Cashmere & Cameron – Full Tilt

Beauvigne, Bellacorde

Eloise and I were tucked into the East Loggia for our afternoon coffee meet, the kind of early‑afternoon light that made Bellacorde look like a painting. Autumn here was unreal—lavender drifting on the breeze, the earthy sweetness of grapes ready for harvest, the faint salt of the ocean curling through the air.

And, of course, the scent of good coffee for me and tea with cream for her. Plus those petit fours I had become physically, emotionally, spiritually addicted to.

“Oh man,” I groaned, staring at the half‑eaten pastry in my hand. “I need to get a grip or I’m going to be so fat Luc won’t want me anymore. My mom’s been on a diet since – like – forever and a day. She always said if photos add ten pounds, she has to be skinny enough to still look skinny in a photo. And I literally had to change twice this morning because I couldn’t zip anything.”

I took another bite, contradicting everything I’d just said.

Eloise wasn’t listening. Not fully. She was glowing—soft, dreamy, distracted—because she’d spent the last half hour recounting Philippe’s latest romantic gestures. The man was on a mission. A campaign. As if he needed to prove something to the world, or to himself, or maybe to her.

“And he really wants another baby,” she now swooned. Yeah, I knew, because Luc had told me, though Eloise had already told me first. “Maybe this time it will be a little girl. Oh, I would love it. A boy for Philippe, a girl for me.” She sighed, and I stuffed the rest of the pastry in my mouth trying to not roll my eyes out loud. Yeah, I get it, babies are the highest of all feelings to you. The boy for the dad, a girl for mom, and Stepford is complete. Yawn. I grabbed my coffee to wash down the pastry and her nonsensical baby-moon-swoon.

She nodded, smiling shyly. “You know Briony, I know this it probably unsavory to discuss, but when I was pregnant with Louis, I had the most terrible cravings. I could not stop eating. I outgrew my dresses long before I ever had symptoms or even the faintest hint of a bump. But I also had insomnia… and this strange inner unrest… and I was so emotional. I cried over a broken shoelace once, and quite literally, over spilled milk. Over everything, not one single day passed without me crying over the most trivial things. And I was exhausted all the time, but also somehow restless. And I was bloated, and my chest was so sore—”

My eyes widened.

My stomach dropped.

I spit my coffee out like a malfunctioning fountain.

“Oh my—Briony!”

“Oh no. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no!”

“Briony?”

“I have all that! Oh my God, Eloise!” I grabbed her arms. “Where do I get a pregnancy test here? Where do I go? You have to take me!”

She blinked at me, stunned. “Briony… I don’t know. Our maid picks those up for me.”

“Yes, but where? There must be stores! Drugstores! Convenience stores! Something!”

“For those things… you must go to a pharmacy. They do not sell them elsewhere.”

“Great. Perfect. Where is one? They take credit cards here, right?”

“They are closed now. It is the weekend.”

“Huh? A pharmacy closed on the weekend? Oh, people don’t get sick here on weekends? ‘Hmm, I feel a sniffle coming—oh wait, it’s Saturday, postponed!’”

“I might still have a package left,” she said quickly. “I was going to test tomorrow morning to see if—well—you know Philippe and I are trying.”

“Eloise, if you care about me at all, you will let me use it or I swear I will go to the cliffs and jump!”

“No, no, no—it is yours. Of course.”

“Fantastic! Let’s go!”

I jumped up and ran. From the Loggia into the corridor, my footsteps cracked against the marble, echoing down the halls of Beauvigne like alarm bells. Guards and staff snapped to attention, concern flashing across their faces, but none of them stepped in my way — especially not when Eloise rushed after me, calling my name. I reached the great front door, yanked it inward with both hands, and slipped through before the startled guards could react.

Down the gravel path from Beauvigne, across the little stone bridge, past vineyard workers who froze mid‑harvest to stare — I didn’t slow. Through the narrow cobblestone streets, where old women watering their window boxes clucked their tongues in disapproval as I tore past like a feral tourist.

Not a jog. Not a brisk walk.

