Cashmere & Cameron – The Slow Bloom

Road to Redemption

I woke up in San Sequoia the morning after everything blew up, and for a few seconds I didn’t know where I was. My head felt stuffed with cotton. My mouth tasted like metal. My body was heavy, like someone had poured concrete into my bones.

Voices drifted through the hallway — sharp, angry, frantic — and it all came back in a sickening rush.

The photo. The screaming. Dad punching Cody. Mom shoving her phone in my face. My whole family looking at me like I’d detonated a bomb in the living room.

I curled into myself and tried to breathe, but the air felt thick and wrong. I couldn’t stay there. Not another minute. Not with everyone whispering and watching and waiting for me to break again.

So I packed a bag, walked past the kitchen without looking at anyone, and told Dad I was going with him.

He didn’t argue. He just nodded once, jaw tight, and drove me three hours inland to his horse ranch — the one place in the world where the noise couldn’t reach me.

I didn’t say a word the whole drive. He didn’t push.

When we got there, I went straight to the spare room and collapsed on the bed. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just… shut down.

Later, when I finally stumbled outside, Dad was in the barn. He turned when he heard me, and all the anger from the night before flashed across his face — the punch, the yelling, the chaos.

I snapped first.

“You hit Cody,” I said, voice shaking. “You hit him. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

Dad’s jaw clenched. “He should’ve stopped you. I can’t have my brother kissin’ mah daughter!”

“He DID stop me! It wasn’t even real! It was nothing like that photo! And you—” My voice cracked. “You didn’t even ask. You just hit him.”

He stepped toward me, slow, careful, like I was a spooked horse.

“Briony,” he said quietly, “I was scared fer you. Ya don’t understand what ya did. And he helped ya do it, intentional or not. I am tired of his bullshit and now he’s makin’ ya do bullshit too!”

I tried to shove him, but he caught my wrists gently, pulled me in, and held me against his chest. I fought him for a second — angry, humiliated, exhausted — then everything inside me broke open and I sobbed into his shirt.

He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

He just held me until the shaking stopped.

That’s how Brad and Mom found us — me red‑eyed and hollow, Dad looking like he’d aged ten years overnight. When he saw the car pull up he let go of me and I couldn’t hold myself up right. I collapsed onto my butt on the dirty ground.

Brad came over and crouched in front of me, voice soft but steady. “We had my legal team look into the photo. It’s doctored they are sure of it. Badly. And my mother pulled strings to get an emergency hearing scheduled in San Myshuno. I know you want to hide now, but we can’t. We have to leave, sweetheart.”

“A hearing?” I whispered. Brad’s mom was a retired judge and like all of them had a lot of pull. She had gotten him divorced so fast each time, unheard of.

“Next week,” he said. “Accelerated. My legal team is working on overdrive and we don’t have much time. We need you back in Brindleton Bay so we can prepare you and be in court in San Myshuno for this.”

Mom squeezed my hand. “We’re going to fix this, baby girl.”

I didn’t feel fixable. But I nodded anyway.

Court

The courthouse in San Myshuno felt like a fishbowl — cameras everywhere, reporters shouting my name, strangers staring like I was a scandal they could snack on.

There was a lot more to this, but my memory of it all is blurry at best. All I recall is I didn’t want to take the stand. But the judge called my name, and suddenly I was walking up there on legs that didn’t feel like mine.

The bailiff swore me in. My voice cracked.

Then the questions started.

“Miss Cameron, did you or did you not kiss your uncle in San Myshuno?”

My stomach twisted.

“Umm, well … it’s not so easy…”

“Just answer the question with yes or no, please.”

“Okay, then. Yes,” I said. “But not like the photo. It was one second. We were both holding coffee trays. I panicked.”

“Panicked how?”

“I saw my ex‑boyfriend with his new girlfriend. I didn’t think. I just… reacted. It was stupid. I know it was stupid. But it wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t anything. Cody was just right there. Had he not been, but some rando stranger I would have probably kissed them. I am not proud of it, just … panicked.”

The lawyer’s eyes narrowed.

“Did you touch him inappropriately?”

“WHAT?! No! EEEW!”

“Did he touch you inappropriately?”

“Oh God no. Cody would never! No!”

“So the image circulating online—”

“Is a Deepfake,” I said, louder than I meant to. “It’s edited. It never happened. 100% out of context.”

He paced slowly, like he enjoyed watching me squirm.

“Miss Cameron, do you understand why people believed it?”

My throat closed. I looked over at Cody looking like someone beat the life out of him, at my Dad – tense, furious, ready to explode. My brother Beau looking one second from flipping out, my mom sobbing again and Brad stonefaced. And I had done that to all of them.

I forced myself to look up.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Because people like believing the worst about girls like me. Because I’m young. Because I’m from a famous family. Because I’ve made mistakes. Because it’s easy. Because they are jealous.”

A tear slipped down my cheek.

“But none of that makes it true.”

The courtroom went silent.

The judge nodded once. “You may step down, Miss Cameron.”

I walked back to my seat on shaking legs.

Dad squeezed my shoulder. Mom kissed my temple. Brad whispered, “You did good.”

Beau and Cody said nothing. Cody had already been called to the stand earlier and I honestly remember nothing but feeling guilty and ashamed that he even had to do this. It was all my fault. He was way too nice about it all, making me feel even more ashamed.

I didn’t feel good.
I felt exposed.

And then they called the next witness.

Beckett Ashby.

And everything inside me broke all over again. Why him?

He looked older.
Tired.
Heartbroken.

He wouldn’t look at me at first.

He was sworn in.

Beckett finally looked at me.

And everything inside me shattered so fast I didn’t even feel the pieces fall.

“Did you alter the photo?” the attorney asked.

“No,” he said. “I would never do that. I still love her.”

The room gasped. I sobbed. Jackson muttered, “damn kid.”

Beckett continued:

“I didn’t do this, but I feel responsible it happened. After seeing Briony in San Myshuno that day, and then again a couple weeks later at New Year’s, I realized a lot of things and broke up with my girlfriend. She didn’t take it well. She asked to pick up her things from my home. We had done nothing but fight since the breakup, so I gave her space while she packed up her stuff in my room, or so I thought. I am an artist, Your Honor, photography mostly, and studying to go into Marketing. When I am close with someone that inadvertently comes up, so she knew all that. I think she used my editing software to hurt Briony. I think she snapped that photo, then used it to defame her utilizing my editing software. My ex-girlfriend has a fairly high traffic social media presence.”

