against his shoulder.

“She’s strong,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady. “So is the baby.”

Viola nodded, but her eyes shimmered. “I know. I just… I hate that she’s doing this without them here. Without anyone who’s hers.”

Brad tightened his arm around her. “They’ll be here soon. And until then, she’s got us.”

Viola looked up at him, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re sure she’s going to be okay?”

“I’m sure she’s in the best hands,” he said, brushing a hand down her back. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Behind the curtain, Maeve cried out again—sharp, raw, the kind of sound that sliced through walls and instinct. Brad’s head snapped toward it, his body already moving.

“I’ve got her,” he said, voice low but resolute. Then, louder, as he strode forward, “Confirm L&D Room Three is prepped. I want NICU on standby with a Level II isolette ready. Let’s get a bolus—five hundred of LR. And someone keep eyes on fetal heart tones. If Shackleford’s not here in five, page him again.”

He didn’t wait for acknowledgment. He was already through the curtain.

Viola stood frozen, her hand trembling as she reached for the wall to steady herself. She watched the curtain sway in his wake, her heart pounding in her throat.

She could still hear Maeve—muffled, panicked. And Brad’s voice, calm and clinical, threading through the chaos like a lifeline.

Viola pressed a hand to her own belly barely swollen baby bump, fearful, while confronted what could happen to her as well.
“Hold on, Maeve. Just hold on. Please hold on. Your family is on the way. Hopefully her baby is going to be okay.”

Post-Birth Recovery

Hours later, the storm had passed. Arden had arrived small but fierce, her cry thin but defiant. She was in the NICU now, stable and strong. Maeve, pale and exhausted, lay in a private recovery suite, surrounded by soft light and the quiet murmur of family.

Her mom, Bianca, sat beside her, brushing Maeve’s hair back with the same tenderness she’d used when Maeve was a child. Maeve’s sister-in-law Claire stood near the window, rocking slightly on her heels. Viola was curled in a chair nearby, still in the same clothes, her hand resting protectively on her own belly.

A nurse stepped in, clipboard in hand. “Miss Cameron? We’ll need to finalize the birth certificate soon. I can come back for it in an hour if you’d prefer.”

“No,” Maeve said, already reaching for the pen. “I’ll do it now.”

She took the clipboard, her eyes scanning the form until they landed on the blank line for the father’s name. Her fingers paused there, just for a moment.

Bianca leaned in gently. “You don’t have to fill that in. Not today. Not ever, if you don’t want to. But if you change your mind down the line, you can.”

Maeve’s pen hovered over the father’s line. Her chest tightened, but her hand didn’t shake. She moved past it and signed the bottom with quiet finality.

She handed the clipboard back to the nurse. “Leave it blank.”

The nurse nodded, her tone respectful. “I’ll take care of it.”

She slipped out of the room, the door clicking softly behind her—birth certificate in hand, the name sealed.

Arden Cameron.

No footnotes. No edits. No Lockwood.

Outside the recovery suite, Maeve’s dad and older brother, Gavin and Jake, stood like sentinels—shoulders squared, arms crossed, on each side of Maeve’s private room door, unmoved by the man pacing in front of them like a caged animal.

Pierce had arrived ten minutes earlier, flowers in one hand, a small stuffed teddy bear in the other. He looked wrecked—tie askew, shirt wrinkled, eyes rimmed with exhaustion and something dangerously close to panic.

“I just want to see her,” he said, voice tight. “Please.”

Jake didn’t budge. “She doesn’t want to see you.”

“I brought something for the baby,” Pierce said, holding up the teddy like it meant something. “Just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

Gavin’s voice was low and firm. “You had months. You didn’t really show up unless convenient for you. My daughter is not some pastime when a man has nothing better to do. She should be a priority. You hear me? My little girl should have been your main event. Clearly, to you she wasn’t. Now you don’t get to demand anything. Bend over and I’ll show you what you can do with your cheap toy and gas station flowers.”

“They are not chea…. Mr. Cameron, I’m not demanding,” Pierce said, though his voice was rising. “I’m trying to make it right.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. “You don’t get to make it right on your timeline. You had your chance. Chances, really—plural.”

Pierce’s composure cracked. He stepped forward, eyes wild. “Maeve!” he shouted past them. “Maeve, please! Just let me see you—let me see her!”

Jake stepped directly into his path. “Don’t.”

Pierce’s voice broke. “The baby is my daughter!”

“And Maeve had a very hard time bringing her into the world while you were too busy hiding behind your last name,” Gavin said coldly. “You don’t get to show up after the rough parts are over and play the doting father. I am not even gonna talk about the part where your father tried to buy my granddaughter, but that man better not turn up here. Get lost, buddy, before I lose it.”

“I’m not playing anything!” Pierce snapped. “I love her. I love both of them.”

“Bullshit. Then you should’ve acted like it. Actions speak louder than words and yours screamed wealthy trash, so get bend,” Jake said puffing up.

The hallway quieted as another figure approached—Brad, looking all business, carrying a chart he was leaving through, sleeves rolled, expression unreadable.

“Lockwood,” he said calmly. “Walk with me.”

Pierce hesitated, then followed Brad down the hall and into a private office. Brad closed the door behind them and gestured to a chair.

