Brindleton Bay

Rosebriar Estate

It all started so unassuming, harmless, as these things always did. So harmless that I am not even really sure WHEN exactly it all began.

I remember sitting at Mom and Brad’s dining room table after a comfortable family Sunday lunch together, I was stirring my coffee like it owed me rent when my half-brother Nathaniel elbowed me with peak teenage snark.

“If you stir any longer, the milk’s gonna turn to butter.”

I flicked the spoon at him. A few drops landed on his arm and he reacted like I’d hurled acid. His blonde curls bounced as he recoiled dramatically. He was a pretty boy — still in that chrysalis stage — but give him a few years and he’d be lethal.

My gaze drifted to Brad. He still wasn’t fully himself, not since losing Graham, but Mom was doing everything she could to keep him anchored. I’d missed whatever they were talking about, but I caught her smirking at him.

“Might have to upgrade myself to some hot young lover,” she teased, “since my husband is about to be a grandpa of two. Ew. You’re old, Braddy‑pooh.”

She giggled. She adored him. I still don’t understand how she was ever torn. I love my dad, I do, but even a blind man could see she belonged with Brad. And Dad found his missing piece in Amy anyway. How someone like Amy who grew up in a fashion metropolis and once had a high-level executive career could be so blissfully happy in a dusty ranch town was beyond me — but good for them. And for Savannah, who finally had a real mother.

Brad chuckled, nudged Mom, and leaned in for what was supposed to be a peck. But grief and old love have their own gravitational pull, and suddenly they were making out like teenagers.

Nathaniel, Eden and Charlotte made near synchronized dying‑cat noises and fled. Mom and Brad broke apart, blushing, then looked at me.

I shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I get it. Smooch away, my parental lovebirds.”

Mom laughed. “Sad that Luc couldn’t come with you. Such a sweetheart. My baby girl angled herself a real‑life prince. Well — king. How’s that for fairytales that never come true, right Braddy?”

Brad smiled softly. “Right. And I never said they don’t. After all, I finally have you”—he kissed Mom’s temple—“and you gave me two beautiful children they said we’d never have. Three, if I dare claim Briony a little.”

His smile hit me right in the chest. I’d been so worried about him.

“Dare away,” I said. “You’re practically the only real dad I ever had. I love my dad, but he was always more like… a fun uncle I adored but never actually saw. You were the one who showed up. With love. And advice that wasn’t useless.”

I didn’t mean to cry. It just happened — sudden, ugly, unstoppable.

Brad was out of his chair in an instant, pulling me into a tight, fatherly embrace. His cashmere sweater was soft against my cheek, the same blue as his eyes.

“Sorry…” I sobbed.

He kissed the top of my head. “Probably inappropriate. Sorry, darling. I sometimes forget you are a woman now, not a child anymore.”

“Don’t apologize. We just established you’re my dad in every way but blood. If you can’t kiss me, who can?”

He held me tighter. “Briony, don’t ever be sorry for grieving. It’s a gift, in a way, to see you mourn a brother who wasn’t technically your brother. I miss him too. I always will. He was my firstborn. Even though his conception wasn’t under a friendly star.”

Mom winced. Brad sighed.

“And that accidental conception tore your mother and me apart for over a decade… until a very meaningful kiss in the lighthouse. Which, incidentally, is also when your brother was conceived. Oh boy. Too much information. Sorry.”

I blinked at him. Brad never talked about that era. Not openly. Not without pain. His father’s cruelty, Mom’s surgery, the years they lost. The fact that she now had four children should’ve been the biggest cosmic middle finger to that man.

I loved Brad like my own father. No wonder his two older children felt like my siblings from the start, just as his daughter with Viola, not to mention the two he had with my Mom. Graham especially — he’d been my big brother in every way that mattered.

“Briony…” Brad’s voice softened. “Since you’re here, there’s something we need to tell you.”

My stomach dropped.