Brad’s attorney pushed:

“Convenient to blame the ex-girlfriend, isn’t it? I am sure your attorney had told you that the digital footprint discovered during forensic research lead us to your IP address, Mr. Ashby.”

His dad jumped up in the audience section “That’s enough! My boy would never! He doesn’t have to rely on such infantile tactics to get even, especially not with a girl!”

Beckett didn’t argue.
He handed over a flash drive.

“My father installed cameras in the penthouse after a maid stole from us some months ago. They are still there and he always forgets to turn them off. Came in handy. This is the footage.”

The courtroom watched:

Chelsi sneaking in. Chelsi at his computer, connecting her phone. Chelsi looking over her shoulder. Chelsi saving files. Chelsi leaving in a hurry.

I covered my face and sobbed.

Beckett finally looked at me.
“I would have never done this, Briony, if that crossed your mind. Never. I hope you know that.”

And everything inside me shattered so fast I didn’t even feel the pieces fall.

My breath hitched. My vision blurred. The courtroom tilted, like the floor had dropped out from under me and nobody warned me.

I pressed my hands over my face, but it didn’t stop anything. Not the tears. Not the shaking. Not the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears like a warning siren.

I felt Dad’s hand on my shoulder. Mom’s arm around me. Brad holding my hand.
But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Because Beckett Ashby had just said he still loved me. In front of everyone. Under oath. With cameras rolling.

And I didn’t know whether to run to him or run away.

Court recessed for lunch, but it felt like the world had stopped spinning. I couldn’t eat. I could barely breathe.

The courthouse in San Myshuno—the city that never sleeps, never shuts up, never minds its own business—felt like it was closing in on me.
I stumbled into the hallway, sunglasses on even though we were indoors.

The press surged forward like a wave, but Beau stepped in front of me, arms crossed, jaw clenched, looking like he’d happily commit a felony if anyone got too close.

Dad growled something that made a reporter back up so fast he tripped over his own equipment.

Brad guided me to a bench.
Mom sat beside me, rubbing my back in slow circles.

I couldn’t stop shaking.

I couldn’t stop replaying Beckett’s voice in my head.

I still love her.

It hurt.
God, it hurt.

Because I loved him too.
And I hated him for it. But most of all I hated myself. For everything.

When court resumed, Chelsi took the stand. Guess they subpoenaed her during the break.

She looked small.
Not physically—she was tall, blonde, perfect in that influencer way—but small in the way people look when they know the truth is coming for them.

Her lawyer tried to spin it.

“She was emotional.”
“She was heartbroken.”
“She acted impulsively.”
“She didn’t understand the consequences.”

But the footage didn’t lie.

The room watched her sneak into the Ashby penthouse in San Myshuno—the same place where everything had blown up.
Sit at Beckett’s computer.
Look over her shoulder.
Save files.
Leave in a hurry.

Her face crumpled.

She started crying.
Ugly crying.
Mascara streaks, trembling lips, the whole thing.

“I didn’t mean to ruin her life,” she sobbed.
“I just… I loved him. And she had everything, did she really need him too. He was mine. We belong together. Beckett, you know we do. You know I love only you!”

Things happened, the judge called her to order and more but I zoned out.

I almost laughed.
I almost screamed.

Instead, I sat there, hands clenched in my lap, nails digging into my palms until I felt skin break.

The Verdict

The judge didn’t drag it out.

The evidence was overwhelming.
The intent was clear.
The damage was undeniable.

Chelsi was found liable for defamation, emotional distress, malicious intent, digital tampering, invasion of privacy. She was ordered to post corrections and apologies on all her social media and pay for public corrections and apologies to be printed and all that. Plus community service and all that I honestly didn’t care about.

Her parents cried.
Beckett stared at the floor.
I stared at nothing.

The judge ordered restitution, mandatory counseling, and a restraining order and also strongly urged the press to make this right, as clearly a young woman at the beginning of her life almost had it ruined which is a shameful reflection on society, blah blah blah.

It should’ve felt like victory.

It didn’t.

It felt like ashes.

Outside the Courthouse
The second we stepped outside, the press swarmed again.

“Briony, do you forgive her.”
“Briony, are you and Beckett getting back together.”
“Briony, how does it feel to be vindicated.”
“Briony, is it true you were sent to rehab on your father’s ranch after substance abuse issues?”

That one made Dad bark,
“Watch your damn mouth,”
and the reporter practically fainted.

I kept walking.
Head down.
Sunglasses on.
Breathing like I’d forgotten how.

Beckett was standing off to the side with his parents.
He looked like he wanted to come over.

I looked away first.

Because I couldn’t.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.

Back to Brindleton Bay

Brindleton Bay was quiet after court — too quiet. The ocean helped. The cold helped. Mom and Brad helped. My little siblings helped. Dad, Beau and Cody had to go back home, leaving Amy and grandpa alone with all that was too much. Cody hugged me so tight as we said goodbye and I just sobbed. I thought he would hate me now and things would be awkward but he was just the same as always. That was the difference between that side of my family and the other. The Chestnut Ridge crowd were the way they were, unshakable. You always knew what you would get.

But I was still bruised inside.

So when Beckett texted asking if we could meet for coffee, I said yes before I could think.

He showed up looking nervous and hopeful and exactly like the boy I’d fallen in love with at seventeen. We talked for hours — soft, careful, sweet. He told me he still wanted us. That he’d never stopped.

For a moment, I let myself believe it. Let myself hope. I already painted colorful pictures of us together again, on vacations, curled up on Brad’s yacht, him taking those cool photos of me again … Just us, back together, like it was meant to be.

Then he said the words that shattered me:

“My dad asked that we keep our distance for a while. Just until everything blows over. Then we can work on… us. Maybe a semester or two.”

I nodded, while I felt the bottom fall out beneath me. Smiled. Pretended it didn’t feel like déjà vu. He did it again. I thought he changed. But he still had those priorities that just didn’t line up with mine.