Brad’s Office – Private Conversation

“Sit.”

Pierce obeyed, lowering himself stiffly into the leather chair. He still clutched the small stuffed teddy in one hand, fingers curled around it like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment.

Brad leaned against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, watching him with the kind of calm that didn’t need volume to command a room. Years of wielding power had taught him that silence could be sharper than any scalpel.

“I want to see her,” Pierce said again, quieter this time. “Just for a moment.”

Brad didn’t answer right away. He studied him—really studied him. The man in front of him looked like Pierce Lockwood. Sounded like him. But there was something hollow in his posture, something fractured behind his eyes. Like someone had gutted the man and stitched the shell back together.

Finally, Brad spoke. “Do you even know the baby’s name?”

Pierce blinked. “No. Maeve hasn’t told me anything.”

Brad’s jaw tightened. He nodded once, slow and deliberate. “Her name is Arden.”

Pierce repeated it under his breath, like he was trying it on. “Arden… Arden Lockwood. Yeah. That’s—”

“Not Lockwood,” Brad cut in, voice low but firm. “Cameron. Her name is Arden Cameron.”

Pierce froze. The name hit like a slap—clean, final, and not up for debate. He looked up, startled. “But—”

“She picked it months ago,” Brad said. “I knew it. Viola knew it. Even my kids knew it. And I’m not the father. So tell me, Pierce—why didn’t you?”

Pierce opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He looked lost. Not defensive. Not angry. Just… lost.

Brad’s voice softened, but the edge remained. “You want to see her? Start by remembering who she is. Who Maeve is. And who you were supposed to be.”

Pierce stood abruptly, pacing. “I’m her father. I have rights.”

Brad didn’t move. “Legally? No, you don’t.”

Pierce turned, eyes flashing. “What?”

“You’re not on the birth certificate. I saw it myself. You and Maeve were never married. You never filed for paternity. You didn’t go to a single OB appointment. You kept everything unofficial, off the record, in the shadows. And thanks to that, you don’t have a legal leg to stand on.”

Pierce’s voice rose. “You know I’m the father. Viola knows. Briar Rose knows—”

“And none of us will remember that in court,” Brad said, his voice like steel wrapped in velvet. “What we will remember is that Maeve went through hell, and you weren’t there. I’m not judging your choices, Pierce. But I won’t let you extend them to an innocent child. Arden deserves a father who shows up. Not one who fits her in between meetings and damage control.”

Pierce’s shoulders sagged. “I didn’t know how to be there. You know how it is, Brad. You come from the same world.”

“I do,” Brad said. “And that’s exactly why I’m telling you—you have to break from it. I got lucky. Someone held up a mirror and didn’t let me look away. Maeve could’ve been that for you. Maybe she still can. But you didn’t listen. Or you didn’t care.”

Pierce’s voice cracked. “I did care. Once I got over the shock, I told her I’d leave Katherine. I told her I’d marry her. But she said she didn’t want that.”

Brad stepped forward—not threatening, just immovable. “No, Pierce. You weren’t listening. You heard what was convenient. She didn’t want to be Mrs. Lockwood just because she was pregnant. Did you offer that before she was?”

Pierce looked away. The silence answered for him.

Brad exhaled, slow and measured. “If you want Maeve and Arden in your life, you need to stop acting like a Lockwood and start becoming the kind of man Maeve needs. You can ask. You can show up. You can earn it.”

His voice dropped, quiet and final.

Brad’s voice dropped, quiet and final.

“But you don’t get to demand anything. That’ll get you benched for good. Take my advice or don’t—but remember my words. And remember this: Maeve didn’t fall for you because you’re a Lockwood. She fell for you in spite of it.”

He let that hang in the air for a beat, then stepped closer, his tone shifting—lower, more personal.

“You and I… we were raised to believe that being born a Lockwood, or a Cunningham, or a Covington, or an Aldridge—any of the old names—was a blessing. An honor. Like the world owed us something just for existing. And maybe, in some ways, it did, there is some merit to all that. We got the best schools, the best connections, the best seats at every table.”

He paused, his gaze steady.

“But it’s also a curse. One no one warns you about. It teaches you to perform instead of feel. To protect the name instead of the people. To measure love in legacy and loyalty in silence. And if you’re not careful, it hollows you out from the inside until you don’t even know what you believe—only what you’re supposed to protect.”

Pierce didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

Brad’s voice softened, but it didn’t lose its edge. “I had to unlearn all of that. And it damn near cost me everything. But I got lucky. Someone held up a mirror and didn’t let me look away. Maeve could’ve been that for you. Maybe she still can. But not if you keep showing up like this.”

He stepped back, arms folding again.

“You want to be in Arden’s life? Then be the man Maeve hoped you could be. Not the one your last name trained you to become.”

Pierce sat frozen, the teddy still in his hand, his knuckles white around it.

And Brad—Bradford Cunningham, surgeon, father, and man who’d clawed his way out of the same gilded cage—just watched him.

Not with pity.

But with the kind of clarity that only comes from surviving the same fire.

The Visit

It had been eleven days since Arden was born.