“Whitney is devastated. Losing Graham… losing the future they planned…” He paused. “You know how tentative he always was. But he loved her. And umm – as it turned out – he made provisions. In his will, there’s a clause. If he died before they could marry, he wished to be married to her posthumously. I am not truly surprised, I always taught him to prepare for every eventuality. He had a huge weight on his shoulders, the heir to my empire. Certainly all his siblings were always going to get their fair share, but as the oldest, the lion share of the weight of all this was always on him.”

I stared at him. My face must’ve said everything.

“It’s legally possible to marry after death, if certain provisions were made,” Brad continued. “We met with Whitney and her parents. They agreed. It’s mostly signatures at a courthouse, formalities, but while none of us are in a celebratory mood, Whitney gives up her moment to walk down the aisle to marry a man who is no longer there for her, so we’ll hold a small reception here. We’d like you to be there. With Luc, if he can come.”

Mom nodded, misty‑eyed. “It’s romantic, in a tragic way. Whitney loves him beyond the grave, she said she would never marry anyone else anyway. Can you imagine such a love and devotion? I just wanna melt just thinking about this. I hope Graham can see this wherever he is now.”

I could imagine. God, I could. I’d marry Luc in life or death without hesitation. There would never be another man I could love after him.

Tears rose again. Brad pressed a monogrammed fabric tissue into my hand — just like Luc’s. I’d never even known fabric tissues existed until Brad dried my tears when I was eight and scraped my knee on the terrace. Turns out, that was all royals used too. I doubt they were even familiar with the concept of paper tissues from boxes.

Some things never change.
Some things change everything.

Bellacorde

Domain Bellevigne – the royal palace

I stormed from the limousine to the main entrance and through the palace lobby, heels clicking like a warning. If Geneviève saw me, she’d assign me three extra etiquette lessons and a lecture about comportment, but I didn’t care. I’d been away too long. I needed Luc.

A guard reached his office door before I could knock, announcing me as he opened it.

I didn’t wait.

I ran straight into Luc’s arms.

He caught me — surprised, then amused — before kissing me like he’d been holding his breath since I left.

A throat cleared.

I froze.

Charles — retired Sovereign Prince — stood there. Along with Duc Philippe de Villeneuve and Monsieur le Comte d’Aubigny.

Heat flooded my face. I dropped into a curtsy so fast I nearly toppled.

“Votre Altesse Sérénissime. Votre Grâce. Monsieur le Comte.”

Charles lifted an eyebrow — the royal equivalent of a chuckle.

“My dear Briony,” he said, voice smooth and dry as aged wine, “while your entrance was… memorable, and your curtsy nearly sent you into the carpet, I will say this: your enthusiasm is utterly refreshing. And I might be so bold as to add that you were sorely missed.”

Luc’s hand slid to the small of my back, warm and steady. “Papa means you nearly broke the sound barrier,” he murmured. “But he is glad you’re here. As am I.”

Charles gave him a look that said I said no such thing, then returned his attention to me.

“In any case, your timing is fortunate. We have something to tell you.”

My pulse jumped.

Luc squeezed my hand. “It is good news, mon cœur.”

Charles clasped his hands behind his back — the posture of a man who had spent a lifetime delivering history‑shaping announcements.

“King Maximilian Cromwell is abdicating.”

I blinked. “He’s… finally doing it?”

Charles nodded. “Yes. Officially. He turns sixty‑five this summer and intends to retire. William will take the crown, as was always intended.”

Luc added, “He waited until his grandchildren were older. He wanted William and Mina to be able to raise their family without the constant pull of duty. He remembers all too well how his own marriage to Aria‑Grace was strained by tradition and parental expectations. Now they are old enough to prefer their independence, means their father – and mother – can tend to the royal duties without much distraction.”

I swallowed. I’d heard the stories — not of tragedy, but of endurance. Maximilian and Aria‑Grace fighting through years of pressure and disapproval, holding their marriage together until the kingdom finally caught up to what they already knew: they belonged together.