He drove me back to Brad’s estate. We sat in the car for a long moment. He brushed a strand of hair behind my ear and kissed me — soft, hesitant, like he was afraid I’d disappear. I let him.

I didn’t ask him in. I couldn’t. Just got out of the car and walked to the front door like a mechanic doll.

Mom and Brad were watching from the window — I could feel it.

The second the door closed behind me, I fell apart. Right into Mom’s arms. Brad wrapped around both of us, solid and warm and steady.

“He chose his dad again,” I whispered. “He always chooses someone else.”

“Well, at least he chose you once when it really mattered, by delivering the missing piece of evidence to nail that Chelsi to the cross.”

They held me until I stopped shaking.

Brad’s Office

A few hours later, I found Brad in his home office. I knocked. He looked up immediately.

“Got a minute?” I asked.

“For you? Always.”

I sat across from him, twisting my hands. “I’m sorry. For all of this. You’ve been nothing but nice to me, ever since Mom and you got married the first time, and I just keep… causing problems.”

He shook his head. “Briony, I was young once. Things like this happen — especially to people like us. People with names. Legacies. Targets on our backs. Some folks want to see us fall just so they have something to talk about. Everyone’s always quick to scream nepotism and show up our mistakes. Happened to me too.”

His voice was calm. Warm. Fatherly in a way that didn’t try to replace my dad — just support him.

Then he reached for an envelope on his desk.

“This came for you.”

My stomach dropped. The University of Britchester crest stared back at me.

“You’d think they discovered email by now,” I joked weakly.

Brad smirked. “They use email for the bad news. Which gave me hope this might be the opposite.”

My hands shook as I opened it.

Reinstated. Spring semester.

I exhaled so hard I almost laughed.

But fear crept in too.

Going back meant facing everything. Everyone. The whispers. The stares.

I wasn’t sure I could.

But I would.

Because I had to. I had to show what I was made of. For Mom. For Dad. For Brad. For Graham and Lauren, Brad’s older kids whose lives I definitely made harder. For poor Cody. For Beckett. And for me.

University Bound Again

Coming back to UBrite felt like walking into a room where everyone had been talking about me and went silent the second I stepped inside.

Nobody said anything. Nobody pointed. Nobody whispered loud enough for me to hear.

But I knew they knew.

The way people’s eyes flicked away too fast. The way conversations died when I walked past. The way even professors looked at me with that tight, polite expression people use when they’re trying not to stare at a wound.

I stopped going to parties. Stopped going out. Stopped doing anything except class → home → class → home.

And the silence started eating me alive.

Cody still called. Still checked on me. Still tried to be normal.

But when I asked if he could come visit again, he hesitated.

“Maybe give it a bit, sugar,” he said softly. “Folks still talkin’. I don’t wanna stir nothin’ up.”

I told him it was fine. I lied.

My studies were a mess. Not that I necessarily didn’t understand it, but my focus was gone. My brain felt like static. I just could not form proper thoughts, nor solve the presented problems.

So I leaned on Brad. Hard.

We had video calls almost every day, whenever our free time aligned enough — him walking me through assignments, explaining concepts, helping me organize my thoughts and workload. He never complained. He never made me feel stupid. He just… showed up. Brad really was a great dad, even if he wasn’t my dad.

Mom graduated college, but her degree was in Fine Arts — performance, composition, creative theory. She’s brilliant in her lane, but business coursework is a completely different language. Microeconomics, accounting, analytics, organizational behavior… none of that overlaps with what she studied or what she does now. She tried to help at first, but even she admitted, laughing, “Baby, this is not my world.”

My dad wouldn’t have been able to help either — and not because he wouldn’t try. Dad would sit with me for hours if I asked. He’d Google every term, watch every tutorial, stay up all night just to make sure I didn’t feel alone. But ranch life doesn’t use spreadsheets or supply‑and‑demand curves. His world is instinct and experience and hands‑on problem‑solving. He’s smart — the kind of smart you can’t teach — but this isn’t the kind of thing he’s ever needed to know.

Brad, though…

Brad took business courses alongside medicine back in the day, because he always knew he would be doing both — living in ORs and running the Cunningham Medical empire at the same time. Budgets, staffing, operations, contracts, and a thousand moving parts no one warns you about. He speaks the language fluently. He understands the structure behind the chaos.

So when I called, overwhelmed and lost, Brad didn’t hesitate. He just opened his laptop, smiled that calm Brad smile — the one that could probably lower a patient’s blood pressure on sight — and said, “Alright, kiddo. Let’s share your screen and we’ll figure this out.”

And we did.

One call ran long. Too long.

I checked the time, let out a tirade of very unladylike things, grabbed my notebook, laptop, pens — basically my entire academic survival kit — and launched myself out the door toward my midday lecture.

Crash, Boom, Bang

I barely made it down the steps before I collided with someone. Full‑body, full‑impact, full‑disaster.

Everything went flying — my papers, his papers, pens, a water bottle, something that might’ve been a sandwich — raining down around us like the universe had hit the “explode” button on my GPA.

“OH FOR—” I cursed like a sailor with Tourette’s, then slapped a hand over my mouth. “Sorry. Sorry! I’m sorry. I’m just— sorry.”

The guy blinked at me, startled, holding a campus map like he’d just spawned into the world five minutes ago. Then he laughed — low, warm, surprised.

“I’m not sure if you’re apologizing,” he said, “or furious that I existed in your path.”

His accent hit me like a soft punch — warm, elegant, coastal. French‑adjacent vowels, Italian‑adjacent rhythm, but not quite either. Something Mediterranean and expensive.

I crouched to grab my things. “I’m late. My stepdad kept me on a call and now I’m screwed.”

“Stepfather?” he echoed, kneeling to help gather my papers. “I have a stepmother. She also enjoys making me late.”

Before I could respond, he stood and handed me my notebook like it was something delicate.

“Let me walk with you,” he said. “I’ve just arrived on campus and I’m hopelessly lost.”

Normally, I would’ve said no. Normally, I would’ve sprinted away like a feral cat.

But he didn’t look like a threat. He looked… new. Untangled from everything. And I knew that feeling too well.

So I nodded.

We walked fast — or rather, I speed‑walked like my life depended on it, and he kept up without breaking a sweat.

He asked simple questions. Where things were. What buildings were which. What classes were like. Office hours.