The NICU had become a strange kind of home—dim lights, soft beeping monitors, the gentle rustle of nurses moving like ghosts. Maeve had learned the rhythm of it: the hum of the breast pump, the warmth of skin-to-skin, the way Arden’s tiny fingers curled instinctively around hers.

Arden had done well. Better than expected. After a brief bout of jaundice, she’d responded quickly to phototherapy. She was feeding now—slowly, but steadily. Gaining weight. Holding her temperature. The nurses had started whispering about discharge. Maybe next week, if everything held.

Maeve had dared to hope.

Her parents and brother had flown back to Henfordshire two days earlier, promising to return once Arden was home. Viola had stepped out to grab coffee. Brad was in surgery. For the first time in hours, the room was quiet.

Then came the knock.

“Come in,” Maeve called, expecting a nurse.

The door opened.

It was Pierce.

He looked different. Not polished, not frantic—just… still. A soft sweater, jeans, a small bouquet of pale camellias in one hand, and a delicate stuffed lamb in the other. Something in his eyes looked like hesitation. Or maybe hope.

Maeve’s breath caught. For a moment, she just stared at him. He looked older. Tired. But softer, too. Like someone who’d been walking through a storm and finally found the edge of it.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

She swallowed. “Hi.”

“I was hoping,” he said, stepping just inside the door, “that I could see her.” He hesitated, then added, more softly, “And you.”

Maeve blinked. That part—and you—landed somewhere she didn’t want to name. Somewhere tender. Somewhere dangerous.

She looked at the flowers, then the lamb, then back at him. She didn’t trust him. But she trusted Arden to need the truth of him—whatever that turned out to be.

“She’s due for a feeding soon,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “You can stay if you want.”

He stepped inside, slow and careful, like the room might shatter if he moved too fast. He held out the bouquet and the lamb, unsure.

“These are for you. And her.”

Maeve took them wordlessly. The camellias were soft and pale, their scent faint but comforting. She set the lamb on the windowsill and handed the flowers to the nurse who had just entered, pushing Arden’s bassinet.

“I’ll find a vase,” the nurse said gently. “Be right back.”

Maeve took Arden first, settling her daughter against her chest. She stroked the downy hair, whispered something only Arden could hear. Then, after a long pause, she looked at Pierce.

“They’ve been letting me bottle-feed her,” she said. “It’s expressed milk, but… it helps with bonding.”

Pierce nodded, watching her closely.

Maeve hesitated again, then held out the bottle the nurse had left. “Do you want to try?”

He blinked. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not,” she said honestly. “But I won’t let my anger become her story. She deserves this moment with you.”

She passed Arden to him, then the bottle. He held Arden like she was made of light. His arms adjusted instinctively, his body curling around hers. For a moment, the world softened. Maeve watched him, heart aching in ways she hadn’t prepared for.

Arden latched easily, her tiny mouth working with surprising strength. Pierce stared down at her, completely still, as if the world had narrowed to this one perfect moment.

The nurse returned quietly and placed the camellias in a glass vase on the side table. Their pale petals caught the light, soft and still.

“You look good with her,” she said quietly.

He smiled, eyes never leaving Arden. “She makes it easy, she’s perfect. Just like her mother.”

There was a long pause.

When the bottle was empty, Maeve reached for Arden again. “She needs skin-to-skin.”

Pierce handed her back, slower this time, reluctant.

Maeve unbuttoned her gown and settled Arden against her chest. The baby curled instinctively into the warmth of her mother’s skin, her breathing soft and even.

Pierce sat on the edge of the bed, close but careful. His hand drifted toward Arden—then paused. Maeve didn’t stop him.

He touched her gently. A fingertip to Arden’s back. A palm to her tiny foot. Then, slowly, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head—light, reverent, like a prayer he didn’t know he was allowed to say.

Maeve didn’t stop him.

His hand drifted, brushing Maeve’s arm. Her shoulder. The edge of her collarbone.
She hated how much she craved it. His touch. His scent. Like oxygen underwater.

She closed her eyes.

The nurse returned a few minutes later to take Arden back to the NICU. Maeve kissed her daughter’s head and let her go.

Pierce stood too, instinctively, watching as the nurse wheeled her away. His eyes followed the bassinet until it disappeared through the door.

The room felt colder without her.

He didn’t sit back down. Just stood there, hands at his sides, like he wasn’t sure what to do now that the center of gravity had left the room.

Pierce didn’t move.

“I need to tell you something,” he said.

Maeve’s eyes opened. “Okay…”

He didn’t look at her. “Katherine’s pregnant.”

Silence.

Maeve’s eyes widened. “What?” Her voice cracked, sharp and disbelieving.

“She’s about twenty-three weeks along.”

Maeve sat up straighter, her breath catching. “Are you kidding me right the fuck now?! You said you didn’t touch her! You said it was over!”

“I didn’t,” he said quickly. “I haven’t. Not in years. But the child is mine. And hers. Genetically. We froze embryos a long time ago—back when we were still pretending to be something we weren’t. After you told me about Arden… she must’ve overheard something, or gone through my phone, I don’t know. But she found out. And she went to my parents.”

Maeve’s voice was already sharp. “And they just… what? Handed her a baby?”