A full‑tilt sprint through half the damn town.

Like I could outrun the worst if I moved fast enough. Which — in retrospect — made absolutely no sense, and I have no explanation.

Behind me, Eloise tried valiantly to keep up in her soft ballet flats and perfect posture, doing a delicate, ladylike half‑run that was absolutely not designed for emergencies.

“Briony — please — slow down — mon Dieu — Briony!”

Collision Course

I was already racing up the hill toward Le Belvédère, heart pounding, lungs burning, panic clawing at my ribs.

I reached the front steps, shoved the doors open—

The tall carved doors swung wide, Staff started at me, startled and taken aback, and through the open archway to the right, I saw them.

A room full of noblemen—cigars, brandy, mirror-polished shoes, laughter echoing off paneled walls. A proper gentlemen’s gathering. They did that here. I was vaguely familiar with the concept; Brad was a member of a similar club in Brindleton Bay, and Mom, reluctantly, met with some affluent ladies’ group there.

Every head turned toward me.

Philippe stood at the front, mid‑sentence, staring at me like I had just materialized out of thin air.

I froze.

They froze.

Then—

Eloise skidded in behind me, nearly colliding with my back. “Briony—oh heavens—Your Graces, messieurs, mille pardons—she is with me—excuse us—so sorry—”

She grabbed my arm and practically hauled me up the staircase, still apologizing breathlessly over her shoulder.

We reached her suite. She shoved me inside and immediately darted into the ensuite bathroom.

“Stay here—I know I have one package left—just—stay! Do not go downstairs and bother the men. They don’t like women around when they meet.”

I stood in the middle of her bedroom, still panting like I’d outrun a pack of wolves, heart pounding, hands shaking, not even fazed by the sheer mound of misogynistic rulebook Eloise had just thrown at me. At this point, I was too busy trying not to hyperventilate to care that apparently the year was 1824.

Then footsteps.

Two sets.

Philippe appeared in the doorway first, frowning in confusion. Of course. Sigh.

Behind him—

Luc.

My stomach dropped to the floor.

“What,” I blurted, “are YOU doing here?!”
Not him! Not now! Not here!

Luc lifted a brow. “I should ask you that. I am here attending the Assemblée des Messieurs de la Couronne. And you, Mademoiselle Cameron… do not appear to be on the guest list for very obvious reasons. N’est‑ce pas?”

I opened my mouth.
Only a strangled, half‑panting sound escaped — mortifying.
Nothing came out.

Then—

Eloise burst out of the bathroom holding a small paper bag like it was radioactive. She froze when she saw Luc, dropped into a curtsy so fast she nearly toppled.

I lunged for the bag. “Oh! I was just… out of lipstick. And Eloise was so kind to give me some extra.”

Luc stared at me.
Then at the bag.
Then back at me.

“I may not be well‑versed in…” he gestured vaguely at my face, “maquillage. But I am certain lipstick is not usually packaged… that long and does not warrant you running yourself out of breath to replenish.”

“Oh! He he he. Did I say lipstick? I meant—mascara!”

Luc didn’t step into the room—he wouldn’t, he couldn’t—not in another nobleman’s home, not into a lady’s private chamber.

But he reached in.

Fast.

Before I even saw it coming, his hand wrapped around my wrist and he yanked me forward, pulling me clean out of Eloise’s room and into the hallway.

I let out a startled meep and stumbled into him, then backwards, staring up at him.

He stepped forward.

I stepped back.

He reached.

I clutched.

He was taller.

He won.

He plucked the bag from my hands with infuriating ease, opened it, and pulled out a pregnancy test kit.

Silence.

My face burned.
Eloise covered her mouth.
Philippe blinked like someone had slapped him with a fish.

Luc looked at me with an expression I had never seen before—fear, anger, protectiveness, and something heartbreakingly tender.

He grabbed my arm—not roughly, but firmly—and pulled me out onto the small balcony.

He lifted the paper bag slightly — just enough for the long, unmistakable box inside to shift audibly. A quiet, damning rattle.

