The Phantom and the Shore
It had been twelve days since they took him. Not that Maeve was counting.
Her mind was trying to ignore it, ignore his entire existence, mostly as part of self-preservation. But her body knew. The way you know when something vital has been cut from you. A phantom limb. A breath you forgot to take. Something missing that shouldn’t be, and yet—there it was. Absence, like a bruise.
Pierce hadn’t come back. Not to the beach. Not to the house. Not even to town. She had positioned herself perfectly in the café, feeling like someone stood up for a date, so she quit.
On the occasion Pierce was seen—rarely—it was never alone. Always flanked by Charles or Katherine. Sometimes both. Like a man under surveillance. Like a child on a leash. Like someone being walked, not trusted.
Maeve told herself it was for the best.
She told herself that every morning as she poured her coffee and stared out at the empty shoreline remembering the last time she has spent time with him. Every night as she tucked her daughter into bed and tried not to wonder if he remembered the sound of her laugh.
It was better this way. Cleaner. Safer.
He was gone for good as it would seem. And she had survived worse.
But some nights, when the wind shifted and the house creaked just right, she swore she could still feel him. Like a ghost. Like a promise. Like something unfinished. They had come so close to being more again. Clearly he was remembering her and their daughter enough to come seek them out, again and again.
And it made her furious that he was a middle-aged adult and yet couldn’t seem to get out from underneath his parents, just because of his accident and all the damage it left him with. It was just not right.
Kitchen Talks
Maeve stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing out Arden’s bottle with clipped, mechanical movements. The baby was napping. The house was too quiet—the kind of quiet that pressed in around the ribs.
Nugget, her Himalayan, sat perched on the windowsill, tail twitching. He hadn’t been himself lately—skittish, more than usual. He’d taken to sleeping in Pierce’s cardigan, left on accident, the one Maeve hadn’t had the heart to wash to even attempt to return it to him. Now Nugget hadn’t let anyone else near it. Not even Maeve.
Viola leaned against the counter, one hand resting on the curve of her second-trimester belly, the other wrapped around a sweating glass of iced tea. She watched Maeve with that look—half concern, half challenge. The kind only someone who knew you too well could wear without apology.
“You’re going to break that glass,” she said finally.
Maeve didn’t look up. “I’m fine.”
Viola snorted. “You’re vibrating. Like a teakettle that forgot how to whistle.”
Maeve dried her hands too fast, the towel catching on her fingers. “He’s not coming back.”
“No,” Viola said. “Probably not. Because they’ve locked him down like a prisoner. And you’re just… letting them. Very unlike you. How un-Maeve-y of you.”
Maeve turned, eyes sharp. “What do you want me to do? Storm the estate? Kidnap him in the night? Mission Impossible that shit?! Have you seen their estate? I don’t know if you realize that I am not a Navy Seal.”
Viola didn’t flinch. “I want you to stop pretending you’re okay with it.”
Maeve opened her mouth. Closed it. The silence between them stretched, taut and brittle.
“I am not okay with it, even though my brain tells me I should be.”
Viola stepped closer, her voice softer now. “You love him. And clearly his heart remembers you and Arden too. He’s being treated like a liability by his family. Like a puppet. You know it. I know it. Hell, Arden probably knows it. Your damn cat knows it. The cat who doesn’t like men, not even your dad and brother, adores Pierce and is clearly lovesick for him.”
Maeve looked away, jaw clenched. Nugget let out a low, uncertain meow and leapt down from the sill, disappearing into the hallway.
Viola didn’t stop. “See? I rest my case. You don’t have to fix Pierce, hell, he has access to the best care and if they can’t, nobody expects you to. But you don’t get to look the other way, either. Not if you still believe he’s in there. I know we haven’t known each other for that long, but we have spent enough time together that I dare claim I know you better than to think you could just walk that off and move on with your life without even trying. You would never forgive yourself. And he has nobody else to save him now.”
Silence.
Then, barely audible, Maeve whispered, “What if I push too hard and break him? You haven’t seen him like I have. There are a lot of things seriously wrong with Pierce. He is nothing like he was before. He behaves like an eighty year old man. And how you would feel if you wake up tomorrow and Brad doesn’t remember you or knocking you up?”
Viola’s voice was gentle. “I am not discounting that it is hard. But you cannot tell me you don’t want him anymore, just because his body – and mind – have taken a beating. So, what if you don’t push at all and lose him forever?”
“I think I already have.”
“I think you need to at least make sure. You have to do something, Maeve. You and I are not the types to wait things out. I’ll help you best I can, but I am pretty useless with that baby bump if it requires running and such.”
Break-In/ Break-Out
It started with an errand run and a hunch as few days later.
Maeve had just finished her last item on the to do list—Arden strapped to her chest, a coffee in one hand, a grocery bag in the other—when she saw the car.
Black. Polished. Moving too slowly to be casual.
It pulled out of the Lockwood estate’s private drive like it owned the road. In the backseat: Charles and Katherine. Katherine rolled her window up with theatrical slowness, like a villain in a spy movie. Their eyes didn’t even flick toward Maeve.
But Maeve’s narrowed.
In that very moment her conversation with her friend Viola come back to her and filled her with a new resolve.
She dumped the groceries in the trunk, buckled Arden into her car seat with one hand, and tossed her coffee into the cupholder with the other.
Then she drove.
Not home. Not to the beach. To the Lockwood estate.
She parked on a parallel street, tucked behind a row of hedges with a clear view of the Lockwood property. The baby blinked up at her from the carrier, wide-eyed and curious as Maeve took her out of her car seat again.
“I know, I know,” Maeve muttered, adjusting the straps. “This is probably illegal. But so is whatever the hell they’re doing to your father, like Vee said, Pierce has nobody else to help him, so let’s call it even. You have to be a good girl now and be quiet as a mouse while mommy tries to get your daddy out of his gilded prison. Wish us luck, baby.”
She took the jogging path that looped around the back of the estate from down by the harbor—one of those old service trails meant for gardeners and deliveries. She knew the layout. Knew where the cameras were likely placed. And more importantly, where they probably weren’t.
The back bluff. Overlooking the ocean. Shielded by shrubs and old stone walls.
She crouched low, creeping through the brush, careful not to rustle the leaves too loudly. Nugget would’ve been proud—if he weren’t terrified of everything that wasn’t Pierce.
Maeve peeked through the foliage. Nothing.
She shifted left and moved to the other corner, carefully peeked into the house again. Most houses with view of the harbor didn’t have window coverings to not obstruct the beautiful and high-priced views. The Lockwoods were no exception. Still nothing. It was a sprawling property, and she had to be careful not to get caught by any cameras that might be hidden. A few more failed tries followed.
Then she spotted him—conveniently outside, half-obscured by a trellis and a wind-worn hedge.
Pierce.
Sitting in a lounge chair, a book open in his lap, a blanket over his legs like someone’s great-uncle. He looked… calm. But not relaxed. Like a man playing the part of someone at peace. His eyes weren’t on the ocean. They were on the middle distance. Unfocused. Somewhere else entirely.
She tried whisper-calling out. “Hey, stranger.”
Nothing.
She frowned. Whispered louder. “Pierce. PIERCE!”
Still nothing.
Maeve looked down at Arden, who was chewing on her sleeve. “Well. Desperate times, desperate measures, right.”
She reached into the side pocket of the diaper bag and pulled out the first thing her hand landed on—Arden’s plush narwhal rattle. Bright blue. Slightly sticky. Well loved.
“Sorry, buddy,” she whispered, and lobbed it over the hedge.
It hit Pierce square in the chest with a soft thwump and a jingle of bells.
He startled so hard he nearly dropped the book. His head snapped up, eyes scanning the bluff—then landing on her.
“Maeve?”
She grinned, placing a finger to her lips. “Be quiet. And good, you remember me. With you, one never knows.”
He stood slowly, after grabbing the toy, cautious, coming over, and she rose from her crouch just as Arden let out a delighted squeal, legs kicking and arms stretching toward the figure beyond the fence.
The retaining wall and hedges between them were waist-high, but impossible to scale unnoticed. Pierce reached out automatically, fingers brushing the tiny ones. Arden grasped his finger with surprising force, he distracted her with the rattle.
Pierce inhaled. Slowly. “You’re weaponizing baby toys now? What are you doing here?”
Maeve smiled, eyes flicking to his hand still held captive by a baby. “Rescuing you. Obviously.”