Nothing personal. Nothing weird. Just… normal.

I pointed out the library, the quad, the dining hall, the cursed statue everyone hated. He listened like I was giving him a private tour of the Louvre.

When we reached the lecture hall, I grabbed the door handle and—

Locked.

Of course.

I peered through the tiny window. My professor looked up, saw me, and shook his head with the disappointment of a man who believed tardiness was a moral failing. He tapped his wristwatch like he was scolding a toddler.

I groaned. “Great. Perfect. My professor doesn’t believe in being late but is fully committed to being a heartless dick.”

The guy raised an eyebrow, amused.

I turned to him. “Sorry. Which lecture did you need? Hopefully your prof isn’t an asshole too.”

He smiled — slow, warm, a little wicked.

“I don’t have a lecture,” he admitted. “I just fancied the company and a brief tour. Forgive me.”

I stared at him.

Normally, that would’ve earned an eye‑roll and a “boy, bye.” Maybe a Cameron‑grade curse.

But I was lonely. And tired. And desperately craving someone who didn’t know my entire life story.

And apparently, my lecture was cancelled for the afternoon. So… whatever.

I exhaled. “Fine. Coffee? Please do not tell me you don’t drink coffee or I’m just gonna walk off.”

His smile widened. “I’d like that. And I drink coffee passionately.”

At least something we had in common — besides being hopelessly lost.

The Café

The café was loud — some sports team was celebrating something, yelling over each other, banging tables, the whole thing.

We sat across from each other, leaning in to hear.

He was handsome in a way that felt… classic. Dark hair. Strong jaw. Warm eyes but a light color, I think blue, but sometimes they looked green. Like someone from an old European film — soft but sharp at the same time. Definitely not someone I would kick out of my bed. What?! Seriously, Briony Rose Cameron? SERIOUSLY!? Nix that. Not that. Nope, nope, NOPE!

He leaned closer. “You mentioned your stepfather earlier.”

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s basically my academic life support right now.”

“I understand,” he said. “My stepmother is… rather complicated at times, demanding. We get along, it’s just a bit … well, you know. Step-relations come with attachments and … it can get a bit messy.”

Before I could ask about his evil‑stepmother‑from‑a‑fairytale type situation, someone behind us screamed like their team had just scored the winning goal of the century, and the noise swallowed the moment whole.

He gestured for me to repeat myself.

I leaned in, practically shouting into the space between us. “What’s your name?”

But the café erupted again — laughter, shouting, clattering dishes — and all I heard was:

“Luke?”

He opened his mouth to correct me… then stopped and nodded.

“Luke is fine,” he said.

I nodded. “I’m—”

I almost said Briony. Almost handed him the whole messy truth.

But something in me hesitated.

So I shouted, “Brianne.” Close enough to the original for me to remember it and that I lied about it. And if someone were to call me, I could pretend they got it wrong.

Gravity

Well, the fact that I mentioned him this much already gave it away: Luke wasn’t just a one‑time run‑in — literally. We saw each other more. And more. And then a lot.

We didn’t become inseparable overnight.

It was slower than that. Gentler than that. More accidental than that.

It took the entire semester — the semester that should have been my second but was now my first, the semester where I was trying to prove to myself that I wasn’t broken or behind or whatever everyone whispered.

Luke just… kept showing up.

Not in a creepy way. Not in a “wow, this guy has no hobbies” way. In a quiet, steady, I’m‑new‑here‑and‑you‑make‑this‑place‑less‑terrifying way. I feel ya, bruh, I thought. I had Cody to help me through a lot of my new-on-campus-angst. Now Luke had me. Pay it forward. Sorta.

We’d bump into each other on the quad. Then outside the library. Then in the café again — where he pretended not to notice I ordered the same drink every time because I was too scared to try anything new.

Sometimes we’d sit together. Sometimes we’d walk together. Sometimes we’d just… exist near each other, orbiting the same spaces without meaning to.

He never flirted. Never pushed. Never pried.

He let me be “Brianne,” even though I’m almost sure he already figured out that was a lie. I had shown him texts from my family in which they addressed me as Briony. He’d seen it on mail. On my laptop login screen. On my Starbucks order when they spelled it wrong for the fiftieth time.

And somehow, that made it easier to breathe.

He helped me with coursework — not in a show‑off way, but in a patient, thoughtful, “you’re not stupid, this is just new” way that made me feel capable again. FYI- he was in his final semester, older than me. I think he said twenty-five. So, he knew a lot of this already. I helped him navigate UBrite — the buildings, the professors, the weird campus traditions, the fact that the dining hall chicken was a rubbery, inedible war crime.

We talked about everything and nothing.

He told me his stepmother was strict. I told him my stepfather was brilliant. He told me his family had “expectations.” I told him mine had “opinions.”

We didn’t go deeper. We didn’t need to.

But something was growing between us — slow, steady, quiet.

Not romance. Not yet.

Just… warmth. Safety. Gravity.

The kind you don’t notice until you’re already leaning toward it.

One afternoon, we ended up by the water — the little lake behind the science building where the sun hits the surface just right and makes everything look like a filter. We weren’t talking. We weren’t doing anything. Just sitting there, side by side, letting the day settle around us.

He was looking out over the water, elbows on his knees, hair pushed back by the breeze. And I… I took a second to really look at him.

His hair wasn’t just brown. It was that impossible in‑between shade — dark blonde in the sun, light brown in the shade — the kind of color that looks expensive even though it’s natural. And his clothes… God, his clothes. Not flashy. Not logo‑y. Just right. The kind of right that comes from someone who grew up around tailoring and fabrics that drape properly.

He had that quiet, effortless polish — the kind you only get from being raised in a world where everything is curated. The way he sat, the way he carried himself, the way he wasn’t intimidated by anything UBrite threw at him… it all whispered affluent without him ever saying a word.

And honestly? It was a relief.

Because I’ve met the other kind — the ones who get weird when they figure out who my family is. The ones who suddenly want to “collaborate” or “network” or “pick my brain.” The ones who pretend they don’t know my mom’s side is basically a VIP directory of the entertainment industry, or that Brad’s medical empire isn’t a whole thing.

Luke didn’t have that energy. He didn’t need anything from me. He wasn’t impressed or intimidated or calculating.