“They handed her everything,” he said. “Doctors. Legal teams. A PR plan. And apparently, medicine’s come a long way. They used genetic testing to pick the strongest embryo. Hormone therapy. Some kind of uterine mapping to time the implantation. I don’t even know the half of it. I just know it worked. Unfortunately.”
He let out a bitter, breathless laugh. “My father—who once refused to pay for a new roof on the guest house—threw money at it like it was a military campaign. Bankrolled the whole thing. Because this time, it was about legacy. About control.”

Maeve stared at him. “And Katherine? She suddenly decided she wanted to be a mother? What is going on at your house?!”

“Argh, she doesn’t want to be a mother, doesn’t have a maternal fiber in her entire body, that will be some nanny’s job,” Pierce said, voice low. “And don’t even think for one second that she wants me. She wanted the bump. The headlines. The redemption arc. She wanted to be the one who gave the Lockwoods their heir. To take back the limelight and I think she wanted to erase you.”

Maeve stood, arms crossed over her chest. “So while I was recovering from giving birth to your daughter—your actual daughter—a love child, at least on my end, your wife was quietly growing you a replacement heir? One that will have your steelblue eyes and the Lockwood name?”

Pierce flinched. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“But you didn’t stop it. How could you not know your wife was doing all that? How could you not notice she was twenty-some weeks along!? What is wrong with you?! Can you not see that your entire family is completely messed up?!”

“How could I have stopped what I didn’t know?!” he said, his voice breaking. “I swear to you, Maeve—I didn’t know until last week. Katherine and I barely speak, I hardly even see her, she lives her life and I mine. You know I stay at the apartment in San Myshuno during the week. I didn’t even notice she was gone more than usual. And when she was around, she wore loose clothes. I thought maybe she was just… aging. Gaining weight. I didn’t see it. Or if I did, I just didn’t care.”
He looked at her then, really looked. “And now it’s too late. She’s showing. Everyone knows now. They’ve even already announced it to the board. A public statement will be released within the next couple days. My father’s calling him the heir. They ran early bloodwork—it’s a boy.”

Maeve’s voice dropped, cold and incredulous. “That sounds highly fraudulent. You should sue them.”

“I can’t sue my own parents,” he said, almost laughing. “We’re Lockwoods. That’s not how it works.”

Maeve stared at him. “Well, women don’t mention some closed-door-magic pregnancies to their estranged husbands on the way to the damn delivery room either! That’s not how THAT works! Aren’t you seeing how messed up all that is!? How about you grow a pair of balls and a spine for once? And what does that make me, then? The scandal? The mistake? Or are you all planning on dumping a big bottle of proverbial White-Out on Arden and me and act like nothing ever happened? Cos, Pierce, it has. And I don’t tend to fade into the background. Not anymore!”

“You were never a mistake,” he said, stepping closer. “You were the only thing that ever felt real. I loved you. I still do. I love Arden. I wanted to leave Katherine. I was going to. I wanted to marry you.”
Maeve’s breath hitched.
“But you didn’t want me. You wanted your freedom,” he said, softer now. “And I respected that. I tried to give you space. I thought we had time. I would have never thought Katherine would go to such lengths. I forgot about the frozen embryos.”
He looked down, his voice barely audible. “But now… now I’m exactly where I never wanted to be. Trapped. A father to be, by Katherine. To a child I didn’t choose. A child I didn’t even make, at least not the normal way. With a woman I don’t love. My son is doomed. And I can’t do a thing about it. This – THIS – is exactly why I never wanted children. THIS!”

Maeve’s eyes shimmered, but her voice was steel. “And I’m exactly where I never wanted to be—alone. A single parents in a most hostile environment. With a man who says he loves me, but never fought for me. And never will.”

Pierce reached for her hands. “Please don’t hate me.”

Maeve stared at him, then laughed. It was sharp and humorless.

“Hate you? I feel nothing for you at the moment. You know what? The man I fell in love with—he had a spine. He had convictions. He didn’t let anyone speak for him. But you?” Her voice rose. “All I see now is a whimpering daddy’s boy sucking his thumb while his witch of a wife and your geriatric parents walk all over you. They made a human with your DNA without your consent. All your alarm bells should be ringing! Mine are! If this were a movie, I would have changed the channel long ago!”

Pierce’s face crumpled. “Maeve—”

“No. Don’t. I don’t want your excuses. I don’t want your apologies. And I sure as hell don’t want your pathetic, spineless ass anywhere near my daughter.” She stepped closer, eyes blazing. “We’re through. Done. Go play house with your little cabaret of horrors. I hope you all choke on your legacy.”

Pierce’s breath caught. “Don’t say that. Please—don’t say that.”

“I mean it,” she snapped. “I never want to see you again.”

He stepped forward. “Maeve, stop. You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

He reached for her. “You can’t just—”

“Don’t touch me!”

He grabbed her wrists. “You don’t get to shut me out! She’s my daughter too!”

Maeve screamed, shoving him back. “Get your hands off me!”

She grabbed the vase of camellias and hurled it at him. It shattered against the wall. The stuffed lamb followed, then a water pitcher, then anything else she could reach.

Pierce ducked, shouting, “Maeve, stop! You’re not thinking straight!”