“I… I can’t leave. They have all exits locked down and alarmed, said it’s not safe for me to be out alone. I’ve had some more memory issues, as in, can’t remember what I was going to say halfway through the sentence. Anxiety flare-ups. And my leg got worse—”
Maeve’s smile sharpened. “You want to know the truth about yourself?”
He hesitated.
She stepped closer. “Then figure out how to get out. And I’ll show you everything you need to know. I will answer all your questions. If you want.”
Pierce looked toward the house. Then at the tall wrought-iron fence. “There’s a gate—”
“Which is most likely locked. And probably alarmed. So, unless you want to summon your handlers so they come back and tuck you in again, you’re going to have to climb that hedge over there. Only way I see.”
He pointed to a walking stick leaning against the chair. “I can’t climb. My limp’s worse. I fell the other day.”
Maeve rolled her eyes. “Okay, Grandpa. I believe in you. Your choice. Unless you want to climb out some window out front.”
“Maeve, I don’t think I can …”
She rolled her eyes, turned and started walking.
“Maeve—”
She didn’t stop.
Then—thud.
Followed by a sharp, “Ow.”
She spun around.
Pierce was on the ground, one leg tangled in the shrubbery, his shirt caught on the retaining wall’s rough rocks, and a very undignified scowl on his face. His walking cane lay a few feet away.
Maeve rushed to him. “Are you okay?”
He groaned. “I think I bruised my pride. And I might be stuck.”
She bit her lip. Then laughed. Loud and unfiltered.
Maeve blinked. “Oh my god.”
He was sprawled like a tragic lawn ornament—half human, half hedge—with his leg doing interpretive dance in the direction of the azaleas and his shirt snagged in such a way that he looked like a flustered pirate who’d misjudged a dramatic exit. The cane, cruelly distant, lay with the smug indifference of something that had once been helpful.
If defeat had a physical form, it was Pierce Lockwood: tangled in ornamental landscaping, clinging to dignity by a single pant button, and glowering at the shrub like it had personally betrayed him.
“I’m fine, thanks for your concern or lack thereof,” he grunted, trying to untwist himself. “I just—my leg—this bush—”
“You look like you lost a fight with a topiary. Or as if you two are getting along more than fine, not sure which yet.”
“Some assistance would be great, if you could stop the glee for a moment.”
“I am not gleeful, I am highly amused.”
Maeve crouched beside him, Arden still strapped to her chest, the baby now highly entertained and staring at Pierce like he was the most fascinating disaster she’d ever seen.
“Okay, hold still,” Maeve said, trying to lift his leg with one hand while keeping Arden from grabbing a fistful of Pierce’s hair with the other. “You’re caught on something—wait, no, that’s your shirt. Why is it buttoned like this?”
“I don’t know! I didn’t expect to be seeing company or scaling hedges today!”
She tugged at the fabric. It didn’t budge. “You’re stuck.”
“I gathered that.”
Arden let out a delighted squeal and smacked Pierce in the forehead with her palm.
“Okay,” Maeve said, biting back a laugh. “This is going well.”
“Please stop laughing, I am begging you.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re absolutely laughing.”
“I’m not—” She snorted. “Okay, I’m laughing a little. ”
Pierce tried to glare at her, but Arden chose that moment to hiccup, and Maeve lost it. She doubled over, laughing into her shoulder to muffle the sound.
“Shhh!” Pierce hissed, eyes darting toward the house. “They’ll hear us!”
Maeve tried to stop. She really did. But the sight of him—half in a bush, shirt torn, baby smacking his face like a tambourine—was too much.
She wheezed, “I wish I could take a photo of this.”
Pierce started laughing too—quiet at first, then louder, until they were both trying to shush each other and failing miserably.
“Stop—” he gasped. “You’re going to get us caught.”
“You’re going to get us caught,” she shot back, wiping tears from her eyes. “You’re the one who fell into a shrub like a Regency fainting bride.”
“I was being stealthy!”
“You were being elderly.”
Arden let out a delighted shriek, arms flailing.
“Okay, okay,” Maeve said, still giggling. “Let’s get you out before you’re permanently absorbed by the landscaping.”
She finally freed his shirt from the fence, helped untangle his leg, and hauled him upright with one arm around his waist.
“You good?” she asked, breathless.
“Define good.”
“Mobile?”
“Barely.”
“Well, good enough.”
She adjusted Arden, who was now chewing on Pierce’s collar, and started guiding him toward the car.
“Where are we going?” he asked, limping heavily beside her.
“The beach house. Remember that?”
He nodded. “Your home. And Arden’s.”
Maeve arched a brow. “Well don’t act insulted. You forgot everything else that was important.”
He winced. “Not on purpose …”
She softened. “I think you’re ready for the truth. And the way they treat you, that just can’t be legal. And if it is by some ungodly loophole they found—”
She opened the car door, helped him in.
“—even more reason for you to GTFO.”
The Return
Maeve barely had the door open before Nugget came flying down the hallway like a furry missile.
He skidded to a halt in the foyer, tail puffed, ears back, and let out a low, accusatory yowl.
Pierce blinked. “Is that—?”
“Nugget,” Maeve said, stepping aside so Pierce could limp in. “He’s dramatic. And your biggest fan, while he hates all other men. Including my dad. Which is why he lives with me even though I am not a cat person at all. He is my mom’s cat, but dad had enough of his aggressive BS towards him and said either mom rehomes him or dad will.”
The cat stalked forward, sniffed Pierce’s shoes, then promptly turned around and sat with his back to him, tail flicking like a metronome of disdain.
Pierce chuckled, wincing as he leaned on the wall. “I think I’ve been demoted.”
“Don’t take it personally. He’s quirky. He actually likes you. When he’s not mad at you.”
Nugget let out a sharp meow, then darted forward and bit the toe of Pierce’s shoe before vanishing into the living room.
“Okay,” Pierce muttered. “I don’t know what I did, but guess he has his reasons.”
Maeve helped him to the couch. He moved stiffly; his limp more pronounced than she remembered. His hands trembled slightly as he lowered himself down, and when he exhaled, it sounded like it came from somewhere deep and hollow.
“You look worse,” she said gently, crouching beside him.
“I feel worse.” He rubbed at his temple. “They upped the meds. Or changed them. I don’t know. I couldn’t think straight most of the time, life is still blurry but it’s wearing off, I can tell. Couldn’t sleep. I kept trying to remember things and it was like—” He paused, frowning. “Like trying to hold water in a… in a…”
“Colander?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. That.”
Maeve sat beside him, close but not touching. “You sound like you gave up.”
“I did. A little.” He looked at her, eyes dull. “I thought maybe you’d moved on. Or they’d gotten to you. Or maybe I’d imagined everything. The lines are blurry for me of late.”
“You didn’t imagine anything.”
“I know that now.” He looked down at his hands. “But two weeks in that house felt like a year. I stopped asking. Stopped fighting. I just… waited.”
Maeve reached over and took his hand. He didn’t pull away.
Then Arden let out a squawk from her playpen, followed by a suspiciously wet sound.
Maeve sighed. “And that would be the diaper.”
Pierce made a face. “Amazing timing.”
She stood. “I got her. You rest up.”
She was halfway up the stairs when she heard him behind her.
“Wait. I’ve got it.”
Maeve turned. “Pierce—”
“I want to. I remember how. I think.”
She hesitated, then nodded and stepped aside.
He moved slowly, gripping the railing, every step deliberate. At the top, he paused, catching his breath, then followed her into the nursery.
Maeve laid Arden on the changing table and stepped back.
Pierce stared at the diaper like it might detonate.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Tabs in the back. Wipes. Cream. Not frosting a cake…”
He moved carefully, halting a few times, his brow furrowed as he tried to remember the order. Maeve didn’t speak. Just waited. It was clear his brain wasn’t running at full speed.
Finally, he looked up at her, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.
“I insisted on changing my son’s diaper once. Told the nanny I could handle it. I was confident. And Chad—he peed all over me, followed by some mild diarrhea. Like a fountain of horror. I had to throw the shirt away. It was rank.”
Maeve laughed, covering her mouth to keep from roweling up the sleepy baby. “That is hysterical.”
He grinned. “I was so proud initially. Until I wasn’t. The nanny was gleeful.”
They finished together, quiet and efficient. Maeve scooped Arden up, kissed her forehead, and laid her in the crib. The baby sighed and curled into herself, already drifting off.