And while royals tended to gatekeep their drama, I think William and Mina had their own rough times, but true love ended up prevailing.

Charles continued, “The House of Cromwell is combining the King’s birthday celebration with the abdication and coronation. A grand event. Only a select number of royal houses have been invited.”

Luc’s thumb brushed my knuckles. “And we, of course, are among them. As you know, my stepmother is His Majesty’s dear sister, so we will assume a position of guests of honor as well.”

My breath caught. We. Not he. We.

Charles inclined his head. “Indeed. And naturally, Geneviève and I will attend. Luc as well. And you, Briony.”

My stomach dropped. “My… first official outing outside Bellacorde.”

“Oui,” Luc said softly. “A very public one. And a very important one.”

A test. A debut. A plunge into the deep end of royal protocol with dignitaries, cameras, and expectations pressing in from every direction. And this time, not on home turf. No quick exits possible. Full exposure of any misstep I might make. No pressure though. Oof.

I felt faint.

Luc leaned in, whispering just for me. “Ne t’en fais pas. You will not face it unprepared.”

Charles cleared his throat. “In fact, Luc has already arranged something to help with that.”

I turned to Luc. “You have?”

He grinned — that devastating, princely, I‑know‑something‑you‑don’t grin.

“Oui. You recently finished your semester at university with very commendable grades, and you have only two left before graduation. That is reason to celebrate. And I still owe you another gift from your twenty‑first birthday.”

I blinked. “Another gift?”

“Oh, a very sizable one,” he said, eyes sparkling. “One I have been withholding until the right moment.”

My heart fluttered — not suspicious, just curious. “Luc… are you giving me a car?”

He kissed my forehead. “No. My secret gift is a trip. A vacation. Just us. It is probably a gift for both of us.”

A trip. Just us. A couple’s vacation. Before the Cromwell celebration. Before the biggest royal event I’d ever attend.

Yes please.

My mind raced — excitement, nerves, a little thrill at the idea of escaping the palace with him. I could hardly remember the last time we’d been alone without someone barging in, needing something.

Charles smiled knowingly, as if he read my mind. “You will return rested. And ready.”

Luc shot him a look, then turned back to me, brushing a curl behind my ear.

“Mon amour, before you stand beside me at the celebration, I want us to have time together. Quiet. Simple. Ours.”

His voice softened.

“A moment to breathe before the season becomes… demanding.”

That made sense. That felt right. That felt like Luc.

I exhaled, relieved. “When do we leave?”

Luc smiled — slow, warm, certain.

“Soon.” He winked, then added, “Demain.”

The little wheels in my brain spun trying to process French into English, then clicked. I stared at him. “Tomorrow?”

“Oui.” He caught my chin between his fingers, lifting my face to his. “Demain.” He kissed my cheek.

Behind us, Philippe clapped once — loudly — like an overexcited seal who had just witnessed a plot twist.

“Ah! Demain, he says,” Philippe announced, half‑French, half‑English, all mischief. “Our Sovereign Prince, ladies and gentlemen, giving his beloved a whole twenty‑four hours’ notice. Très généreux.”

François made a quiet sound that might have been a laugh or a suppressed groan.

Charles closed his eyes for a beat — the royal equivalent of pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Philippe,” he said, voice dry as old parchment, “must you comment on absolutely everything?”

Philippe placed a hand over his heart. “Mon Prince, I comment only when destiny unfolds before me.”

“Out,” Charles ordered, pointing to the door like a weary father who had endured this for decades. “You and François. Now.”

François bowed with impeccable grace. “As you wish, Votre Altesse Sérénissime.”

Philippe bowed too — dramatically, unnecessarily, and with a wink at Luc that promised he would absolutely be teasing him about this later.

As they exited, Charles muttered, “One day, that man will test my patience beyond repair.”

Luc smirked. “He already has, mon père. Many times over. Yours and mine.”