“Get out!” she screamed. “Get the fuck out!”

A nurse burst in, wide-eyed. “What’s going on—? Oh my God!”

“HELP! Get security!” Maeve shouted. “Get him out of here!”

Pierce tried to grab her again, to calm her, to hold her—he didn’t even know anymore. She kicked at him, screamed, clawed. Two security guards rushed in, pulling him off her.

“Sir, you need to leave—”

“No! Let me go! Maeve, please—please don’t do this!”

She turned her back on him.

He fought against the guards, wild-eyed. “She’s my daughter! I have a right to see her! Maeve, I love you!”

“You’re banned from the hospital until further notice,” one of the guards snapped. “You need to leave. Now.”

Pierce’s voice cracked as they dragged him out of the room. “Maeve—please—I love you—I love her—don’t do this—”

Maeve collapsed onto the bed, shaking, breathless, and utterly alone even though a nurse was doting on her, while calling for Dr. Cunningham.

Still fighting and screaming, Pierce Lockwood was dragged down some hall, down the elevator and out into the underground parking garage.

The Shift

With a final shove by the guards he stumbled out into the parking garage, the heavy metal door slammed behind him.

It echoed eerily, Pierce stood there, breath heaving, shirt wrinkled, the faint scent of camellias still clinging to his sleeves. His hands were shaking. His jaw clenched so tight it ached.

He’d begged. Pleaded. Screamed.

And she’d turned her back on him. Called him weak. WEAK. Spineless. Unfit to be around his own daughter. Said she no longer wanted him.

Security had dragged him out like a criminal. Like a threat. Like a man who didn’t belong.

He stumbled through the parking garage, barely seeing. The cold air hit his face like a slap. He leaned against the car, fists pressed to the roof, and let out a sound that wasn’t quite a scream—but wasn’t human either.

Then he drove.

Not because he wanted to go home.
Because he had nowhere else to go.

The Lockwood estate loomed like a mausoleum when he pulled up. The gates opened automatically. Of course they did. The house that really was a luxurious prison.

He walked in through the front doors like a storm.
Stumbled aimlessly through the hallways. And then he saw it.

The nursery.

It hadn’t been there a week ago.
Now it was fully furnished. Pale blue walls. A white crib. A rocking chair. A mobile of silver stars spinning slowly in the still air.

There was a name stitched on a blanket draped over the crib.

Chadwick Ward Lockwood.

Pierce stared at it.

Then he lost his mind.

He tore the blanket in half. Ripped the mobile from the ceiling. Knocked over the rocking chair. Then he grabbed the crib and flipped it, the crash echoing through the marble halls.

“Pierce!” Katherine’s voice rang out from the hallway. “What the hell are you doing?!”

She stood in the doorway, already dressed in a pale silk robe that shimmered faintly in the low light. It was cinched tightly at the waist, tied with the kind of precision that made it feel less like loungewear and more like armor. Soft leather slippers whispered against the marble as she stepped into the room—silent, composed, and cold.

Pierce stared at her.

Too thin. Always too thin. Like even food was something she rationed for optics. There was nothing soft about her. Nothing feminine. Nothing maternal. Just angles and calculation wrapped in couture.

He turned, wild-eyed. “You decided on a name without me?”

“Why does it matter? You weren’t invested,” she snapped. “You wanted to play games and pout, so you forfeited that right.”

“You’re carrying my child. My son!”

“I’m carrying the Lockwood heir, using Lockwood DNA,” she corrected coldly. “And you’re acting like a lunatic.”

He stalked toward her. “You manipulative, soulless—”

“Don’t you dare,” she hissed. “You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to be humiliated while you played house with your little side project? Who do you think you are?! You made a mockery of all of us with your midlife crisis. Couldn’t manage a son yourself, until you knocked up your mistress like some lovesick teenager. You had one job, make an heir, I gave you the best years of my life, and you couldn’t even give me an heir to make it worthwhile. I have to do everything myself. Even our son.”

Pierce laughed—sharp, bitter. “You didn’t even want me until someone else had me. And now you’re parading around like you earned this.”

Katherine’s eyes narrowed. “I earned everything. You’re the one who was throwing it away. You had to be stopped. Maybe you couldn’t see the writing on the wall, but we certainly did and we took much needed action.”

Behind them, footsteps echoed.

Charles Lockwood entered the room, flanked by Eleanor. She wore a cashmere wrap over her shoulders, her expression unreadable, her silence as polished as her pearls.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Charles barked. Pierce turned, chest heaving. “You went behind my back. You used my DNA. You named MY son! You built a fucking legacy without me. You are deranged. A dictator, not a father. A tyrant!”

Charles didn’t flinch. “If I am all that you say, then you are spineless. For two decades you refused to do your duty and have a son. We’ve all looked away while you played victim, pretending your privileged life was some tragic mistake. I allowed it. You’re a man—you had time, you could father a child even when you are sixty, maybe with a new, younger wife. But instead, you let some inconsequential fling tarnish our name. She tried to trap you with a child. You did nothing. I tried. But it was just a girl—useless. So I fixed it. I’m tired of your antics. Now she and her bastard don’t matter. We needed an heir. A MALE heir. And now we have one. Stronger than his father. And I’ll make sure of it. You had so much promise, Pierce, and I didn’t raise you to be weak!”