Pierce stood at the edge of the crib, watching her.
“Isn’t it awful what happened to me?” he said softly. “I don’t think it’s ever coming back. I tried and tried and it’s… empty. I just can’t remember a thing. I know something is there but I can’t … get to it.”
Maeve didn’t answer. She took his hand and led him down the hall, and into her bedroom.
The room was filled with light, the ocean stretching out beyond the wide windows. The breeze from the open window carried the scent of salt and jasmine. It was peaceful. Untouched.
Pierce stepped to the window, resting a hand on the frame. “This view…”
He turned—and froze. Another view took his breath away.
Maeve was changing. Calmly, unbothered, like she had a hundred times before. She peeled off her shirt, unhooked her bra, and reached for a different one and a soft cotton tank top.
Pierce made a sound—barely audible, somewhere between a gasp and a prayer.
His knees buckled.
Maeve turned just in time to catch him, her hands bracing his arms as he swayed.
“Easy,” she said, steadying him. “You okay?”
He blinked at her, wide-eyed, stunned. “I—yeah. I just—”
His gaze dropped, then snapped back up to her face, as if ashamed of where it had landed.
Maeve tilted her head. “You act like you’ve never seen a woman undress before.”
He swallowed hard. “Not as long as I can remember. Now, that’s not really saying much these days …”
She softened. “Then let me help you remember.”
She guided him to the bed, still supporting him, and they sat side by side. The ocean murmured outside the window. Nugget padded into the room, took one look at the scene, and promptly turned around and left, tail high.
Maeve took Pierce’s hand again and placed it gently against her bare skin.
Pierce inhaled sharply, like the contact had shocked him.
His hand trembled, but he didn’t pull away. His thumb brushed over her collarbone, tentative, reverent. Like he was touching something sacred. Like he was afraid it would vanish.
“I feel like I’m about to have a heart attack,” he whispered.
Maeve smiled. “In a good way?”
He nodded, eyes still locked on hers. “In the best way. This does feel … strangely familiar.”
She leaned in, resting her forehead against his. “Then breathe. You’re here. I’m here. And you’re not gone. The real you is still in there somewhere. And hopefully we can coax him out.”
He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and let the feeling settle. The warmth of her skin. The weight of her presence. The memory of something he couldn’t name—but knew in his bones.
When he opened them again, he looked steadier. Brighter. Like a man who’d been underwater too long and had finally broken the surface.
“We were … intimate before, weren’t we?”
“Yes.”
“But how does my wife fit in here?”
Maeve kissed his cheek, then stood and reached for her shirt.
“Come on,” she said, slipping it back over her head. “Let’s get you and the baby loaded up.”
Pierce blinked, still dazed. “Where are we going?”
She turned, silhouetted by the window, the ocean behind her.
“San Myshuno,” she said. “I promise I will explain everything there.”
The Apartment
The drive was quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that felt empty—but the kind that held its breath. Full of questions, of memories that hadn’t surfaced yet, of things neither of them knew how to say.
Pierce sat in the passenger seat, his walking stick resting against the door, one hand curled loosely around it. Arden was asleep in the back, her head tilted to the side, her tiny mouth parted in a soft sigh. The car hummed along the winding coastal roads, tires whispering against the asphalt.
He stared out the window like he was seeing the world for the first time.
Because he was.
Nothing looked familiar. Not the cliffs. Not the sea. Not the towns they passed. He felt like a tourist in his own life—watching it all from behind glass.
Maeve didn’t speak. She let the silence stretch, let him sit with it. The only sounds were the rhythmic click of the turn signal, the occasional rustle of Arden shifting in her seat, and the low hum of the engine.
Eventually, the landscape began to change.
The roads straightened. The trees thinned. The skyline rose in the distance—tall, gleaming, unmistakable. San Myshuno.
Pierce leaned forward slightly, wincing as his ribs protested. The city shimmered in the late afternoon light, all steel and glass and motion. It felt too fast. Too loud. Too much.
They crossed one of the iconic bridges, the water below catching the sun in fractured gold. Maeve drove like she’d done it a hundred times. Because she had.
By the time they pulled into the underground garage, Pierce’s leg was throbbing. He shifted in his seat, trying to stretch it out, but the ache had settled deep. He gritted his teeth and said nothing.
Maeve unbuckled Arden from the car seat with practiced ease, her movements quiet and efficient. Pierce opened his door more slowly, bracing himself with one hand on the frame, the other gripping his walking stick.
Maeve didn’t offer to help. She just waited, patient, letting him move at his own pace.
They took the elevator up to the lobby, the air cool and faintly scented with eucalyptus and polished stone. The doorman looked up from his desk and immediately stepped forward, smiling.
“Hi Billy,” Maeve said warmly.
“Mr. Lockwood. Miss Cameron. Welcome back. It’s been a while. I heard about your accident, terrible thing to happen to you, Sir.”
He moved to push the elevator call button to the private elevator, his eyes flicking briefly to the baby carrier in Maeve’s hand and the stiffness in Pierce’s gait. “Take your time, Sir.”
Pierce nodded, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you… umm… Billy,” as they passed through.
The apartment was just as Maeve remembered it—sleek, understated, elegant. The kind of place that whispered wealth instead of shouting it. But it wasn’t cold. Not entirely. There were signs of life here, even if they’d been buried: a blanket draped over the back of the couch, a record player in the corner, a faint trace of citrus and cedar still lingering in the air.
Maeve set the car seat down gently near the sofa. Arden stirred but didn’t wake.
Pierce stood just inside the doorway, his eyes scanning the space like he was trying to read a language he used to know. He took a few slow steps forward, his cane tapping softly against the hardwood.
“Is this… yours?” he asked.
Maeve shook her head. “No, Pierce. It’s yours. You hid from your family here for years. And then we both hid out here sometimes. Just us. Undisturbed. We have spent entire weekends here together. Your marriage was never real, only on paper for appearances at the wish of your father’s. You and your wife have always lived separate lives. You both had secret affairs. For decades. And then I came along. Everything changed. And here we are now.”
He moved to the window, staring out at the skyline. The city pulsed below—cars, lights, life. It felt like it should mean something. Like it once had.
“Why can’t I remember this?”
Maeve didn’t answer.
She didn’t need to. The answer was already in the room.
—
He stopped near the record player, one hand braced on the back of the couch. His shoulders were tight, his limp more pronounced now. The walk, the stairs, the adrenaline—it was all catching up to him.
Maeve stepped closer. “You’re hurting more.”
He nodded, jaw clenched. “I need to take my pills.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small amber bottle. Maeve took it from his hand without asking.
“Sit,” she said gently, guiding him to the wide, cushioned lounger by the window. He lowered himself with a wince, and she crouched to lift his legs—carefully, gently—onto the ottoman. His shoes came off next, her fingers brushing his ankles as she worked.
He watched her, breath shallow.
She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. But before handing it over, she turned the pill bottle in her hands, reading the label. Then, without a word, she pulled out her phone and snapped a photo.
Pierce frowned. “Why did you take a photo?”
Maeve didn’t look up. “Because I don’t trust certain people. And I’m going to have a physician I trust look at what you’ve been given.”
“They’re just pain pills,” he said. “And I need something. It’s bad. Even with them, it’s bad.”
“Understood,” she said calmly, shaking two into her palm. “Then you won’t mind if I take one and have it run through a lab. Do you happen to have the other pills with you?”
He hesitated. “Is that really necessary? And no, they are at home. The nurse keeps them and dispenses when it’s time, since I clearly can’t handle it. They’re helping me.”
“I am not so sure that they are. Can you get samples of everything they have you on? I would really like to have them checked out.”
“Maeve … come on now. No need to turn this into a .. a … what’s the word? Those … spy movies.”
She crouched in front of him, holding out the pills and the water. “They locked you up in your own house, Pierce.”
“To protect me.”
“Is that why they treat a man your age like a toddler? Is that why they kept you from your daughter? They’re helping you be a stranger to your own son?” Her voice was low, steady. “They’re not protecting you. They’re protecting themselves. And they’re hurting you. Open your eyes, Pierce. They’re not even trying to hide it all that well.”
He didn’t answer.
He just took the pills from her hand and swallowed them with the water.
“Daughter.”