He was just… himself.

His profile was all clean lines and quiet elegance — the kind of bone structure that looks like it belongs in old portraits. Straight nose, defined jaw, cheekbones that caught the light just enough to be distracting. And his eyes…

God, his eyes.

That blue‑green mix that never looks the same twice. Bright blue. Deep blue. Baby blue. Sea‑glass green. Storm‑tide gray-blue. Jade. Sunlit moss. Right now they were this soft, washed‑out turquoise, like the water was reflecting in them.

I don’t know how long I stared before he spoke.

He said something about the lake — something simple, something observational — but the way he said it…

That’s what got me.

The way certain consonants softened in his mouth. The way the h just… vanished, like it wasn’t worth the trouble. The way the vowels stretched warm and round, brushing the air instead of cutting through it. The way his voice dipped at the end of the sentence, like a secret he wasn’t telling.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t performative. It was just… him.

And it was sweet. And maybe a little sexy. Not that I would ever admit that out loud. Fuck. I realized right then that I was falling for him. Great. Just what I needed in my fucked-up life, another complication. One with the cutest accent, the prettiest blue-green eyes and hair I just wanted to run my fingers through to see if it felt the way I thought it would. Super.

I looked away before he could catch me staring.

But something in me had already tilted — just a fraction, just enough to feel the pull.

Just enough to know that whatever this was… it wasn’t nothing anymore.

Cody called that night.

I was sitting on my bed, laptop open, pretending to study.

“How’s school?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean it, it’s fine. Honestly.”

“You sound better.”

I hesitated. “Cody … I met someone.”

Silence.

Then, carefully: “Alright! Someone like… someone?”

“No,” I said quickly. “Just a friend.”

“Uh‑huh.”

I rolled my eyes. “Cody.”

“I’m just sayin’, sugar… you don’t sound like you’re talkin’ about a friend.”

I flopped back on my pillow. “He’s just nice. And normal. And he doesn’t know anything about my life. He has such pretty eyes and an accent. Oof. But I think he’s loaded so not into my family tree and their bank account.”

“That’s the dangerous kind,” Cody said gently. “The ones who make you get off the brakes and  forget the world’s been cruel.”

I didn’t answer.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

“Hey Briony?”

“Hey Cody?”

“Good fer ya,” he chuckled, I smiled.

Level Up

It happened the next week.

We were walking across campus, both wrapped in scarves, breath fogging in the air. I was rambling about something — a class, a professor, a weird dream — and he was listening with that soft, focused attention he always gave me.

Then he laughed — a real laugh, warm and bright and unguarded — and something in me cracked open.

I stopped walking.

“Luke,” I said quietly.

He turned to me, eyebrows raised.

“My name isn’t Brianne.”

He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t look confused. He just waited.

“My real name is Briony,” I said. “Briony Rose Cameron.”

A beat. A breath. A shift.

Then he smiled — not shocked, not impressed, not intimidated.

Just… relieved.

“I know,” he said gently.

My heart stuttered. “You— what?”

“I heard people talking about you,” he said. “I looked it up. I know why you thought you had to hide. I didn’t want to embarrass you. I wanted you to tell me when you were ready.”

Something warm and terrifying and wonderful bloomed in my chest.

Because he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t judging.

He was just… there.

Steady. Patient. Safe.

And that was the exact moment I knew I was in trouble.
We kept walking, but everything felt different. Closer. Quieter. Sharper.

The sun was dipping low, turning the campus gold. The air was cold enough that our breaths mingled in little clouds as we crossed the street toward the row of townhomes.

We lived next door to each other — separated only by a small patch of grass and a fountain that never worked properly. I’d always thought it was ugly. Tonight it looked… romantic. Of course.

He walked me right up to my door.

I turned to say goodnight, but he was already looking at me — really looking — with that soft, steady gaze that made my stomach flip.

“Briony,” he said, his accent smoothing over the edges of the word in that warm, rounded way he talked — and hearing my real name like that did something to me. Something stupid. Something dangerous.

I swallowed. “Yeah?”

He stepped closer. Not touching. But close enough that I felt the warmth of him through my coat.

“I’m glad you told me,” he said quietly.

My breath caught. “I’m glad you… knew.”

He laughed under his breath — a tiny, nervous sound I’d never heard from him before.

And then it happened.

That shift. That pull. That gravity.

He leaned in — just a little, just enough — and I felt myself leaning too, like my body had made the decision before my brain could catch up.

His eyes flicked to my mouth. Mine flicked to his.

The world narrowed to the space between us.

And then—

A loud group of students rounded the corner, laughing, shouting, stomping across the grass like a herd of drunk elephants. One of them yelled something about the fountain. Another tripped over the curb.

The moment shattered.

Luke stepped back instantly — too fast, too sharp — like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“I—” he started.

“It’s fine,” I said quickly, even though it absolutely wasn’t.

He nodded once, jaw tight, eyes flicking away.

“Goodnight, Briony.”

“Goodnight, Luke.”

I slipped inside my door. He walked across the grass toward his. The fountain gurgled weakly between us.

My heart didn’t stop racing for hours.

And we both pretended nothing happened.

But something had.

Flying Colors

I didn’t think my heart could beat that fast over a university portal login.

But there it was — the Britchester results page glowing on my phone like it held the secrets of the universe. My first semester. My first real test of whether I could do this. Whether I could be more than the girl who traveled everywhere and finished nothing.

Luke was sitting on the edge of my bed, pretending not to watch me. He does that thing where he stares at the floor but he’s absolutely watching me, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal.

I swallowed hard and hit View Results.

I passed.

Not just passed — passed. Nearly flying colors.

I screamed. He laughed. I launched myself at him. He caught me like he’d been expecting it, arms steady, warm, grounding.

Then I called home.

Mom answered on speaker, which meant Brad was there too.

“Mom—MOM—” I shrieked. “I PASSED! I did it! I did it and I got good grades!”

She screamed like she’d just been told she won a Grammy. Brad laughed in the background, warm and proud in that quiet Brad way.

“Oh sweetheart, that’s amazing!” Mom yelled.

Then Brad’s voice, steady and smiling:

“Proud of you. I’ll send the jet. Come home and rest up. Bring your friend, if you like.”