Charles sighed. “Yes. And yet we keep him. I believe in ancient times men like him were referred to as court jesters. Entertaining until one day they say too much, the wrong thing to the wrong man, and end up hanged.”

Then he looked at me — warm, resigned, fond.

“And now, my dear, you see what you are marrying into. Not just the man, the ruler, the kingdom… and unfortunately the best friend, in a way.”

I laughed, cheeks warm, heart full, completely unaware of how literal that statement was about to become.

Sulani

The Couple’s Vacation

Luc wouldn’t tell me where we were going, only that I needed sundresses, swimsuits, and “a willingness to be adored.” I rolled my eyes at him for that one — but he wasn’t wrong.

When the plane descended over a glittering coastline, my breath caught. The water was impossibly blue, the cliffs dramatic, the air warm and sweet like fruit and sunlight.

“Luc…” I whispered. “It’s beautiful.”

He kissed my shoulder, slow and warm. “Not as beautiful as what comes next.”

The days that followed felt like stepping into a dream I didn’t know I’d been waiting for. We had breakfast on a terrace where the sea stretched out like a sheet of glass, sunlight dancing on the waves. We swam in water so clear it felt unreal, drifting together beneath the surface as if the world above had fallen away. In the afternoons, Luc would read to me in French while my head rested in his lap, his voice low and melodic, the kind of sound that made my bones feel warm. And in the evenings, we walked along the shoreline, his fingers laced with mine, his thumb brushing my knuckles like he was memorizing the shape of me.

I had never felt so loved. So chosen. So safe. So happy.

Heaven.

It happened at dusk — the kind of dusk that feels like the world is holding its breath.

Luc led me down a lantern‑lit path to a cliff overlooking the ocean. The sky was lavender and gold, the air warm, the waves whispering below us. He stopped, turned to me, and for a moment he just looked — really looked — like he was memorizing the shape of my soul.

“Briony,” he said softly, taking both my hands, “I have loved you from the moment you crashed into my life like a storm I never wanted to end.”

My heart stopped.

Then he sank to one knee.

He didn’t speak right away. He lifted my hand to his lips, kissed it, and whispered:

“Épouse‑moi, mon cœur.” Marry me, my heart.

Then, in English — steady, reverent, sovereign:

“Marry me. Not because of duty. Not because of expectation. But because my life makes no sense without you in it.”

I didn’t remember saying yes. I remembered sobbing. Laughing. Falling into his arms. Luc lifting me off the ground and spinning me until the world blurred into streaks of gold and ocean blue.

When he slid the ring onto my finger — his late mother’s ring — my voice broke into a whisper I could barely control.

“I love you,” I breathed. “Je t’aime. Je t’aime tellement que ça me fait mal.”
(I love you. I love you so much it hurts.) I meant every word.

Luc’s thumb brushed my cheek, reverent.

“Then let me spend my life easing that ache,” he murmured.

Luc kissed my knuckles, then my palm, then the inside of my wrist like he was sealing a vow.

“Je t’aimerai pour le reste de ma vie,” he murmured. I will love you for the rest of my life.

Then, in English, soft and certain:

“And for every lifetime after.”

Brindleton Bay

The Posthumous Celebration

Brindleton Bay was soft that day — fog rolling in from the water, gulls crying overhead, the lighthouse standing like a witness to every generation of our family. I was still floating from Sulani, from Luc, from the proposal. I swear I walked without touching the ground.

But my mood shifted the moment I stepped inside.

Lauren — Brad’s oldest daughter, Graham’s sister — stood near the door with Mom, greeting guests. She looked hollow, like someone had cut her strings. I hugged her, but I wasn’t sure she even felt it. Sedatives, probably. Grief had carved her out.

Whitney Banks — no, Whitney Cunningham now, I guess, honestly, I didn’t even ask if she took Graham’s last name too or just the vows, either would make sense — wore a simple ivory dress that skimmed her growing belly. Twin boys. Graham’s boys. Brad’s first grandchildren.

Brad stood beside her, eyes red but proud.