“Yes, Arden is your daughter. And if you still couldn’t tell, you and I had an affair. Your marriage has been dead of over a decade, you stay together for whatever reasons people like you have. You loved me and we created Arden. Your family knows about me and Arden, they tried to buy my daughter to raise under their strict rule while getting me out of the picture, when I told them what I thought of that idea, your wife created your son, in a lab, with some frozen embryos from some time you and her evidently wanted kids. She didn’t tell you about that until she was at twenty some weeks and you were so close with her and so much in love that you didn’t know as you didn’t even share the same bedroom. Not for years.”
The sunlight bled amber through the glass panes, throwing warm streaks across the polished floors and the edge of Maeve’s dress as she perched on the armrest beside him.
Pierce pressed his palms into his knees, grounding himself in the physical—the curve of the lounger, the hum of the city several floors below. It all felt oddly familiar. Like déjà vu, stretched thin.
“I don’t remember the moment I met you,” he said quietly. “Not the actual hello. But I know you. I feel it in my chest. And Arden—she looks at me like I’m someone who should’ve never left.”
Maeve watched him closely, her expression unreadable.
“You didn’t leave,” she said after a beat. “You were taken.”
He flinched at that. “They said I wandered out, that I was confused. That the concussion scrambled things.”
“Funny how your confusion was so convenient for them,” she murmured. “They knew about us. About Arden. They pretended it wasn’t real. As if I was the phase you’d forgotten. But you never really did, did you?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I wake up and I know how to use my toothbrush, how to send an email, how to fake a laugh at a party. But I don’t remember birthdays. Or… her laugh. I want to remember so very badly. The harder I try the less I feel I know, only end up with a migraine.”
Maeve shifted closer, her fingers brushing his knuckles—gentle, grounding. “Two years. That’s how long we’ve had this… affair … though it always felt like so much more than some plain old side-thing. You’ve met my parents, my brother, my sister-in-law—and their twins. You used to sneak away to me, to the beach house. Sometimes just to sleep, just to breathe like a man who wasn’t being watched. You always said it felt like freedom.”
She gave a small smile. “And, of course, for other things. We spent entire weekends here. Back when I was pregnant. Before your accident you only held your daughter once—after she was born. We were at odds then, you had other priorities beyond Arden and me. I went into early labor. You missed the birth, but came to the hospital later to talk. Arden was eleven days old and still in the NICU. I let you see her.”
He listened, his brow drawn tight.
“That night,” Maeve continued, her voice quieter now, “you told me your wife was pregnant too. That was when we parted ways. I heard nothing from you for weeks. Until the accident. After that… well, you know as much about the rest as I do. Obviously, I didn’t try to see you. Not after the way your family spun a new narrative and locked me out.”
His eyes drifted closed, as if trying to will her words into memory. As if her voice could etch the truth back into the blank spaces.
“Did you ever love me?” he asked, voice fragile.
Maeve didn’t hesitate. “I still do.”
Pierce looked at her—really looked. “I think I still love you, too. It’s this… feeling I have. I’m drawn to you, to Arden. Even though I can’t actually remember you. I want to—please believe me—but it’s just… gone. I want to remember how we met. Our first kiss. How we ended up in this affair. And the pregnancy.”
He paused, jaw tight. “Arden feels like my child more than… than…” He blinked. “What’s his name?”
“Chad,” Maeve said quietly.
“Right. Chadwick. My father doesn’t like when we shorten it.”
“Of course he doesn’t,” she murmured, biting back the bitterness.
Pierce looked down at his hands, turning them over slowly, as though searching for answers etched in the lines of his skin. “You do see how messed up this whole situation is, right?”
Maeve nodded faintly. “Yes.”
Then he lifted his eyes to hers, sharp and searching.
“May I kiss you?”
Maeve didn’t answer right away. Her gaze held his, searching for the sincerity beneath the uncertainty. Outside, the skyline shimmered in the late golden hour—the shifting hues of glass towers, the distant hum of traffic, the ripple of shadows gliding across the living room floor.
She leaned in slowly, not because she questioned him, but because she needed to feel the truth in that moment, to let it reach her through more than words. Her hand rose to his cheek, tentative but sure, brushing across the slight stubble that had grown in during his recent forgetful weeks. Her thumb paused at the edge of his jaw. Her touch was warm, familiar, like muscle memory recalled in silence.
“I don’t want you to kiss me out of guilt or confusion,” she said, voice soft as velvet and just as frayed. “I want you to kiss me because even if your memories are scattered, your heart still recognizes mine.”
Pierce’s breath stilled in his chest, locked beneath ribs that felt far too tight for what he carried. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to justify anything. He simply reached for her, and she let him.
Their lips met—not like the dramatic reunion of lovers in old films, but like rain meeting soil. Gentle. Natural. Deeply inevitable. Her fingers curled behind his neck. His hands found her waist like they remembered the shape even if his mind did not. And for a fleeting moment, he felt weightless—no labels, no betrayals, no medical charts or family lies. Just her.
When they parted, she didn’t move far. Her forehead rested against his, eyes closed.
“I never stopped waiting for that,” she whispered.
“I think… I feel like I used to say that to you,” he replied quietly. “That I’d always come back. That you were ‘home’.”
Maeve blinked against the sting in her eyes. “You did. Every time you left, you promised you’d return.”
“And I have,” he said, more surely now. “Even if broken.”
She smiled, the kind that comes with sadness and gratitude tangled together.
Pierce exhaled. “I need to know what they did to me. What I lost. But I also need to remember what I chose.”
“Then start with what you feel,” she said. “Memory comes and goes. But what we built—that’s still here. Arden is still here. And I am. If you want us, we’re yours.”
The last of the afternoon light spilled across them, painting the apartment in soft gold, like a promise—fragile, but alive.
They talked. She reminded him of the beach house, of Arden’s first hiccup, of the cat who always insisted on sitting on his paperwork. Of the first chaotic dinner with her family—the noise, the laughter, the warmth.
They laughed. They cried. She talked, and he listened like he was drinking sunlight.
Maeve caught the way his hand hovered near his side, fingers curling against invisible pain.
“Accident scars?” she asked.
He hesitated. “It’s fine.”
“Pierce.”
He looked away, jaw tight. “It’s still healing. And it’s disgusting.”
Her voice was steady, unwavering. “Let me see.”
He shook his head. “My family doesn’t even go near it. They have a nurse for that. My mother won’t look. And Katherine—” He stopped, the name catching like a splinter. “She said it made her nauseous.”
Maeve didn’t blink. “I’m not them.”
She reached for the hem of his shirt, and when he didn’t resist, lifted it carefully.
The bandage was stained through. Gauze curled at the edges like wilted petals. The skin around it was angry—red, raw, weeping.
Her breath caught. Not with revulsion. But with rage.
“They let it get this bad?”
He didn’t answer.
She disappeared into the bathroom. Returned moments later with antiseptic, gauze, medical tape, and a towel still warm from the cabinet.
She knelt before him with quiet resolve. “This might sting.”
He nodded, jaw clenched.
Her fingers moved with precision, cleaning the wound gently but firmly. The sting laced through him, but he didn’t pull away. Her touch was cool, purposeful—her hands steady as oak leaves in a storm.
When she wrapped the fresh bandage around his torso, her arms encircled him—tender and practical. But it felt like something more. It felt like being held.
He didn’t speak. Just watched her—her furrowed brow, the faint sheen of sweat at her temple, the scent of something warm and deep from her hair drifting close every time she leaned in.
When she finished, she sat back, breath shallow.
“There,” she murmured. “That’s better.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.
“I know.”
“But you did it. Just like that.”
Maeve stood, gathering the used supplies. “Yes, just like that. This is a good takeaway to gauge how deep someone feels. If they’re willing to stand by you at your worst, and don’t flinch at the unsightly things… it might just be real.” She left to wash her hands.
When she returned the apartment had grown quiet—not empty, but expectant. Outside, the city droned on. Traffic hummed. A siren wailed and faded. Inside, time bent and softened.
He reached out, touching her face, her hair, her shoulders, arms—moving slowly, reverently, as if rediscovering her through sensation.
Her skin was warm from the lingering light, soft and fragrant with the scent of lavender and breeze. Her hair slipped through his fingers like threads of memory, and his hand paused at the curve of her shoulder, surprised to find it exactly where his instincts said it would be.
Maeve’s breath hitched, but she didn’t move away.
“I feel like I’ve touched you like this before,” he said quietly.
“You have,” she whispered.
A stillness passed between them—not awkward, but reverent.
He let the back of his hand trail over the softened curve of her abdomen, the place that had carried their daughter.