Weak. The word hit him like a slap.
Maeve had said it. And now his father—his blueprint, his tormentor—said it too.
Pierce’s breath caught. His vision blurred.
The room went silent. Even Charles stopped breathing for half a second.

Pierce’s world had narrowed to one truth. He was done being the son.

His entire life—his obedience to the Lockwood name, his silence, his fear of disappointing the man who had never once loved him—had cost him everything real. Maeve was gone. Arden wasn’t his to protect anymore.

Katherine didn’t want a child any more than he did. But Charles’s casual suggestion of replacing her with a younger wife for Pierce made it clear why she’d agreed. She’d secured her spot as Mrs. Lockwood by delivering what Charles wanted most. Now no one would dare replace her. Divorce was off the table—if Pierce pushed for it, he’d be the one cast aside. No money. No home.

Maeve. Arden. Gone. GONE.

Because he had been weak.

And now, staring at the man who had made him that way, Pierce saw it clearly.

Charles Lockwood was the weak one. Too afraid to let go. Too afraid to let his son become anything but his mirror.

“You didn’t fix anything,” Pierce growled. “You just proved what I’ve always known—you don’t give a damn about me. You never did.”

Charles stepped forward, eyes cold. “You don’t know what you’re saying. And you’ll regret it—once your head’s clear again.”

Pierce’s fist met his father’s jaw before thought could intervene.

The sound echoed—flesh, bone, fury.

Charles stumbled, blood blooming at the corner of his mouth, shock breaking across his face.

Eleanor gasped, a manicured hand flying to her lips. “Pierce!” But she didn’t move. Just gasped.

He turned on her, voice shaking with fury and years of betrayal. “You let him do all of it. All of it. To me. As a boy. As a man. He trained me like a dog—obedience, silence, fear. And you just stood there. You were supposed to protect me. You were supposed to be my mother.”

She said nothing. Of course she didn’t.

Pierce looked at them both—his father, bloodied. His mother, mute. His wife, smug and glowing with a child that wouldn’t be born of love, only legacy.

He turned toward the door. He had to leave. Because if he stayed one second longer, he couldn’t guarantee what he’d do next.

The Apartment in San Myshuno

He drove like a man possessed. Past the noise. Past the glittering excess. Through the pulse of the city that had never belonged to him.

Until now.

He arrived at the apartment. The one Maeve had once called ‘your little hideout’.

The place where she’d undressed him first with words, then hands, then trust, all the way down to his soul. Where laughter had returned to his body like oxygen—unexpected and uncontrollable. Where he’d first felt like a man. Not a Lockwood.

He unlocked the door. Stepped in.

It was exactly the same. The view. The bourbon. The silence.

He crossed to the window, staring out at the skyline Maeve once called ‘alive.’ The same skyline that shimmered in her eyes the first time she stood in this apartment and undressed him—not just with her hands, but with the kind of truth that stripped pride clean off a man.

She had paced across the room, looked at the bourbon, then the view, then him.

“This is a routine, isn’t it?” she’d said, voice soft but unsparing. “You bring women here. Affairs. Brief. Forgettable. Meaningless. Following a script, tried and true.”

She turned, framed in city light, her mouth curling into a smirk that knew too much.

“Until me. I don’t follow scripts. I am life, unscripted.”

It wasn’t arrogance. It was certainty.

And she’d been right.

He had felt the shift then—like tectonic plates under the skin. She wasn’t another night. She was the thing no Lockwood man was supposed to crave. Love.

He poured a drink. Then another. Then one more.
The bourbon burned. But not enough.
He slid to the floor, his back against glass, the metropolis stretching beneath him like a lost dimension.

And then—he dialed. No thinking. Just instinct.

Maeve. One ring. Two.

Then— “Hello?”

Her voice. It cut through him like light in a mausoleum.

He shut his eyes. “Maeve.”

A pause. “Pierce?”

“I’m at the apartment,” he said. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Silence.

“I destroyed the nursery. Hit my father. Told Katherine what I really think of her. I left.”

Another beat. Then: “Are you drunk?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “But not enough. Not enough to forget. Not enough to stop seeing you in this window, calling me out like you always did. You were right.”

Still, silence.

“I let them take everything. I let them mold me into him. Into this guy, that man I don’t even know. I let them make me weak. And I lost you. I lost Arden. I lost the only thing that was ever truly mine.”

More silence.

“I’m going to fix it,” he said. “I swear. I’ll prove I have a spine. Just you wait, Maeve.”

She didn’t hang up. Didn’t speak. Just breathed. Steady. Quiet.

“I love you, Maeve,” he said. “I love our daughter.”

A beat. Then, sharp. Unforgiving.

“Then prove it.”

Click.

He stared at the phone. She hadn’t said it back, but she didn’t have to. He knew her, and she had proven it enough to not having to say it. And maybe he didn’t deserve hearing it, not now. Not yet. But he would.

Then he stood.
Something deep inside—buried since boyhood—snapped back into place.
He walked to the bar. Poured one final drink. Didn’t touch it. Then picked up the phone again.

His lawyer.