Luke’s head snapped up like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over him.

After we hung up, I turned to him, hands flying everywhere because apparently my body can’t handle emotions without choreography.

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I’m sure you have plans. Just… don’t let Mom and Brad make you think your life has to orbit ours. I know it sounded like pressure. My family can be… a lot. And you looked me up, so you know the tea. We’re not normal. Brad’s my stepdad, and his family is probably the most normal‑adjacent I can offer you, but still. Brad’s like a serious big wig even in a place like Brindleton Bay. His estate is huge. Like, huge huge. And he has a jet. And yeah, that can make people uncomfortable—”

I was thinking of Dad. And Beau. And Cody. And every guy who’d ever looked at my life and flinched.

He smiled — soft, amused, warm in that way that made my stomach do something deeply unhelpful.

“Briony,” he said, my name wrapped in that soft, lilting accent of his, “I promise you… I’m honored. If you would like me to come, I would gladly accept his kind offer. I promise not to be overwhelmed and to be on my best behavior.”

My heart did something stupid.

Because he meant it. Because he wasn’t intimidated. Because he wasn’t dazzled. Because he wasn’t using me. Because he wasn’t scared.

Because he was Luke — steady, warm, impossible to read, impossible to shake.

And because for the first time in a long time, I wanted someone to come home with me. Someone I wasn’t related to, I mean.

Rosebriar Haven

The Cunningham jet was waiting for us at the tiny Henfordshire airstrip — sleek, white, quiet, the kind of plane that made people stare without meaning to. The pilot nodded when he saw me, already lowering the steps. No signs. No fuss. Just the way Brad preferred it.

Luke and I climbed aboard, and the flight to San Myshuno International was stupidly fast — clouds like cotton, the city glowing beneath us as we descended. When we stepped off the jet, a black town car was already idling beside it on the tarmac, engine humming, driver holding the door open like we were returning from tour.

Luke slid into the seat beside me — not stiff, not overwhelmed, just quietly taking in the leather interior, the skyline, the way the city lights flickered across the windows. Hands resting on his knees, posture relaxed, eyes thoughtful.

The drive from the airport to Brindleton Bay was long enough for the city to fade into coastline — dark water, pale mist, pine trees bending in the wind. When the car finally turned onto the private road, the wrought‑iron gates swung open automatically, lanterns glowing on either side like something out of a gothic novel.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stiffen. Didn’t do the “holy shit” inhale most people did the first time. Confirmed what I already knew. He came from an affluent family. All this was just another Tuesday for him. Got it. Noted.

He just watched quietly, absorbing everything.

And then we stepped out of the car.

Brad’s estate looked like something out of a coastal magazine — all white brick, white trim, and that clean, salty smell you only get when rain hits the ocean. Luke took it in quietly, eyes moving over everything with that calm, steady attention he always had. Not judging. Not impressed. Just… absorbing.

As we walked up the path, I pointed toward the estate sign — the one that still makes my mom blush like she’s seventeen again.

“Okay, so this,” I told him, “is probably the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard a man do for a woman.”

He slowed, curious.

“Brad renamed his ancestral estate after my mom. Rosebriar Haven… as in Briar Rose.” I brushed my fingers over the carved letters. “He renamed it the first time they got married. I was still a kid. And he kept it — even when they split, even when he married Viola, even when Mom remarried my dad. He never changed it back.”

The rain misted around us, soft and silver, catching on the stone.

“And when they found their way back to each other again,” I said, “it felt like… I don’t know. A sign. An omen. Like the universe had been holding the place for them the whole time. And only Brad knew. Or had enough faith that they would.”

Luke’s expression shifted — not shock, not awe, but something gentler. Something like recognition.

His eyes moved over the sign again, thoughtful, and then he looked at me.

“That is… beautiful,” he said softly, his accent warming the vowels, brushing lightly over the consonants. He understood what it meant for a man like Brad to canonize his love for a woman by carving it into stone and anchoring it to his entire ancestral legacy.

We kept walking, and I found myself talking — really talking — in that way I only do when I feel safe.

“Mom and Brad were high school sweethearts,” I said. “Brindleton Bay’s perfect couple. In case you didn’t know, Mom was born here and grew up here too. Everyone thought they’d get married right after graduation. But Brad’s dad was… awful. Controlling. He tore them apart for stupid reasons. And that’s probably the only reason she ever ended up with my dad.”

Luke glanced at me, listening.

“I love my dad,” I said quickly. “And my mom did and still does too. I love the whole Chestnut Ridge side of my family. But I could never marry a horserancher. I could never live that life. Mom couldn’t either. She tried. She really tried. But she was always meant for this world. Dad tried to live in our world but failed miserably. And Brad… Brad was always meant for her. My twin brother Beau is as Team Dad as it gets, but even he admits that.”

Luke didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

His silence wasn’t empty — it was understanding. We’d built this quiet agreement without ever speaking it aloud: don’t ask, don’t dig, only take what the other person offers. It was a relief, honestly. As curious as I got sometimes, I knew that if he opened up, I’d feel obligated to do the same, and I’d rather not peel back those layers unless I had to. My family was just too big and too fucked up for me to want to fly that flag too proudly.

Still, I knew pieces of him.

He had a stepmother. His mom died when he was sixteen, and it wrecked him and his sister in that quiet, permanent way grief does — the kind you learn to walk around like furniture.

He didn’t hate the woman who came after, but they weren’t close the way Brad and I were. She was strict, he’d said once — the kind of strict that made sure his father wasn’t too lenient. In my head she became this polished control‑freak type, a drill sergeant in haute couture who ran a household like a boardroom. Not the cliché trophy wife either; he’d mentioned she wasn’t much younger than his father, and she’d been a widow herself. And she had money of her own, so it wasn’t a gold‑digger situation.

Just… complicated. Like most families are, if you stare too long.

And the thing was — he never asked for more of my story than I offered. Not once. Not even when he easily could have.

That silence between us wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t evasive. It was… respectful. A mutual agreement to only take what the other person handed over.

And honestly? For someone like me — someone who’d had her entire life dissected by strangers — that felt like oxygen.

Mom met us at the door and hugged me so tight I couldn’t breathe. Brad hugged me too — warm, steady, grounding — then shook Luke’s hand with that doctor‑confidence that makes everyone feel instantly safe.