Her parents hovered close, and next to them stood Graham’s mother, Brad’s first wife, Margaret “Molly” Ellington. I almost didn’t recognize her. Once radiant — the kind of woman who looked like her children’s older sister — she now seemed decades older. Her long blonde curls were gone, replaced by a sharp, practical cut. Her face carried the kind of grief that rewrites a person. Her husband Logan Ellington lingered behind her with their two kids, teen son Andy and daughter Sarah, equally worn. Losing a child leaves marks on everyone, even if it was from a partner’s previous life.

Mom had been doing everything she could to keep Brad from slipping into a dark place. I hoped Logan Winthrop was doing the same for Molly.

The legal ceremony had already been done quietly at the courthouse. Today was for love, memory, and the future Graham would never see.

Whitney announced the names:

Carter Graham Cunningham
Camden Banks Cunningham

I cried. Brad cried. Mom cried. All my siblings cried. Whitney’s parents cried, and her brother pretended not to. Even Luc’s eyes shone.

It was bittersweet, but beautiful.

I used to think the idea of a posthumous marriage was strange — almost theatrical. But standing there, surrounded by love and loss and legacy, it didn’t feel silly at all.

It felt right.

Sometimes judging from afar only gives you the smallest sliver of the truth.

Bellacorde

The Return to the Palace

The palace felt different now — larger, heavier, more real — because I wasn’t returning as Luc’s girlfriend.

I was returning as his fiancée.

No longer someone to be dismissed, disrespected, or ignored. I was Bellacorde’s future Queen.

My future was here. My life was here. My heart was here. My duty was here now.

Congratulations followed me everywhere. Eloise knew. Philippe knew. Everyone knew. Charles and Geneviève looked genuinely happy.

For days, I floated through the halls, glowing.

Until everything turned a corner it was never meant to turn.

The door to Luc’s private study was cracked open.

I heard my name.

I froze. No guards. They were always there — which meant this was a moment I was never meant to witness.

I listened.

Inside, Luc and Charles stood with the court physician. Charles lingered near the window, arms crossed, face unreadable.

They were speaking French — fast, low, serious.

I understood enough to unravel it.

“les résultats…” “préoccupants…” “risques pour l’avenir…” “succession…” “options limitées…”

My stomach dropped.

Luc’s voice was tight. “Elle ne doit pas savoir maintenant.” She must not know yet.

Charles answered, firm but gentle. “Luc, she must be told before the council asks questions.”

Council. Succession. Risks. Results.

My pulse roared in my ears.

The physician spoke quietly. “If she cannot… it will complicate matters.”

Cannot what?

He added something I didn’t fully catch — but I heard the words:

“probabilité réduite.” Reduced probability.

My knees nearly buckled.

And then—

A guard rounded the corner and nearly collided with me.

He startled, then bowed sharply.

“Pardon, Votre Excellence.” His voice carried down the hall — too loud, too formal, too announcing.

Before I could stop him, he stepped to the door, knocked once, and opened it.

“Monseigneur? Votre Excellence la Marquise Palatine de Valfleur.”

Luc stiffened. Charles’s head snapped toward the door. The physician closed the folder instantly.

I stepped inside because I had no choice.

Luc’s expression softened the moment he saw me. “Mon amour—”

He moved toward me.

The physician placed the folder on Luc’s desk — quickly, almost protectively — as if shielding me from it.

But I saw the label.

My name.

My bloodwork.

My future.

My doom.

I forced a smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Luc kissed my forehead. “We were just finishing.”

I nodded, numb, and left before my voice could break.

The File

Like a spy in a movie, I waited until the hallway was empty, late at night. Most of the guards were focused outside once the Sovereign — past and present — had retired to their chambers.

I slipped toward Luc’s study, pausing at the door, checking both ends of the corridor one last time before easing inside.

The folder was in a drawer. Hidden.

My fingers trembled as I pulled it out and opened it.