Then he stopped—not from hesitation, but reverence.
“Right here?” he asked.
She nodded. “She lived there. You used to talk to her through my skin.”
His palm rested over the place their daughter had lived. And something inside him cracked—quietly, beautifully.
They moved slowly, like rain against glass.
And then—
Flash. Her laugh in this very room, wine in her hand, whiskey in his. Their kiss—deep, demanding, familiar.
Flash. Her whisper in the dark. The beach house. Her breath on his skin. He could hear and smell the ocean.
Flash. A sterile hospital glow. A tiny baby in an incubator. Maeve’s voice steady but trembling. His own hands, unsure. Her warmth grounding him.
He gasped, eyes wide, breaking the moment.
Maeve cradled his face in her hands, brushing his cheek with her thumb.
“What is it?”
“I saw you,” he whispered. “I saw us. Arden as a newborn… so tiny and… yellow.”
Maeve nodded, her voice gentle but tight. “She had jaundice. The first and only time you held her, before your accident, she was still recovering.”
Pierce’s eyes filled. “This is real… this is real…”
Maeve didn’t answer. She just leaned in again—forehead to forehead—and held him there in silence, grounding him like a memory unfolding.
And for the first time since the accident, he didn’t feel lost. He felt found. Not in place. But in her.
The Return
The drive back was silent, but it wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind of quiet that pressed on your ribs—a breath half-held, a thought half-spoken. Something had passed between them that neither dared name yet.
Maeve didn’t ask if he wanted to go back. She knew he had to. For now. Pierce didn’t ask her to stay. He knew she couldn’t. Not yet.
She turned onto a side street near the estate, tucked behind high hedges and tall gates. The kind of street designed for discretion. They’d used it before—years ago, when secrecy was romance, not necessity.
Pierce unclipped his seatbelt slowly, wincing as he shifted forward. His side throbbed beneath the fresh bandage, but it was clean. Secure. He could still feel the memory of her touch—deliberate, gentle, fiercely present.
He reached for the door.
Maeve placed a hand on his arm. “You sure you’re okay?”
He nodded without looking. “I’ll be fine.”
She didn’t believe him. But she didn’t press. She knew better than most how far denial could carry a man.
Pierce stepped out, leaning on his walking stick, and limped toward the estate driveway. Maeve stayed in the car, one hand resting on the wheel, watching him like you watch someone heading into a battle they’ve already lost.
He hadn’t even reached the front steps when the door blew open.
Katherine. His mother Eleanor. His father Charles. The nurse. They spilled out like floodwater, sharp voices slicing through the quiet dusk.
“Where have you been?” “You didn’t notify anyone!” “You can’t just vanish like that—we’ve been frantic!”
Pierce lifted a hand, trying to keep calm. “I went for a walk,” he said.
“A walk?” Katherine’s voice cut like glass. “You had instructions. You can’t go wandering off!”
His mother surged forward. “You are still recovering, Pierce. You don’t just decide things and leave on your own! Think of all that could have happened to you!”
“I’m not a child,” he snapped. “I don’t need permission to breathe!”
The silence that followed was jagged. They stared at him—not with concern, but control.
The nurse stepped in, her hand already reaching for his elbow, professional and possessive. “Let’s get you inside, sir. You’re overdue for your medication.”
They surrounded him, guiding him toward the doorway before he could protest further. Maeve watched from the car as the family glanced back—briefly scanning the street.
None of them saw her.
The door shut behind him with a thud, final and heavy.
Maeve didn’t move. Not at first. She stared at the empty path, at the windows of the estate that had swallowed him once again.
Then she reached for the gearshift.
She didn’t drive away because she wanted to. She drove away because the next move wasn’t hers to make.
It was his.
The Ask
The garden party at Rosebriar Haven was in full swing. Laughter trickled across manicured lawns, mingling with the clink of glassware and the soft strains of a live quartet under the wisteria-draped pergola. Children dashed through hedgerows and swing sets, their shrieks echoing like phantom joy against the cliffs that framed Brindleton Bay. Beyond the far paddocks, horses grazed in the gilded haze of late afternoon, silhouettes blurred into the horizon.
Pierce stood apart, near the patio’s edge, a glass of sparkling water sweating in his hand. He wore what Katherine had insisted on—pressed slacks, pale linen shirt, tailored just so—and yet, each breath felt like theft. He hadn’t wanted to come. He hadn’t wanted to be seen.
But Katherine made sure of it. “You need to be seen. People are starting to whisper.”
Now here he was. Seen. Whispered about. Watched.
Not that he had much choice anymore. After his most recent attempt to slip past the perimeter, his family doubled security—for his protection. That’s what they said. But the phrase felt more like a cage than a comfort. Phones monitored. Movement restricted. Contacts severed.
Especially Maeve.
He hoped she might come. If anyone could find a way past the layers of surveillance, it would be her. Warm chestnut brown hair. Sharp mind. Softer smile. This estate—Viola and Brad Cunningham’s sprawling sanctuary above the bay—was the largest in Brindleton, which was saying something in a town built on generational wealth and quiet ambition.
He scanned the crowd—searching for her silhouette, for a familiar spark in the crowd of curated elegance. Nothing. Just strangers dressed like friends.
Finally, in a moment of unguarded quiet, Pierce approached Viola at the outdoor bar. She stood radiant in emerald silk and diamonds, polished and unbothered. The perfect hostess.
“Maeve?” he asked.
Viola’s smile thinned. “Sorry Pierce, she didn’t feel up to it,” she said smoothly.
Something in her tone was practiced. Deliberate.
Pierce’s breath hitched. “Is she all right?”
Viola paused, brushing a loose strand of hair back. “Well, as alright as someone can be under the circumstances.” Her voice softened. “She meant to be here, but seeing you only from the distance just is too hard on her.”
He knew what she meant. Maeve hadn’t seen him since they cut the lines. Since the lockdown.
Disappointment flickered across his face, unhidden now. Viola watched it settle before shifting topics, patting his arm with an encouraging smile just before a guest demanded her attention.
He let her go. And turned back toward the crowd.
Maeve wasn’t here. Not in any way he could reach.
Pierce scanned the crowd through a haze of too little sleep and too many substances he didn’t control. His heart beat beneath starched linen like a warning bell. Near the portico, standing in a wash of gold light and polite laughter, was a tall man with broad shoulders and blond curls—dressed in a navy blazer and a crisp white shirt that felt too clean for what he knew.
Dr. Bradford Cunningham.
Viola’s husband. Maeve’s closest confidante’s husband. And the man whose name adorned the most elite medical centers from Brindleton Bay to San Sequoia, Tartosa to Tomarang. Brad didn’t just run clinics—he defined them. The bleeding edge of medicine, quietly reserved for those who could afford not to bleed in public.
To most guests, he was benevolent brilliance. To Pierce, he was the final thread tying Maeve’s whispers to the pharmacological fog swallowing him whole.
He pushed toward Brad through clusters of conversation and clinking glassware, his breath shallow against his ribs, leg dragging slightly with each step.
“Did Maeve mean you?” he asked, low and deliberate.
Brad turned slowly, one brow lifting. “Excuse me?”
“She said she trusted someone. A physician.” Pierce’s voice sharpened. “Did she mean you?”
Brad’s smile dimmed. “Pierce, I don’t know what you’re—”
“Did she give you one of my pills?”
The question shifted the air.
Brad’s gaze flicked across the lawn, then settled back with new weight. “She did,” he admitted.
Pierce’s stomach twisted. “Is it bad?”
Brad lowered his voice. “Let’s talk inside.”
Then he reached out and took Pierce’s upper arm—not roughly, but with firm, clinical intention. A physician’s grip. Directive. Purposeful. He pivoted Pierce gently, placing a guiding hand at the center of his back, steering him away from the patio with practiced ease. The motion was natural enough to pass as casual, but it brokered no argument.
Together, they crossed the flagstones and slipped through the patio door beneath the overhang, disappearing into a hush of polished wood and filtered light. The music and laughter dulled behind them. Ahead, Brad’s office waited—immediately to the right.
A wide window overlooked the backyard and shimmering pool, the kind of view reserved for power that didn’t need to flaunt itself. Brad glanced out, watching for a moment. Then, with a quiet flick of his wrist, he lowered the blinds.
The light dimmed. The space tightened.
Private now.