Mom took one look at Luke, made a tiny oh he’s cute face she absolutely thought she hid, and promptly pulled him into a hug too. Before either of us could recover, she’d linked her arm through his, grabbed mine with the other, and swept us both inside like she was escorting honored guests into a gala.

She chatted the whole way — bright, bubbly, delighted — and Luke let himself be steered along, smiling that soft, polite smile he does when he’s trying not to look overwhelmed.

And just like that, he was in the house. In my world. And somehow… he fit.

Dinner with the younger kids — my half-siblings Nate and Eden and Brad’s kid with the wife in between his two marriages to my mom, Charlotte — was chaos in the best possible way. The kind of chaos that comes with small humans who have zero filter and unlimited curiosity. They interrogated Luke like tiny reporters tag-teaming a celebrity: Where are you from? Do you like sharks? How tall are you? Do you eat your vegetables? Do you have a dog? Why not? Do you want one? Can you ride? What’s the biggest sand castle you ever built?

Brad finally stepped in before they could send off for his genetic testing or something.

Luke didn’t mind. He just smiled — patient, warm — and dodged the questions he didn’t want to answer with the kind of smooth verbal footwork that made me wonder if he’d been trained for hostage negotiations. Or a politician.

The weather, however, did us dirty. The rain didn’t stop for days — sideways, misty, coastal rain that soaked your jeans and made the whole world smell like pine and ocean. The kind of rain that felt like it was coming from every direction at once.

We made the best of it. We walked the cliffs when the wind wasn’t too vicious. We helped Brad cook — or rather, Brad cooked and we tried not to ruin anything. Funnily, another thing Luke and I had in common, neither of us could cook. Mom couldn’t either. She once learned for Brad, but forgot almost all. She tried to help, but it was like the blind leading the blind. We played cards with Nate, who cheated with the confidence of a Vegas professional. We watched storms roll in over the bay, the sky turning bruised and dramatic.

One evening, I walked into the kitchen and froze.

Brad was leaning into Mom, kissing her cheek as he whispered:

“I like him for her. He makes her smile like Cody and Beckett used to before everything got weird.”

Mom sighed — soft, sad, knowing.

“Things aren’t weird between her and Cody,” she said. “Even her dad apologized to him for hitting him — and you know Jackson doesn’t apologize. Cody’s over it. They’re cowboys and brothers, it’s nothing. And Cody still talks to Briony all the time. They’re good. He just felt helpless when he realized something that would’ve blown over in Chestnut Ridge — a couple punches and forgotten — doesn’t just fizzle out in our world. Seeing what society did to her over literally nothing… he felt like he failed her, couldn’t protect her and that’s one of the worst things for cowboys like them. Jackson and Beau too. So, he’s keeping physical distance for a while. Makes perfect sense to me. And to her. She’s a smart girl. And very strong.”

Brad nodded, thoughtful.

“This boy — well, young man — he’s calm. Composed. I like that. I like him for her. Like you and I, my calm balances your fire, which in turn gets me to act outside my safe box sometimes. Hopefully it doesn’t just fizzle out. Clearly, he isn’t after her for the wrong reasons. One look at him tells me he is from a very solid background. How old is he again?”

“Twenty‑five I think.”

Brad huffed. “Hm. Quite the gap to eighteen, but then again, boys mature late, so probably for the better. Nice guy, educated, and he speaks in a manner I can actually understand — not that modern nonsensical slang. Sometimes when I’m on the phone with Graham or Lauren, I swear I wasted all that money on their education just for them to sound one evolutionary step above cavemen, and I still need a dictionary to figure out if what they’re telling me is good or bad. And nothing against Beau or even Cody, but those two are very hard to understand sometimes with that drawl. Briony at least tones her Gen Alpha gibberish down for the… Boomers.”

Mom smirked. “Oh, you sweet Boomer. I agree. The only thing that flags for me is it’s a bit quick for my taste, but honestly? Nothing cures Beckett‑heartache like falling again. I had high hopes for Becks — especially after he came through for her in court like a knight — but that kid has a lot of growing up to do. Makes a case for someone a bit more mature. Like Luke. Handsome too. And that accent? Oh, that gets me into a Gomez Addams type of mood.” she giggled.

Brad laughed and kissed her again. “Hey now, don’t make me start speaking in tongues so you don’t leave me for your daughter’s boyfriend.”

“Never. And I’m not sure they’re a couple yet. Neither are you, since you confidently put him in the pool house and her as far away as possible in the main house.”

“Bri, have you seen them look at each other? If they aren’t together, they will be soon. And since when have separate rooms stopped young romance — especially for any Camerons? I am just being a proper host, keeping at least the illusion of propriety, that’s all. What they need is a little nudge. And I might just nudge.”

“Do NOT nudge! We stay out of it, Bradford. You hear me?”

I slipped away before they noticed me.

By day four, the storm was biblical.

Brad found us staring out the window at the sheets of rain and said:

“You two deserve some sun. Take my jet. I’ll have my assistant book something nice.” Brad was already dialing. There it was. His nudge.

Sulani

The beach villa had two bedrooms “for propriety,” but the walls were thin and the nights were warm and the ocean was loud and the space between us kept shrinking. It was different than it had been when I was here with Cody — and not just because he was my uncle and Luke and I most definitely were not.

It was… comfortable. Easy. We swam. We hiked. We laughed. We tanned. We ate fresh fruit on the beach. We held hands without thinking about it.

But nothing more. Yes, believe it or not, we each slept in our own beds every single night, no notes, no sneaking, no “oops I fell asleep next to you.” Just… restraint. Or fear. Or both.

And when the vacation ended, I didn’t want to leave. He seemed sad about it too — in that quiet, careful way he has, where he doesn’t say it but you feel it anyway.

On the last night, watching the sunset bleed into the water, I said:

“I wish this could go on forever. At least one more week. Vacationing with you is… a lot of fun. You just… like things. You know how to act. Being with you is so easy. Just works.”

He went quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes your stomach drop because suddenly you’re aware of every unspoken thing between you.

“Have you ever been here before?” I asked, partly because it hadn’t come up — weirdly — and partly because I needed to break that silence before it swallowed me whole.

“I have, yes,” he said.