“Why,” he said quietly, “are you lying to me about this?”

“I—I’m sorry—I didn’t—Luc, I’m sorry—” The words dissolved into sobs. Ugly, panicked, uncontrollable.

He sighed, the tension in his shoulders softening. He pulled me into him, kissed my forehead, my temple, my cheek. “Shh. Mon cœur. Breathe.”

When I finally stopped shaking, he handed the tests back and led me inside, straight to Eloise’s room.

He bowed to her. “Your Grace, would it be too much of an inconvenience to allow Mademoiselle Briony to use your private restroom to… gain clarity?”

“Of course not,” Eloise said gently. “Briony, have you ever used one of those?”

I shook my head.

“Come,” she said, taking my hand. “I’ll help you.”

The door closed behind us.

Outside, Philippe clapped Luc on the shoulder, snickering. “How about some bourbon… and perhaps a cigar?”

Luc glared. Then grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.

“You think this is funny?!”

Philippe didn’t even flinch. He just sighed, rolled his eyes, and peeled Luc’s hands off his shirt one by one with that arrogant, older‑brother ease that said: please, you dramatic little prince, you are not going to hit me and we both know it.

“Mon dieu, Luc,” he said, brushing imaginary dust from his lapel. “It’s a baby, not a curse.”

“You know she must not be pregnant. Not now.”

“Well,” Philippe said smoothly, adjusting his collar with offended precision, “the only way to ensure that is to stop enjoying the lady’s special candy until you are ready to risk it.”

Luc sighed, resigned.

“You are right. If it happened… we break with code and accelerate the wedding. Father will not be pleased.”

“Oh, au contraire,” Philippe smirked. “Your père would be thrilled to get an heir out of you.”

The bathroom door opened.

I stepped out.

Negative.

I collapsed into Luc’s arms, sobbing with relief and humiliation and exhaustion.

A servant hovered. Luc straightened. “Ma voiture. Tout de suite.” My car. Now.

He turned to Philippe. “Thank you for hosting. I must take Mademoiselle Cameron home.”

The Ride Home

In the limousine, he took my hand.

“Briony,” he said softly, “I understand the past weeks have been difficult. But this cannot happen again. If you ever wonder this question, you come to me. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

“A child of mine—of Beaumont blood—cannot be hidden, nor be born outside wedlock. If you carry my child, we marry. Immediately. There are no other options.”

My breath caught. Not fear — just the weight of it. The reality of what almost happened.

I nodded again.

He kissed my hand.

And held it all the way home.

Guilt twisted in my chest. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, staring at our joined hands. “I feel awful. I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have lied. I just… panicked.”

Luc turned his head slowly, his expression serious in the dim light of the limousine.

“It did not feel good,” he said quietly. “To find you would hide something from me. Something so important.”

My throat tightened. “I know. I know, Luc. I’m so sorry. Truly.”

He watched me for a long moment — long enough that I felt myself shrinking under the weight of it.

Then, finally, the corner of his mouth softened. Not a smile. Just… forgiveness easing into place.

“Come here,” he murmured.

I leaned into him, and he wrapped an arm around me, steady and warm and grounding.

“I only need you to come to me,” he said, his voice low against my hair. “With everything. Even the frightening things. Especially those.”

My eyes stung. “I will. I promise.”

He lifted my hand to his lips again, brushing a kiss across my knuckles. “Très bien.”

The limousine slowed — barely a minute had passed — the short drive from Le Belvédère back to Beauvigne already over.

The estate lights glowed warm outside the window.

Luc didn’t let go of my hand.

Not even when the car stopped.

Father and Son

The Salon des Messieurs was quiet at this hour — a masculine refuge tucked off the eastern corridor of Beauvigne. Dark wood paneling, old hunting portraits, a heavy stone hearth, and the faint scent of tobacco from a time when men still smoked indoors. A place for brandy, silence, and thoughts one didn’t want overheard.

Luc stood at the tall window, shoulders rigid, one hand braced against the frame. The other held a glass of bourbon he had clearly refilled more than once. The decanter beside him was half‑empty.