I didn’t understand every term — my French had improved, but these were medical terms, and half of them were Latin. Still, I’d grown up around doctors. I understood enough.

Enough to know.

Enough to break.

I didn’t know how bad it was, but I knew it was serious. Serious enough for Luc to hide it from me. Serious enough for Charles to be involved.

I took photos with shaking hands. Every page. Every line. Every word confirming my worst fear.

Then I sent them to Brad.

Me → Brad: Brad, please. Tell me the truth.

Brad: Briony, where are you? What is going on? Do we need to come? Shall I send the jet?

Me: Brad! Does this mean I am infertile?

Brad: It means more testing is needed, but there appear to be issues. Briony, please be calm.

Me: I AM calm. Brad, be honest. If you ran these tests, what would you tell your patient?

Brad: I would say there are indicators that deserve attention. Not conclusions. Not certainties. Indicators. And none of them define you.

Me: Brad. Stop with the mantras, please. I need the truth. If this were your patient, what would you tell them in your office? No softening. No comforting. Just the truth.

A long pause. Long enough for my heartbeat to hurt.

Then:

Brad: I would tell you that these results suggest you may face significant challenges. Not impossibilities. Not absolutes. But challenges that could make things harder for you than for others. And I would tell you this privately, gently, because I know what this means. Now Briony, you know your mother faced similar results and she has four children. Don’t freak out.

Me: So it’s bad.

Another pause.

Brad: It’s not good, sweetheart.

I stared at the message.

I wished he were here. And my mom. I needed them, but they were a long flight away. Hours and hours and hours away.

I felt alone like never before. Alone in enemy territory. A terrible feeling.

And I couldn’t stay.

Not here. Not with Luc. Not with the truth sitting in my chest like a stone. This was my mother’s story all over again. And my Uncle Connor’s. And my grandmother Hailey’s before them. And now — God — even my cousin Christian’s. No. No no no no. I should have known. I should have seen this coming.

It hit me all at once, like someone had pulled a thread and my entire family history unraveled in front of me.

Uncle Connor — a brilliant doctor, a man who adored children — and he only had one. It took him and Aunt Keira years to conceive Christian. Years of trying. Years of heartbreak they never talked about but everyone felt. And now Christian — married for years — only recently announcing they were finally expecting. Same reason. Same struggle. Same quiet battle behind closed doors.

And Grandma Hailey — her story is practically legend. She and Grandpa Chase tried for so long, through so much devastation, before Connor finally came along. And then she almost died bringing him into the world. That’s why there’s such a huge age gap between him and my mom and Aunt Iris. Grandma wanted two kids all along, but Grandpa couldn’t risk losing her again. He vetoed every time she begged.

But then Maddie and Colton got pregnant with Jasper by accident, both well into their forties, and something in Grandma softened Grandpa. One more child, she begged. Just one more. He gave in — and almost immediately she got pregnant with Aunt Iris.

All throughout the pregnancy — every scan, every appointment — one baby. One heartbeat. One daughter.

Until the delivery room.

Complications again. Panic again. Chaos again. And then the realization — it wasn’t one baby. It was two. My mom had been hiding behind her twin sister the entire time, fraternal but sharing a heartbeat so perfectly synchronized no machine ever caught it.

Grandpa Chase wasn’t faint of heart, but he fainted right there in the delivery room. They had the nursery set up for one baby — the same nursery Jasper was already in, since the bandmates lived together in that celebrity commune in Brindleton Bay. Iris was as feisty as a newborn as she is today, so Mom ended up bunking in Jasper’s crib until they could furnish the nursery. Everyone swears that’s how they became the inseparable duo they still are. If it weren’t for Brad, I always wondered why Mom didn’t end up with Jasper — they’re always together, laughing, talking. Jas and Aunt Iris bicker constantly, but they just work.

My family was built on miracles, unpredictability, and near‑tragedies. On impossible births and impossible odds. On women who suffered quietly and men who loved them loudly but couldn’t save them from their own bodies or the heartbreak.