“I need you to analyze me,” Pierce said. “Whatever you can do. I don’t have access to the meds. My family controls everything—locks the cabinets, logs the doses, hires nurses to watch me sleep.”
Brad crossed to the desk, pulling up a secure diagnostic app on his tablet. “What did you manage to get?”
Pierce opened his jacket and laid out what little he had: – A crushed, amber-tinted tablet with no legible markings – A single white oval pill – Half a crumbled pale-yellow capsule
Brad didn’t speak. He retrieved a pair of latex gloves from the drawer and slipped them on without ceremony. One by one, he picked up the fragments, turning each in the lamplight with measured precision.
The crushed tablet was first—edges jagged, coating faded. Brad held it close, examining the powder residue. “No imprint,” he murmured. “Color’s familiar, but without an ID… impossible to confirm here.”
He set it on a blotter pad, then picked up the white oval pill. Rotated it. Tapped it gently against the desk, as if testing for density. “Too generic to identify visually. Could be any number of sedatives or anti-anxiety meds.”
The final capsule—half crumbled, dulled—was barely intact. Brad blinked at the faint remnants of a code, squinting, then sighed. “You’re lucky you got even half of this,” he said, tone clipped.
Pierce handed him a folded slip of paper.
Brad unfolded it—three drug names scribbled in shaky, erratic handwriting. The strokes jagged and uneven, like they’d been written through a fog. His brow furrowed as he read.
“Did you write this?”
“Yeah,” Pierce muttered. “The nurse stepped out for a minute. Left my chart open. I was still groggy—copied what I could.”
Brad looked up sharply. “This handwriting isn’t just rushed. You’ve got tremors. Fine motor instability. Possibly early akathisia.”
He reached back into the drawer, pulled out a compact blood collection kit—sealed, pristine, branded with his own clinical logo.
“I need blood samples. Liver markers. Full tox screen. Your cognitive decline could be chemically induced, and I need evidence before I start making noise.”
Pierce rolled up his sleeve, jaw clenched.
Brad worked quickly, efficiently. Drew two vials. Swabbed and sealed. Not a word wasted. He labeled the samples using an internal code that wouldn’t flag any central system. In one of Brad’s global clinics, this would be run quietly. No questions asked.
He placed the samples into a chilled courier pouch and returned to the tablet.
“If they’re stacking long-acting antipsychotics with experimental sedatives,” he said quietly, “you’re not being treated. You’re being pharmacologically restrained.”
Pierce stared down at the shattered pills. “Maeve saw it.”
Brad hesitated, then nodded. “She gave me one of these. Said she had to smuggle it out. Told me it didn’t feel right. Honestly? It didn’t. Dosage was abnormal. Structure too.”
He lowered the blinds with a quiet snap. The room dimmed.
“I’ll run every test. Under my authority. No one’s going to flag it. But if I’m right—your family crossed a line.”
Pierce sat back. The silence pressed in.
“Then let’s not waste time.”
Pierce looked down at the blood samples—carefully labeled, sealed, and ready to vanish into Brad’s vast, invisible network of diagnostics. He swallowed hard, throat thick with something he couldn’t name.
Then he said it, quiet and unsure: “Thank you.”
Brad glanced at him. There was no need for theatrics. Just the gravity of one man stepping out of bounds for another.
Pierce cleared his throat, the words catching halfway out. “Were we… friends? Before the accident?”
Brad’s fingers paused on the tablet screen. He looked up, and the answer came with practiced calm. “You asked me that before,” he said. “Couple of weeks ago. Same tone.”
Pierce blinked. “I did?”
Brad nodded, walking around to the side of the desk, his clinical instincts settling back into place.
“We were friendly,” he said, taking a penlight from a drawer. “But not friends. You were the aloof type. Always business. Always moving. Untouchable.”
He held up the light. “Look at me.”
Pierce followed it as Brad moved it slowly from side to side, watching his pupil response with practiced precision.
“But then you met Maeve,” Brad continued. “Something shifted. You were still distant. But not unreachable. People noticed.”
He took out a small reflex hammer next and knelt beside the chair, tapping below Pierce’s knee. A flick. Then another. Measuring.
“You asked fewer rhetorical questions at functions. You let people speak longer before you interrupted.” Brad stood, brow slightly furrowed. “That’s how I remember it, anyway.”
Pierce tried to smile but couldn’t quite find it. “Sounds like she civilised me.”
“Or cracked the shell,” Brad said.
He returned to the tablet, entering new notes, clinical shorthand that would mean nothing to anyone but him.
Pierce sat quietly, watching Brad shift into motion—precise, composed, quietly relentless.
And for the first time in weeks, he felt anchored. Not safe. But seen.
Brad tapped a final note into the tablet, then sat down across from Pierce—no longer a physician checking boxes, but a man weighing the edge of someone else’s storm.
“You know,” Brad said, voice low, “when I was younger, I thought love and future were supposed to line up perfectly. I had that lined up. She was everything—sharp, kind, brilliant. Couldn’t have kids, though. My father said that made her unsuitable. He didn’t just disapprove—he made sure she disappeared. Moved her out of my life like a surgical cut. I watched it happen, and I let it.”
Pierce stayed quiet, the air around them narrowing.
“Years later, I found myself in a marriage chosen more for optics than heart,” Brad continued. “Good on paper. Photogenic. Strategically advantageous. But it was hollow. No warmth. No fight worth having.”
His gaze settled on Pierce. “Took me a long time to rebuild from that. To stop thinking I had to fit into someone else’s mold to deserve autonomy. Or peace.”
Pierce blinked slowly, throat dry.
“I see it in you,” Brad said quietly. “You’re unraveling all the bindings they tied around you. You think you’re broken, but you’re not. You’re waking up in the middle of the surgery.”
Brad stood, crossed to the drawer, and retrieved a sealed kit labeled Cognitive Tracking & Neuroassessment. He placed it gently on the desk.
“Let’s start figuring out who they want you to forget—and who you actually are.”
Brad gave a short, silent nod, then cracked open the neuroassessment kit. Inside were tools designed for precision—digital eye-trackers, auditory recall patches, and the slender stylus used for neuro-mapping on a touchscreen tablet. This wasn’t the full clinical setup, but Brad had calibrated everything to run portable diagnostics.
He pulled out the stylus and adjusted the interface. “Okay. We’re skipping the performative stuff. No cards, no clocks. I want to test reflex memory and semantic integrity first. Then executive function. I need to see what’s actually firing.”
Pierce sat forward, posture stiff, fingers twitching slightly. Brad leaned in, running the first calibration across Pierce’s visual field. A flicker test—light pulses tracing a pattern from left to right, designed to measure processing speed and eye coordination.
“Track this with just your eyes. No head movement.”
Pierce obeyed. Brad monitored the small pupil adjustments, the muscle lag that appeared on the right side. Not severe. But telling.
“Visual processing is degraded, but only intermittently,” Brad murmured, taking notes. “Let’s move faster.”
Next came language prompts.
Brad pulled up a set of flash recall phrases—not pictures, but words meant to activate emotional memory.
He read aloud: “Lamb. Boardwalk. Orange peel. Maeve. Chadwick. Wisteria.”
Pierce flinched at Maeve’s name. His mouth opened like he was about to speak, but then he stalled.
“Say the first word that comes to mind for each,” Brad instructed. “Fast.”
Pierce swallowed. “Wool. Ocean. Sticky. Beautiful. umm …. Flowers.”
Brad studied him. “You skipped ‘Chadwick.’”
Pierce looked down. “I didn’t have a word.”
“That’s telling in itself.”
Then came motor coordination—Brad handed him the stylus and pulled up a tracing grid. Pierce tried to draw a pattern, a childhood tracing game. He began well, then his hand jerked mid-stroke, veering off the path.
Brad didn’t correct him. Just watched. “Muscle tremor’s still present. But your correction instincts are intact. You’re fighting through something synthetic.”
After fifteen more minutes of data logging, Brad compiled the metrics.
Pierce was still impaired—but not organically. The cognitive damage wasn’t trauma-based. It was pharmaceutical. Intentional. And reversible.
Brad turned the tablet and slid it across the desk.
Pierce scanned the graphs. “That means it’s not permanent?”
“Exactly,” Brad said. “They didn’t break you. Not yet. They mentally and emotionally buried you.”
Pierce exhaled, shoulders slumping forward like he’d just released a breath held for weeks.
Then his voice came out, quiet. “So what now?”