He didn’t hear the door open.

But he heard the voice.

“Luc.”

He took a slow sip before turning.

Charles stepped inside, closing the door with the quiet instinct of a father who had learned long ago how to approach a wounded son.

Luc exhaled. “Father.”

Charles’s eyes swept the room — the half‑empty decanter, the untouched chair, the way Luc’s posture was too still, too tight.

“You have been drinking,” Charles observed gently. Not judgmental. Simply true.

Luc gave a humorless huff. “It appears so.”

Charles crossed the room, poured himself a modest amount, and held his glass out.

Luc lifted his own.

A soft clink.

They both drank.

Charles settled into the leather chair nearest him. “Sit.”

Luc hesitated, then obeyed, lowering himself into the chair opposite his father.

Charles studied him for a long moment. “Now. Tell me what troubles you.”

Luc looked away. “It is nothing.”

Charles’s brow lifted. “Luc. I have known you all twenty‑six years of your life. You have never once fooled me. Not even as a child.”

Luc’s jaw tightened.

Charles waited.

At last, Luc spoke. “There was… a scare. Earlier today.”

Charles didn’t move, didn’t interrupt.

Luc swallowed. “Briony feared she might be… expecting. Unplanned.”

Charles inhaled slowly — the only sign of surprise. “I see.”

“It proved to be a misunderstanding,” Luc said quickly. “But it frightened her. And it unsettled me more than I expected. Yet that is not even the greater issue — it is how I learned of it.”

Charles nodded. “And how did you learn of it?”

Luc’s throat worked. “I was at the Assemblée des Messieurs de la Couronne when she arrived in a state of panic, with Eloise close behind. Philippe, as host, intervened, and I followed. She attempted to conceal the truth with some… ill‑considered explanation. She chose to lie to me about something so—” He exhaled sharply. “—so consequential.”

Charles leaned back, thoughtful. “And that hurt you.”

Luc’s voice was low. “Deeply.”

Charles studied him for a moment, then asked, “Did she hide it if there was nothing to hide? Or did she wish to know for certain whether there was cause for concern before burdening you with it?”

Luc blinked.

The logic settled over him like a steadying hand.

He exhaled. “I… hadn’t considered that.”

“No,” Charles said gently. “You thought only of the fear. And fear narrows a man’s vision.”

Luc let out a breath he’d been holding for hours. “That… lifts a weight.”

He took a drink, a deep breath. “You have been so patient with me… with my wish to have Briony near. It would have been devastating to betray your trust like this.”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of Charles’s mouth — gone as quickly as it appeared. “Mon fils… you know it would have broken every code in the book,” he murmured, “and yet… I cannot pretend the thought of a grandchild would have displeased me.” He lifted his glass slightly. “Even if the timing would have been… catastrophique.”

Luc’s head snapped toward him, surprised. Charles tilted his head with a tiny implied shrug, then took a sip, while Luc smiled, shaking his own head. “Philippe said as much.”

“Well, the boy has always been very perceptive beneath all that arrogance and insolence.”

“Très vrai, père. Very true.”

Charles nodded once. “You see, mon garçon… a problem often presents itself from only one angle, and that angle can hide the truth beneath a very superficial perception.” He lifted his glass slightly, as if punctuating the thought. “One must shift one’s view, sometimes, to see the whole of it — only then can a just decision be made.”

His tone softened. “Briony does not strike me as someone inclined to deception. If anything, quite the opposite — she often reveals too much.”
He studied Luc’s face. “But your relief was brief. Something else weighs on you, n’est‑ce pas?”

Luc hesitated.

Then: “Her father.”

Understanding sharpened Charles’s expression.

Luc continued, voice rough. “Their relationship is broken. Deeply. And I fear that if it is left untouched, it will rot beyond repair. But if it is confronted too soon…” He shook his head. “It may explode. She insists she hates him — which is inconceivable to me — and I worry that if this is allowed to fester, by the time our wedding comes they will not be on speaking terms. She will choose to omit him, and she may regret that for the rest of her life.”