“I want a divorce,” he said. Voice like steel. A pause. “And I want blood.”

The silence on the other end felt like approval.

“I want subpoenas. Depositions. Every document. Every signature. Every buried file. I want to know what they forged—and what I can burn. But I will burn something and watch until nothing but embers are left.”

He paced. The city lights flickered across him like firelight.

“I want the trust frozen. The board challenged. Every shady tactic exposed—especially the embryo they implanted without my consent. Everyone involved I want brought to justice.”

He stopped at the window.

“I want Katherine discredited. She thinks I humiliated her? She has no idea what’s coming. I want Charles disgraced. Eleanor’s silence? I want it dragged out and dissected. They all have to bleed, publicly!”

He exhaled. Sharp. Deadly.

“I want them sued. Personally. Publicly. Headlines. Handcuffs if I can find even one whisper of criminality.”

Pause.

“And I want legal recognition as Arden’s father. I want her name protected—not exploited. I want her off every Lockwood document that ties her to their schemes, their power plays, their legacy that poisons everything it touches.”

His grip tightened around the phone, voice low and razor-edged.

“Find a way. DNA tests. Affidavits. Hearings. I want my name on her birth certificate. I want visitation. Custody, shared with Maeve, if I can get it. And if Maeve fights it, I’ll fight for her, too. But my daughter will not be invisible. Not erased. Not theirs.”

He paused, letting the words breathe.

“She is mine. And she is not a Lockwood because of bloodlines or branding. She’s a Lockwood because I made her. She is the heir. Not that son they created without me even being there.”

He stepped toward the window, watching the city pulse like a live wire across the glass.

“Forget the legacy they built. Arden will inherit me. My name, if she wants it. My fight. My truth. And every damn thing I tear away from their greedy hands.”

A pause, colder than the bourbon he hadn’t touched.

“She’s the heir. Not to a name. To a revolution. A renaissance!”

Another pause.

“I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care if it destroys the name. I’ll burn with it if I must. I want them in ruins. And I want my son to grow up free—from all of this. I may not have wanted him, still don’t if I am honest, but this is not his fault and I won’t stoop to their level and blame him for something he had as little choice in as me.”

He hung up. Stared out at the city.

Whispered to the skyline,

“I’m coming back for what’s mine.”

But this time, he didn’t just mean Maeve. He meant Arden. He meant his son. He meant revenge.

And he wasn’t asking for permission.

The Mobilization

Pierce Lockwood wasn’t just preparing to walk away. He was preparing to burn the house down behind him.

For weeks, he and his war council met behind locked doors and encrypted drives. No leaks. No whispers. Just the quiet, methodical dismantling of a dynasty from the inside out. What they built in secret was devastating—an elegant, surgical unraveling of the Lockwood empire.

The plan was airtight. A forensic roadmap to freeze assets with precision. A legal strategy to dismantle marital protections and sever generational wealth at the root. A series of exposés ready to detonate decades of corruption—shell companies, zoning bribes, land grabs, and quietly buried scandals tied to Lockwood-backed developments across the coast. And a press campaign—timed, rehearsed, and lethal—designed to collapse reputations with grace. At the center of it all: Pierce. Calm. Composed. Dangerous.

Everything was ready. Names circled. Evidence catalogued. Statements sharpened and sealed.

The reckoning had a date.

The Silvercrest Yacht Club—Brindleton Bay’s most exclusive stronghold—had been reserved under a false name. Select board members were invited. Key journalists confirmed. The morning tide would carry Lockwood history out to sea, weighted by truth.

It was the end of the dynasty. And Pierce would be the one to deliver it.

They left the law firm just after five. Pierce drove—his black Mercedes gliding through the city like a shark through water. His attorney sat beside him, her paralegal in the back. The binder rested between them, thick with affidavits and asset maps. Pierce’s briefcase was tucked behind his seat: passwords, contracts, handwritten notes—the kind that collapse bloodlines.

They took the coastal route out of San Myshuno, avoiding the expressway. The skyline faded behind them, replaced by winding roads and the darkening shimmer of the bay. The kind of scenery that lulled you into thinking you were safe.

They were less than thirty minutes from Brindleton Bay when it happened.

The black vehicle appeared behind them. No plates. No lights. No warning.

It didn’t pass. It accelerated.

Then it struck.

The impact was brutal—driver’s side first. Metal screamed. Glass exploded. The Mercedes spun, tires shrieking against asphalt, before slamming into the guardrail with a sickening crunch. The world tilted. Then stilled.

Smoke curled from the hood. Headlights flickered. Somewhere, a horn blared and didn’t stop.

From the other car, a figure emerged.

Black-clad. Hooded. Precise.

They moved fast. Passenger side first.

The paralegal: gone. The attorney: no pulse. The binder: taken. Pierce’s briefcase: gone. All three phones: stripped and pocketed.

Then, with eerie calm, the figure reached into a side pouch and pulled out a syringe. They leaned into the driver’s side, pressed the needle into the crook of Pierce’s arm, and injected the contents. A second later, they sprayed a fine mist of alcohol across the console and upholstery. The scent bloomed instantly—sharp, unmistakable.

Pierce was slumped over the wheel, blood trailing from his temple.