And now… now it was me.

The next chapter in a legacy I never wanted to inherit.

Because I knew what this meant.

For me, and for Luc. I had not a shadow of a doubt that Luc loved me — wanted me, not another. But I also knew Luc needed heirs. A sovereign prince needed heirs. A kingdom needed heirs. It wasn’t a guess, but a fact. There were no exceptions, no lenience, no romantic stories about adoption. Adoption wasn’t for royals. He needed Beaumont blood to carry on. Old‑fashioned, maybe — but real. Binding. Non‑negotiable.

And I knew his family adored — maybe even loved — me. But that wasn’t enough.

Fact: I might not be able to give him heirs. Maybe I could. Maybe I couldn’t. Maybe I could get pregnant, but carrying to term would be the issue. How many losses can one couple survive? I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out.

Fact: I loved that man. More than ever. Seeing Whitney love Graham beyond his grave, watching Mom and Brad — I knew I loved Luc as fiercely as they loved each other. Maybe more.

And that was why I couldn’t put him in the position of having to break my heart. I would break his first, so he could hate me and move on. And I would hurt regardless. My final act of true love.

I would not be the reason he lost everything.

I would not be my mother’s story all over again.

I would not be the detour.

And I liked Charles too much to watch him turn into Brad’s late father — forced to break us apart to secure the future of a place I had come to consider my home.

The Disappearance

I didn’t think. I just moved.

I went to my suite, grabbed a small bag, and shoved in whatever made sense. Wallet. Passport. Phone and charger. A small makeup kit. Clothes that could pass for any ordinary girl on any ordinary street.

Nothing else.

I didn’t take anything that made me look like the woman Luc had proposed to.

I slipped out a side entrance I’d memorized months ago — one the guards barely monitored because it led to a service courtyard.

A guard saw me but didn’t question it.

“Bonne soirée, Votre Excellence.”

I nodded, throat tight, and kept walking. Aside from the duffel bag, nothing about me would raise suspicion. I’d used this exit countless times to visit Eloise. It wasn’t far, and I’d always liked the walk.

Once I was out of sight, I pulled out my phone and called a cab.

Then I turned the phone off.

San Sequoia

enroute to a safe haven

Once we landed, I didn’t go to my grandparents’ estate. I didn’t go anywhere Luc might look. By now he had noticed I was gone — I could feel it like a pressure behind my ribs. I knew he knew. I knew his heart was aching, he was confused and worried and my voicemail probably overflowing. He would have called everyone he knew that might know where I was. Mom, Brad, Grandma and grandpa, Uncle Connor, Aunt Iris, Ana and Thiago, Eloise, … everyone.

When the plane touched down, I rented the smallest SUV they had — something anonymous, something forgettable — and drove.

Hours. Miles. Darkness.

Until the city lights faded. Until the roads narrowed. Until the world smelled like dust and horses and home.

Chestnut Ridge.

But I didn’t go to my father’s horse ranch. I knew he wasn’t going to be anyone’s first call. Nor would my grandpa Jack. But eventually someone might call them.

No.

I went to Beau’s place — the little cabin he’d moved into for his eighteenth birthday, crazy to think he officially lived here for three years now and I had never been to it, but heard enough about it to know it was in walking distance to our Dad’s ranch, just down the ridge, tucked behind a stand of old pines. My twin brother. My other half. The one person who could see through me with a single look. The one person who would keep my secret, even from dad and our grandparents.

Luc had never been here. Never seen it. Neither had I. I drove solely by what I had been told. Past Dad’s ranch. There was one path up the ridge that lead to grandpa’s, off to the right of the Kershaw Ranch. Beau’s was to the left of dad’s place. Somewhere there would be an incline leading straight to his small cabin. Beau’s home.

And I found it. Hard not to. This was the prairie. There were trees and hills and ridges, but houses would stand out. First try, solely by everyone’s stories.

I pulled up to the dark house, shut off my headlights half way up, the moonlight was enough to guide me, gravel crunching under the tires, and turned off the engine.