He drew a slow breath. “And there is the matter of code. I must ask her parents’ permission. While the conversation would be far simpler with her stepfather, her biological father is alive and has been very much present in her life until recently. It feels like an issue that will not resolve itself — and cannot be left to do so.”

Charles nodded slowly. “You are caught between two storms.”

“Yes.”

“And you wish to protect her from both by interfering as little as possible but as much as necessary.”

Luc’s voice cracked, just slightly. “I do.”

Charles rose, crossed to him, and placed a warm, steady hand on his shoulder.
“Luc, you cannot heal a wound that is not yours. Your place in this is not to act in her stead, but to stand with her. The work must be hers — but you can keep her from bleeding alone.”

Luc closed his eyes.

Charles squeezed his shoulder. “There is a saying my father used to tell me: La peine partagée devient plus légère. A sorrow shared becomes lighter.”

Luc opened his eyes.

“Go to her. She feels what you feel tonight — perhaps more. Two hearts in agony are better soothed together than apart. And who knows… knowing she has your full support may give her the courage to seek resolution herself. And soon.”

Luc hesitated. “You think that is wise now? After… today? Without being indelicate, I find it increasingly difficult to maintain restraint around her in… certain circumstances. Being alone with her — in any room, especially after nightfall, without the… safeguards that keep things from escalating into something more intimate — is becoming decidedly challenging.”

Charles took a sip, smiling knowingly over the rim of his glass. “Do you mean to tell me you intend to leave her untouched for the two years until the wedding?”

Luc paled — then flushed, shaking his head with a small, embarrassed smile.

Charles chuckled softly. “Luc… on peut essayer de contrôler le destin, mais ce qui doit arriver arrivera. We may try to control fate, but what must happen will happen. As long as both of you make a sincere effort to avoid finding yourselves… hurried to the altar for the wrong reasons, the rest is in fate’s hands.”

Luc swallowed.

“Go to her, mon fils,” Charles said, voice gentle. “Hold her. Be present. It will be good for both of you.”

Luc stood slowly, the weight on his shoulders easing.

“Thank you, Father.”

Charles smiled — small, paternal, real. “Go. Before she convinces herself you regret choosing her. A young woman’s mind, when frightened, is not always the most reasonable.”

Luc didn’t need to be told twice.

He set down his glass and left the room, already moving toward her.

Late Night Visits

I’d finally changed into something soft and oversized, hair down, curled up on top of the covers with a book I wasn’t actually reading. My brain kept replaying the day in awful little loops — the panic, the balcony, the limo, Luc’s face when he found the test. Like a highlight reel curated by Satan.

A soft knock made me jump.

Before I could answer, the door cracked open and Luc slipped inside sideways, balancing a bottle of wine under one arm and a tray of snacks in the other.

I nearly screamed. “Oh my God—Luc! You scared me!”

He shut the door with his foot, smirking. “You are right. No public announcement this time.” He lifted his brows dramatically. “No chamberlain shouting my name? No guards banging their spears on the floor as the court jester does cartwheels in the halls? Outrageous. I must order their public executions at dawn in the marketplace.”

I snorted. “Ha-ha. You’re hilarious.”

He pressed a finger to his lips. “Shhhh. I may have caught them during a rare moment of distraction. Let us not alert them. We are both fast asleep in our assigned locations for all they know. The bigger the surprise will be in the morning.”

I laughed despite myself.

He crossed the room and set the tray on my little sitting table — grapes, cheese, pastries, and a bottle of wine that probably was obscenely expensive. He uncorked it with a soft pop and poured two glasses.

“I brought a midnight snack,” he said lightly. “Thought you might be in need of some comfort. I was able to commission your favorites.”

“I’m okay, just some wine,” I said, sliding off the bed and joining him.

He paused, then narrowed his eyes like a doctor about to diagnose me. He turned toward me and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead.

“Hmm,” he murmured. “No fever. Curious.”

I swatted at him. “Stop.”

“I simply thought,” he said, “that you would be in a celebratory mood. With the little scare averted.”