The figure reached for the door—

And headlights cut through the trees.

A police cruiser.

The figure bolted, sprinting to the waiting car. It peeled off before the door even closed. By the time the cruiser rounded the bend and saw the wreckage, there was no trace of them. Only the twisted remains of a Mercedes and three unmoving bodies.

Still. Heavy. Silenced.

The officer stepped out, hand to radio. Sirens followed.

The wreckage was called in.

And the reckoning Pierce had planned was buried beneath steel and smoke.

The Aftermath

The hospital was locked down.

Security tightened. Visitor lists scrubbed. No press allowed past the gates. Only one narrative permitted inside.

Katherine arrived first, flanked by lawyers and a publicist. She wept for the cameras. She held Pierce’s hand for the press. She wore black, tasteful and understated, her makeup just smudged enough to look human.

But behind closed doors, she was calm. Efficient.

She signed the medical directive without hesitation. She declined further investigation. She told the board Pierce had been under immense stress. That he’d been unstable. Drinking. She told the press it was a tragic accident. That the family was united. That the heir would be born into strength and legacy.

When Eleanor Lockwood asked—quietly, trembling—if there would be an inquiry, Katherine simply said, “There’s nothing to inquire about. It was an accident.”

And then she turned away.

At first, Katherine and Charles hadn’t expected him to survive. The crash had been catastrophic. The attorney and paralegal were pronounced dead at the scene. Pierce had been airlifted to Brindleton Memorial in critical condition—multiple broken ribs, a fractured clavicle, a collapsed lung, internal bleeding, and a traumatic brain injury that left him unconscious for days.

But then he woke up.

And he didn’t know who he was.

Charles, Eleanor, and Katherine braced for impact. But luck, for once, was on their side.

Severe retrograde amnesia, the doctors said. Likely due to the head trauma. He remembered nothing of the crash. Nothing of the firm. Nothing of Maeve. Not even his own name.

The Lockwoods moved quickly.

They brought in framed photos. Family albums. Carefully curated memories. They told him he was Pierce Lockwood—beloved son, devoted husband, soon-to-be father, and heir to a legacy of excellence. They painted a portrait of a man who had worked too hard, cared too deeply, and cracked under the weight of his own ambition.

They told him he’d had a breakdown. That he’d turned to alcohol. That the crash was the tragic result of a midlife spiral.

They showed him the police report—already edited. The toxicology screen—already doctored. The press coverage—already shaped.

And Pierce, disoriented and desperate for something to hold onto, believed them.

He nodded when Katherine said she’d never left his side. He smiled faintly when Charles called him “son.” He apologized for things he couldn’t remember doing. He accepted the guilt they handed him like a gift.

He was alive.

But he wasn’t there.

And the world moved on without him.

The board reconvened. The trust was unfrozen. The press printed what they were told.

And the truth—the real truth—was buried beneath a name, a legacy, and a lie so polished it gleamed.

The Broadcast

Maeve shifted on the couch, easing herself upright with practiced care. Arden was asleep in her arms, warm and heavy from the last feeding, her tiny mouth still pursed in a dream-fed pout. The living room was dim, the curtains drawn against the late afternoon sun, the TV murmuring some forgettable daytime rerun in the background.

Maeve reached for the remote, intending to turn it off as she stood. Her thumb slipped. The channel changed.

She froze.

LOCKWOOD HEIR RECOVERING AFTER TRAGIC ACCIDENT Family Releases First Statement

The chyron scrolled beneath a live feed. Katherine Lockwood stood at a podium, draped in black, her voice soft and trembling. The picture-book wife. Her makeup was flawless. Her grief, curated. She paused mid-speech, one manicured hand gliding over her baby bump with theatrical tenderness—like the child inside her meant more than power and dollar signs.

“He was going to be a wonderful father,” she said, voice catching just enough to sound human. “What am I saying—he will be a wonderful father. We’re so grateful to the staff at Brindleton Memorial for saving his life. And we ask for privacy as we focus on his recovery… and our growing family.”

Maeve stared at the screen, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs.

“Accident, my ass,” she whispered.

Arden stirred slightly in her arms but didn’t wake. Maeve adjusted her grip, cradling her daughter closer, her eyes still locked on the screen.

“They tried to erase him,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Rewrite him. Cancel their own son like a bad headline. Bitch really tried to off her husband—what kind of medieval crap is that?”

The screen faded to a photo of Pierce—older footage, smiling, polished, unaware of the knife already halfway to his back.

Maeve’s voice dropped to a whisper, quiet and certain.

“I am starting to see why Pierce was the way he was. They are dangerous criminals. But don’t worry baby, they’re not getting you. Not now. Not ever.”

She turned off the TV.

The room fell into silence, broken only by the soft hum of the fridge and the rhythmic breath of the sleeping baby in her arms.

Maeve kissed Arden’s forehead, then turned and headed for the stairs. Each step was slow, deliberate, her body moving on instinct while her mind burned.

Upstairs, she laid Arden gently in the crib, adjusted the blanket, and turned on the baby monitor.

Then she stood there for a long moment, watching her daughter sleep.

The Lockwoods had rewritten the story. Erased everything inconvenient to them.

.