Brad stood, unplugging the tablet and sealing the kit. He looked Pierce directly in the eye.
“Now we get you clean,” he said. “And then we get you free.”
Outside, the party was still going—laughter, champagne, music wafting in from the veranda.
But inside that quiet office, behind the locked door and stolen minutes, Pierce Lockwood had just begun to wake up.
Brad stood at the edge of the desk, staring down at the blood samples. He had the medication fragments, the scribbled drug chart, and the biometric data. And he’d seen enough.
No licensed physician would permit this cocktail. Long-acting antipsychotics. Sedatives. Memory erasers. Dopaminergic interference.
This wasn’t healing.
It was chemical detainment.
This was illegal and went against everything Brad has sworn an oath to protect.
Pierce clutched Brad’s wrist suddenly, his fingers cold and trembling. Desperation stripped the polish from his voice. “You have to get me out,” he whispered. “They’re not going to wait much longer. I can feel it. They are getting suspicious, I am inconvenient. They keep changing my medication and I keep getting worse. They’ll make it look like an accident. Stroke. Something.”
Brad didn’t move right away. But inside, a switch flipped.
His voice was low. Controlled. “Yeah, the same things just went through my head. Do you trust me?”
Pierce nodded, eyes wide.
Brad turned toward the medical cabinet behind his desk. Inside were emergency-use kits he kept for guests, VIP clients, and the occasional incident at one of his charity galas. He selected a small syringe, pre-loaded and airlocked.
“This is an adenosine mimic,” Brad explained. “It’ll trigger a brief cardiac arrhythmia. You’ll feel tightness in your chest. Rapid pulse. Then a collapse. I’ll handle everything once that happens—but you need to make the request. Loud. Clear. In front of witnesses.”
“I want you to be my doctor,” Pierce whispered.
Brad nodded. “Say it again when you go down.”
Then he administered the dose—precise, fast, and just below the visible threshold.
Five minutes later, Brad walked Pierce calmly back into the garden and they sprayed apart. Brad joined a group of men talking about the last golf match, laughing with them. The string quartet played beneath the pergola. Guests laughed by the champagne cart. Everything glowed in curated perfection.
Pierce smiled at his mother. Or tried to.
Then the drug began to work.
His chest clenched. The world tilted. He staggered, gasping, and collapsed near the gravel path where guests mingled around mocktails and polished silver trays.
Gasps erupted. A woman screamed.
Brad was beside him before anyone else moved.
“Pierce!” he barked, already kneeling, checking his pulse, pulling a compact EKG scanner from his belt. “Stay with me. Someone call an ambulance, quick! He needs help, I can help. Pierce, tell me who you want to attend to you? Who is your physician?”
Pierce could barely breathe—but his voice broke through: “You, Dr. Cunningham. I want you to take me on as patient, please.”
It rang out—clear. Loud enough. Perfectly played.
Several guests froze. Others whispered.
Pierce’s family was too shocked to react in time and then it was too late. And Pierce passed out.
Brad stood, already issuing commands. “I’m taking over primary care.” He called ahead to Harborview Medical, one of his clinics. Prep a cardiac isolation suite. Notify Dr. Reznik. Run authorization under Geneva Protocol Nine.”
No one challenged him.
He was Bradford Cunningham. Surgeon. CEO. Chairman of the Board. Global clinical authority.
And now, attending physician of Pierce Lockwood.
He turned to his wife while sirens were already sounding in the distance, drawing closer fast.
“Vee, you know what to do?”
She nodded, and a kiss later Brad turned to the arriving EMS team.
Liberty
Pierce woke hours later in a private suite. Soft white walls. Oxygen hum. No nurse from the family. No surveillance. Just Brad.
Sitting beside him. Watching.
“Welcome back. You’re stable,” Brad said softly. “Vitals normalized. Enzymes are high but expected. You’re safe. You’ll be alright.”
Pierce struggled upright, wincing. “Where…?”
“Harborview Medical,” Brad said. “One of mine. Off the books, and trust me, they can’t get to you here.”
Pierce’s throat tightened. “You got me out. It worked. Oh thank God!”
He set the tablet aside. “I ran a full panel while you were out.”
Pierce stared.
“I’ve also alerted two medical ethics boards and an investigator I trust. Quietly. For now.” He pulled up Pierce’s chart and turned it gently. “You weren’t just overmedicated. You were being chemically erased. Or better, your mind and body functions were, turning you into a shell, eventually.”
Pierce froze.
Brad didn’t soften it. “They stacked sedatives with long-release neuroinhibitors, combined them with anticholinergics and antipsychotics—all dosed just below the FDA threshold. Enough to avoid triggering alarms. But when timed right … and all of those together …”
He pointed to Pierce’s liver enzyme data. “They were slowly degrading organ function. Memory suppression. Emotional flattening. You would’ve looked like you were deteriorating naturally. From the accident. The concussion. The trauma.”
He tapped his fingers against the glass quietly.
“Your family was building the end. One calibrated dose at a time.”
Pierce’s stomach turned.
“We got to you just in time,” Brad said. “Another week—two at most—at those medication levels and the damage would’ve most certainly passed into the irreversible range. You wouldn’t just forget. You’d lose executive function. Coordination. You’d slip out completely. First a coma, probably in less than a month from now, from which you would most likely never wake.”
Brad held his gaze. “The compound doses were staggered—precise enough to mimic post-trauma regression. But the liver strain, the cellular breakdown? That’s not accidental. That’s methodical.”
Pierce gripped the blanket, face pale. “They were going to kill me.”
Brad nodded slowly. “That’s my assessment too.”
He stood and reached for a leather folder, opening it to reveal several stamped pages and secure envelopes. “And the reason why I’ve escalated this beyond medical oversight. Federal health authorities have been notified—and yes, Pierce, I filed an emergency alert with the FBI. They’ve already visited your family’s estate.”
Pierce’s breath stuttered.
“The nurse was taken into custody early this morning, as were your parents and Katherine … they will face interrogation. And they’ll fight it. But from a legal standpoint? With your bloodwork and my testimony, their case is crumbling before it even starts. Your son was put into temporary foster care. Viola and I offered, but since we are now directly involved, we can’t. Sorry.”
Pierce sank back into the pillow, heart pounding.
“They’ll want to speak to you when you’re stronger,” Brad said. “Don’t worry—my team will coordinate it. You won’t be left alone in this.”
He reached for his tablet, made a final note, then turned to the door. Before he left, he paused.
Pierce sat back, every breath heavier than the last.
“You saved me,” he whispered.
Brad nodded once. “Thanks for trusting me.”
Pierce swallowed, voice hoarse. “Thank you for… stepping in and stepping up. For helping me. You might have just saved my life.”
Brad stood, gathering his tablet, smoothing the edge of the blanket near Pierce’s leg with quiet assurance.
“To be honest, I wouldn’t have, if Maeve hadn’t asked.” He smiled faintly. “But I’m glad I did. And I am glad we managed to get you out at the last minute. Man, this is not in any of the travel brochures about the Bay.”
He started toward the door.
Pierce shifted, alarmed. “You’re leaving?”
Brad turned, boyish smirk breaking across his usually unreadable face. “Oh, trust me… you’ll want me to.”
Then he pulled the door open—and stepped aside.
Maeve entered first, hair pulled back in a loose braid, eyes wide, glassy, locked onto Pierce like he was breath she’d been holding. She carried Arden, curled sleepily in her arms.
Brad gave Pierce a wink, then at Maeve. “Be gentle with him, don’t break him. He has been through a lot and a long way to go, but he’ll be fine. Eventually.”
Then he stepped out and gently closed the door behind them.
Three days later, Harborview Suite 3A
Brad stepped into the room with a tablet tucked under his arm and a slight smile resting beneath tired eyes. Pierce sat upright now, clearer than he’d been in weeks—color returning to his face, hands steadier on the blanket.
“Vitals are strong,” Brad said as he scanned the chart. “Liver enzymes are down, white count’s normalizing. Bloodwork looks… promising.”
Pierce offered a nod, hesitant.
“Can I ask something weird?”
Brad glanced up, amused. “You’ve got a habit of asking odd things of me. Go ahead.”
“I want a DNA test. On Chadwick. My son.”
Brad blinked, then chuckled, lightly but without judgment. “Guess I don’t need to test your cognitive function anymore. You’re thinking shockingly clear again. May I ask what gives?”