“Where did you grow up again?” I asked.

“Bellacorde,” he said.

“Oh, right. How is it there? You know, oddly, I traveled a lot, but never made it there.” Probably because I mostly traveled with Mom, and Bellacorde didn’t exactly scream giant concert arena or Mediterranean Burning Man type locale. Just my guess.

He perked up — like someone had flipped a switch behind his eyes.

“Would you like to see?”

I blinked. “Sure?”

And that was the moment everything shifted. The moment the ground tilted under my feet. Shit was about to get real now. I had shown him mine, now he was gonna show me his. And I was so here for it.

Bellacorde

You know how when you go somewhere new, you already have a picture in your head and then you compare it to reality?

Yeah.

I was so wrong about Bellacorde I might as well have been imagining a different planet.

Sure, it was small — I’d gotten that part right — but even as the jet descended, I could tell this wasn’t some sleepy island. And yes, his jet. Not Brad’s. His family’s. So I had been right all along: he was loaded too. Which meant he definitely wasn’t after me for my family name, fame or money. Huge brownie points for his tally.

Even from the air, Bellacorde looked wealthy in that quiet, old‑money way that doesn’t need to brag. Kinda like a Mediterranean Brindleton Bay.

A limousine was waiting for us on the tarmac.

The moment I stepped out of the plane, the air hit me — warm, fresh, breezy, smelling like sea salt and citrus and something floral I couldn’t name. Like someone had bottled summer and sprayed it everywhere.

The drive took us outside the city, winding along cliffs and coastline. And then the wrought‑iron gates appeared — tall, ornate, opening automatically as the car approached, lanterns glowing on either side like something out of a storybook.

And that’s when my soul left my body and I stared, open-mouthed, like a deranged blow-up doll.

Because whatever I’d imagined Luke’s home to be — upscale, modern, maybe something coastal and tasteful — it was not this.

The car rolled forward, and suddenly we were gliding up a long, perfectly manicured cypress‑lined drive, the kind you only see in movies about Mediterranean aristocrats who own vineyards and secrets.

And then I saw it.

Not a house. Not a cottage. Not even a mansion.

Something… bigger. Older. Grand in a way that didn’t need to announce itself. I didn’t know what to call that.

Wings stretching out on either side. Balconies. Stonework. A crest carved above the entry. A staircase that practically begged for someone in a gown to descend dramatically in a ballgown with a string orchestra playing. Or something like that, I don’t know.

So, there I was, standing in my travel clothes, holding my tote bag with a half‑eaten bag of gummy bears, staring at this architectural fever dream like an idiot. Yes, my clothes were designer — cashmere and linen — but they were not right for whatever this was.

“Luke,” I whisper‑yelled, because my brain had stopped functioning. “What is this? Where are we?”

He gave me that soft, apologetic smile.

“Home,” he said. “Welcome to the Domaine de Beauvigne, where I grew up.”

My heart did a full gymnastics routine.

I didn’t know what “Domaine de Beauvigne” meant, but at least it didn’t sound like palace. Maybe they just liked to build extra here. I mean, some people out in Del Sol Valley had delusions of Grandeur and had their architects design palace and castle replicas and that kinda shit.

“Home?” I croaked, because apparently I’d forgotten how language works.

He nodded and stepped closer. Behind him, uniformed staff were already unloading our luggage like this was normal. I knew that from Brad’s place, but he had one butler and one housekeeper. Not a small army. Maybe labor was cheap here?

“Before we go in,” he said, voice warm and careful, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

Oh.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
Here it comes now.
My butthole puckered up.

My entire body clenched.

“My name isn’t Luke,” he said. “It’s Luc Sébastien Beaumont.”

Lük Say‑bas‑tyen Bo‑mon — the way he said his name — soft, French, elegant — made my version sound like my dad trying to pronounce a designer at an awards gala. Yikes. I felt so white‑trash in that moment. It wasn’t “Luke” at all. It was Lük — like the vowel had been moisturized, exfoliated, and sent to study abroad in Paris.

And then my brain caught up.

Sébastien.

SÉBASTIEN.

Like… Sebastian.

As in the fake boyfriend name I invented when I ended up kissing my Uncle Cody in San Myshuno to get rid of Beckett like a lunatic. The name that started a whole chain reaction of chaos. Out of all the gazillion names in the world, that was Luke — sorry, Luc’s — middle name?

Are you KIDDING me?
Wow. Fate. Hilarious. Good one. Yeah, fuck you too. Wow.

I broke.

I mean I broke.

I started laughing so hard I folded in half. Full‑body, can’t‑breathe, tears‑streaming laughter. Snorting until I wasn’t even making noise anymore, just wheezing like a dying accordion.

Luc just stood there, stunned, then smiling like he’d never seen anything so ridiculous in his life.

When I finally managed to inhale, I choked out, “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” he said, still smiling. “Why is my name so funny to you?”

I wiped my eyes, trying to pull myself together. “It’s not. I’m sorry. It’s a beautiful name. There’s just… context. I promise I’ll tell you one day and you’ll laugh too, but not now. Please, not now.”

He nodded, still amused, still watching me like I was the most chaotic creature he’d ever encountered.

I took a breath. Then another. Then I said, carefully:

“Luc… Sébastien… Beaumont.”

I tried it the way he had — the soft ü, the rounded vowel, the light French consonants. Music in my veins, Cameron blood, years of hearing Mom rehearse on tour — getting the sound juuuust right – it all kicked in.

It came out right.

His eyes widened. Just a fraction. But enough.

“You said it perfectly,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “It… feels good. Hearing you say it the way it’s meant to be said. Like you’re finally seeing me.”

Oh.
Oh.

My stomach did a full Olympic dive.

I swallowed. “Well… I have an ear for things.”

He smiled — slow, impressed, flattered in a way that made my knees feel unreliable.

I shook my head, flustered. “But seriously, Luc — this? Why didn’t you stop me when I was trying to mentally prep you for Brad’s estate, when you knew THIS is the kind of place you grew up in? I feel like a freaking idiot! Like I was priming you for how big mine was, when all along you knew yours was even bigger? Seriously?!”

He laughed — really laughed — and pulled me into him, like this was the moment he’d been waiting for since the day we met.

“Welcome to Bellacorde, Briony.”