I sighed deeply, arms crossed. “Luc. It’s a mega‑relief, but not all great news. It basically means I’m getting fat. And now I have to go on a diet so you don’t end up noping me off the island. Which is going to be torture because everything in this place tastes like it was made by angels.”

He froze.

Then burst into laughter — real, helpless laughter that shook his whole body. He leaned forward, bracing a hand on the table as he tried to breathe.

“You,” he said between laughs, “c’est incroyable — unbelievable. Mon père avait raison — my father was right. You reveal far too much, and you become completely unreasonable when you’re scared.”

“Thank you,” I said primly.

He reached for me, pulling me gently closer by the waist. I went willingly, my hands sliding up his chest. He kissed me — soft and lingering, like he was grateful I existed.

Then he slipped an arm behind my back and another under my knees.

I squeaked. “Luc!”

He pretended to strain dramatically. “Mon Dieu—so heavy—ah, my spine— I think I’ve broken it—”

I smacked his shoulder. “You jerk!”

He laughed again, then lifted me easily — proving his point — and carried me the few steps back to the bed. He lowered me gently, then climbed in beside me, pulling me into his arms.

I landed half on top of him, laughing, and he wrapped his arms around me, kissing my cheek, my temple, my jaw as I wriggled and protested.

“Stop smushing me!”

He laughed against my cheek. “I have no idea what that means, but if it’s what we’re doing, then absolutely no, never. Jamais, mon cœur.”

He settled us so I was curled against his chest, his arms warm and solid around me, his breath soft against my hair.

The laughter faded into something quieter.
He held me tighter.
I melted into him.

“Luc?”

“Mm?”

“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I was scared, I felt like I failed you somehow and just needed to know for sure … I would have told you. Promise.”

“Shhh.” His hand slid up my back. “I know. I… had an eye‑opening revelation and realized you weren’t hiding. You were clarifying.”

“Yeah. I mean, not like you wouldn’t eventually notice anyway…”

“Come to me immediately next time. Please.”

“Okay.” I hesitated. “So… we’re still doing… that? I mean, you look like you are here to stay and if you do, knowing us… well. I wasn’t sure if you were too put off now.”

“I am not one to take unnecessary risks,” he murmured, “but I am not a monk either. Ce qui doit être, sera. If it happens, it happens. But I can’t resist you.”

He kissed me a different way.
Long, deep.

“Luc?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think I would be a good mom?”

“Oh, I am sure. And if not, we’ll just hire more nannies.”

I whacked him in the head with every pillow I could find while he curled into a laughing ball of sheer glee.

Finally he stopped me by catching the last pillow, pulling it from my hand and tossing it aside, catching my wrists and pressing them gently to the mattress. He kissed me, then paused. Got serious.

“I think the better question is… do you think I would be a good father?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t you be? You’re great with Cordelia, and you handled my three siblings in Brindleton Bay like you’d been doing it your whole life.”

He gave me that look — the one that said you know why — and the penny dropped. I stiffened. Tried to pull away, in vain.

“Briony…”

I pulled harder. He let go immediately, and I slipped out from under him. I sat up, looking away, trying not to cry or freak out — or both. I knew he was trying to tiptoe around my damn daddy issues again.

I heard him get up too. A moment later he appeared beside me, handing me a glass. I took it and gulped it down like a Slurpee before he even had time to speak.

His eyebrows lifted. He raised his own glass. “Santé.”

“Luc…” I swallowed hard, turning the empty glass in my hands. “I know you can’t understand this, but… I need my father gone from my life and my thoughts. Period. All my life I thought he was just quirky, but the way he always tore things apart, the way he made everything harder for Mom, the way he refused to let us have peace when they weren’t together, the way he always treated Brad… the way my first instinct when I needed an adult was always Mom. Then Brad or my grandparents, depending on where I was staying — never Dad.”

I exhaled shakily. “The fact that I felt like a wealthy gypsy growing up — constantly uprooted, never fully belonging anywhere — and him not even caring how that made me feel, only about which location was most convenient for him… it took me way too long to realize that sometimes men are just… biological contributors. Nothing more.”