“I just need to know,” Pierce said quietly. “Something’s always felt… off. I thought it was because of my condition, but I never had such inhibitions with Arden. She felt like my daughter long before I found out the truth. I have the hardest time connecting with my son that way.”
Brad tapped the tablet. “Normally if someone who’s been through all you have been through would ask me that I would tell them to recover and not worry about it, but after what your family has put you through I am not even gonna question this. You got it, I’ll run it. If only to make you feel better. The baby is fine, by the way.”
Two days later
Brad stepped back into the room, envelope in hand. Maeve had just arrived, brushing damp hair off her neck, Arden next to Pierce on his bed, cradling a stuffed lamb.
Brad offered the still sealed envelope to Pierce without a word.
Pierce opened it, unfolded it, eyes scanning the document.
Paternity Report Match Probability: 42.3%
Pierce frowned. “Huh? What does that mean?”
Maeve stepped forward, gently took the sheet from his hand. She read it, then looked up at Brad, her voice tight. “I don’t get it. Brad can you translate this mumbo jumbo?” she held out the letter to him.
Brad took the paper from Maeve, scanning the numbers with a furrowed brow. The phrasing was clinical, precise, and—like most DNA reports—designed to be technically accurate but emotionally opaque.
Conclusion: Pierce Lockwood is not excluded as a biological relative of Chadwick Ward Lockwood.
Probability of Paternity: 42.3%
Combined Relationship Index: Suggestive of a second-degree biological relationship
Interpretation: The tested individual shares a significant portion of DNA with the child, consistent with a second-degree biological relationship.
Brad exhaled slowly, then looked up.
“Yeah, I had it run over the clinic, so this is not the type they bother to phrase in layman’s terms. What this says is that we do not have a paternity match,” he said gently. “Not at this percentage. If you were the father, the probability would be over 99.9%. This level—42.3%—means you’re definitely related. But not as a parent.”
Brad stepped forward, pressing the page gently onto the edge of the table, then dragging a finger beneath the interpretation.
“This level of DNA overlap suggests a second-degree biological relationship,” he said carefully. “That includes uncle, nephew, half-sibling. But based on age, timing, and shared markers, there’s only one likely scenario.” Brad continued, unwilling but unflinching. “I’ve asked them to review inheritance patterns, allele expressions, mitochondrial traces. This letter says that DNA from Chadwick doesn’t reflect your paternal line as a legacy—it reflects it as a source.” He looked straight at Pierce.
Pierce blinked. “Huh? What? I don’t understand what that means. If I am related but not the father, then what am I? Half a father? Because the accident and their meds turned me into half a man?”
Brad hesitated, then said it—quietly, but without room for misinterpretation.
“You’re his brother.”
Brad said it calmly, letting it sink in before continuing.
“More specifically, by my guess considering the circumstances, half-brother. Medicine has come a long way, but there is no way a woman past seventy like your mother could have had a hand in this, but it is not unlikely your father could have. The rest would involve more testing to be sure, but I think we all are guessing the same scenario here.”
Brad remained still for a moment, eyes scanning the paternity document again as if it might rewrite itself. Then he folded his arms, expression caught between disbelief and clinical calculation.
“Katherine knew they were circling,” he said quietly. “Your parents wanted to replace her with someone younger. Someone who could carry a proper heir. We both know your refusal all those years has been unacceptable and as I would imagine, the root of many arguments you had with your father. Katherine hasn’t proven as useful to them as anticipated, now she is in her mid-forties, your marriage was performative—and when Maeve had Arden, everything changed.”
Pierce didn’t respond. Maeve did.
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
Brad glanced her way. “You’re not alone.”
Pierce pinched the bridge of his nose, voice low and strained. “Me too. But this time, not because of drug overdoses…”
Brad let out a slow breath and offered a faint, incredulous shrug. “Honestly? This is a new one for me too.”
He leaned down, tapping the paper once more. “But strategically? It tracks. By carrying Charles’s child—while claiming it was yours—Katherine locked in her position as the mother of the heir. Your family wouldn’t discard her after that. They’d crown her.”
The room went quiet again. Just the sound of filtered air and Arden’s sleepy breathing.
Maeve wrapped her arms around herself. “A baby with the geriatric father-in-law just to save her status. Oh man, not even day time talk shows would want a piece of this craziness!”
Brad nodded grimly. “She weaponized motherhood.”
As Pierce’s strength returned, so did the ghosts.
With Brad’s care and the chemical haze lifted, he could finally breathe in full sentences. And while his vitals improved, the world outside Harborview Medical twisted with revelations.
The FBI investigation hadn’t paused for recovery—it surged forward. Quiet interviews turned into raids. Sealed records cracked open beneath subpoena. What began as a look into unauthorized medications soon exposed something far darker.
Evidence buried deep in encrypted drives was retrieved—backup copies Pierce had created with his late attorney, files meant to shatter Charles Lockwood’s façade. Those files had names, signatures, offshore transactions, unsavory business deals covered-up.
And someone had wanted them gone.
Pierce’s crash—the one that killed his attorney and her young paralegal—hadn’t been alcohol-induced, despite the headlines. It was staged. An assassination attempted masked as a recklessness by Pierce. The forensic team found tampered brake lines, planted sedatives, and a forced blood profile that didn’t even match Pierce’s recent labs.
His father hadn’t just tried to silence his rebellion.
He’d attempted a controlled erasure.
Several doctors had already been suspended. A legal counsel—one with decades of loyalty to the Lockwoods—was disbarred within seventy-two hours. The private nurse, now in custody, detailed conversations that implicated Katherine and Charles directly. Payments, threats, instructions to ignore medical ethics “for the good of the legacy.”
As the net closed in, even Eleanor Lockwood’s name emerged—not in bold ink, but in the margins. Her complicity wasn’t active—but quiet. Passive. A lifetime of permission that Charles exploited. She hadn’t stopped it. Not when Pierce was a boy. Not now.
And Katherine?
Her affair with Charles was strategic. Calculated. Her pregnancy wasn’t an accident—it was a mutual creation of replacement for Pierce. She hadn’t loved Pierce. But Charles was empire, and she’d embedded herself in its core.
She hadn’t just manipulated biology.
She’d infiltrated bloodlines. She couldn’t be erased. For better or worse, she was no longer the wife, who could turn into the ex and then fade away. She was the mother of the next heir.
Epilogue
Pierce stood beside the wide window in Brad’s office, sunlight catching the curve of Arden’s cheek as Maeve lifted her from his arms. The baby blinked sleepily and curled into Maeve’s chest, lamb tucked beneath one arm.
Brad returned, voice steady but low. “They’re processing sentencing recommendations. High-level stuff.”
Pierce turned, tired but grounded. “And?”
Brad leaned against the desk. “Charles, Katherine, and the senior medical team face multiple federal counts: conspiracy to commit murder, medical malpractice resulting in injury, and financial fraud with regard to falsified trials and inheritance manipulation. Charles will likely die in federal custody. Katherine’s facing over thirty years.”
Maeve’s arms tightened around Arden. “And the others?”
“The private nurse is already cooperating. Immunity deal in exchange for full testimony. The disbarred counsel will likely never practice again. Eleanor…” Brad hesitated. “She’ll walk. Passive complicity rarely sticks. But she’s out. No estate rights, no guardianship claims. Permanently.”
Pierce nodded, absorbing it all. The wreckage of a legacy buried in footnotes and depositions.
Then he looked down at the envelope again—the paternity report folded like an obituary.
“Chadwick doesn’t deserve to pay for what they did,” Pierce said quietly. “He’s innocent. Confused. And already halfway abandoned.”
Brad frowned gently. “You’re saying you want to raise him?”
“With help,” Pierce said. He glanced at Maeve, who nodded, then at Brad. “With people who don’t see power in bloodlines. Who see responsibility instead.”
Brad’s expression softened. “You sure about that?”
“No. But I know what it felt like to be cast aside.” Pierce’s voice cracked. “And I know what it means to be chosen, when you didn’t think anyone would.”
Maeve reached for his hand. He didn’t hesitate.
The months ahead weren’t simple. But Pierce Lockwood didn’t want simple.
He wanted to raise his brother as a better Lockwood than he’d been taught to be. To be the father Maeve knew he could be, the partner she hadn’t dared to believe would return, and the man Brad saw beneath the wreckage all along.
The legacy wasn’t gone.
It was being rewritten.
And this time, it was forged by choice.
And love.
EchoesOfLegacy 