Luc didn’t interrupt.

He didn’t flinch.

He just stood there, steady and warm, letting me say it.

“And now,” I whispered, “I don’t know what to do about all that. I know you want to meet my family. And I totally get why. And I want you to meet them too. My Uncle Connor is such a fun guy and so incredibly smart, as is my cousin Chris — both doctors. My Aunt Keke — well, Keira — she’s an artist, she’s really good and owns a gallery. You HAVE to see it. My Aunt Iris is an attorney, very quick‑witted, and constantly bickers with her husband Jasper, who’s an actor, really funny. My cousin Anastasia is like an ice queen, and cousin Tate is… well, a teen boy from the rich part of DSV. Enough said. He’s just like his dad at that age, according to Mom, and when he mouths off to Jasper it’s like watching him argue with his younger self. They’re awesome people, and hilarious — but most of them don’t really mix well with… this world.”

Luc set his glass down and came to stand in front of me, not crowding, just present.

“Briony,” he said quietly, “my father reminded me of something tonight. We often look at adversity from only one angle — the one that hurt us. But there is always another side. A reason. A fear. A wound. A misunderstanding. Something we cannot see from where we stand. Il faut regarder autrement — we must look from another angle.”

I swallowed, unsure where he was going.

“It is not only women who react unreasonably under stress,” he continued gently. “Men do it too — just… differently. We shut down. We posture. We cling to pride because we were raised to believe that admitting fear is weakness. On nous apprend à être forts — we are taught to be strong.”

His thumb brushed my cheek. “Your father… and Beau… they may suffer from that in an extreme way. And I suspect — truly — that they already know they mishandled things. But men are not taught to say such things aloud. Not in my world, and certainly not in the world of a horse rancher.”

A soft, rueful smile touched his mouth. “Some modern parents are changing that. Mine tried. But I was still raised to lead the archaic way — to be strong, decisive, unshakable. And something tells me a cowboy would be no different.”

I let out a shaky breath.

“At the end of the day,” Luc murmured, “your family deserves to know the man who takes you so far away from them. If only for peace of mind. For understanding. For the simple fact that when we have children, they will be related to them. C’est la famille — and family deserves a chance. It feels wrong to shut them out forever because one or two individuals may be flawed… or simply unable to handle such extreme change with grace. I am not naïve, Briony. I understand your fear, and I do not expect your father or brother to change their ways — or even to embrace me, or like me. But I do believe that one day, you would regret being the one who closed the door first.”

He paused, then added quietly, “And I want to present myself to them. Properly. As the man who loves you. If they react with anger or even violence, it will be handled — calmly, safely, without escalation. But I cannot hide, and I cannot allow myself to be hidden from two men who, as angry as you are now, are still important pieces of your life.”

He took my hands. “If the meeting goes poorly, so be it. But an attempt must be made. For you. For them. For us.”

He leaned in, forehead touching mine. “I want to meet your family, Briony. Not someday. Soon. It is a step in our relationship — one that is overdue.”

My breath caught.

“In San Sequoia,” he murmured. “Where you grew up. Where you feel safe. Where they can meet me without cameras or protocol or pressure. There will be security, of course, but not like here. And perhaps you would like to show me the places that shaped you. Your favorite café, your favorite shops.”

I stared at him, stunned.

“Invite whom you want,” he said softly. “Protect yourself from who you need to. I am marrying you, not your family. Whatever they do or don’t do won’t change my mind about you. But they are part of you. And I want to know them.”

I blinked hard. “Even Beau?”

“Yes,” he said gently. “If you want him there.”

“I don’t know if I do,” I whispered. “He’s my twin, but also so much like our father. Too much like him.”

“You do not have to decide tonight,” he murmured. “Speak with your mother. With Brad. With your Uncle Connor, since he is so wise.”

Then he pulled me into his arms — not playful, not teasing, just warm and steady and safe.

And for the first time, the idea of Luc meeting my family didn’t terrify me.

It felt… possible.