Silence swallowed me.

My hands shook. My heart hurt. The engagement ring was still on my finger.

I couldn’t take it off. I knew I shouldn’t keep it on, but I just couldn’t remove it.

I pressed my forehead to the steering wheel and finally let myself cry.

I had run. I had left him. I had broken everything.

But I couldn’t stay.

Not if staying meant ruining his life. Not if staying meant watching him choose duty over me. Not if staying meant becoming the detour.

A porch light flicked on.

I froze.

The cabin door opened, and Beau stepped out — tall, broad‑shouldered, wearing jeans and a worn flannel, unbuttoned, all of it clearly hastily pulled on, hair messy from sleep. He had a rifle in one hand, held low but ready, because that was Beau: cautious, protective, raised on a ranch where strange cars at night were never ignored.

He squinted into the dark.

“The hell—” I heard his familiar drawl.

“Beau, don’t shoot, it’s me …” I called out the driver side door after cracking it open.

He took two steps forward.

Stopped.

Lowered the rifle.

“Briony…?” His voice cracked on my name. “Sis, that you?”

“Yes. I am coming out. Please don’t shoot me. Or actually, please do. Probably would be best for everyone.”

I opened the door fully, my legs barely holding me.

“Hey,” I whispered.

He stared at me like he was seeing a ghost. Then he jogged toward me, boots thudding on the dirt, and pulled me into his arms so fast I almost dropped.

“Jesus Christ, Briony,” he breathed into my hair. “What’re you doin’ here? It’s the middle’a the damn night. What is goin’ on. Are ya drunk?”

I shook my head, I know he could see it in the moonlight as I could see him, fully illuminated in that strange silvery glow, but I couldn’t answer. I just clung to him.

He felt me shaking and swore softly, the way he only did when he was scared.

“C’mon,” he murmured, guiding me toward the cabin. “Let’s get ya inside. Yer freezin’ – days are hotter than two mice fuckin’ in a wool sock ’round here, but the nights are chilly. And you look like ya been cryin’ for hours.”

I had.

And now that I was here — at Beau’s cabin, hidden from the world, hidden from Luc — the weight of what I’d done finally settled in my bones.

The Cabin

I expected… chaos. Beer cans. Dirty boots. A couch that smelled like sweat and horse.

Instead, the cabin was… nice. Shockingly nice.

Warm wood walls. A stone fireplace. A small but tidy kitchen. Hand‑built shelves. A quilt on the couch that looked like Grandma Izzy’s work.

Beau set the rifle aside and moved to the kitchen.

“Ya want coffee?” he asked, already reaching for the tin.

“Sure,” I said, too quickly. “Wow, Beau, this is… really nice. Did you make those cabinets? And the table? And—”

He didn’t look at me. Just poured water into the kettle.

“Uh‑huh. Dad, Granpa, Cody and I made all of this here. There ain’t no furniture stores ’round here.”

“And the chairs,” I added, wandering around like a tourist. “They’re beautiful. I didn’t know you could—”

“Briony.”

Just my name. Quiet. Flat. A warning.

I froze.

Beau turned, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. His drawl was thick, low, and impossible to dodge.

“Stop talkin’ ‘bout my damn furniture and tell me why yer here.”

My throat closed.

He didn’t blink.

“Start talkin’, sis.”

And that was it. The moment the dam broke.

Once more my brother hugged me, held me. It felt like Dad, somehow. Beau and I had never been this close and for some reason, but it felt so good. Why did it have to take my life falling to shambles until we could be real twins? Twenty-one years as almost strangers until I felt what I had always seen in Mom and her twin sister, Aunt Iris. They were always so close. I always envied that but Beau and I just …. weren’t. Too damn different.

***

Beau sat across from me at the kitchen table — a real kitchen, nice looking and with big windows that probably allowed amazing views when it wasn’t pitch-black out, not the tiny corner I’d imagined — elbows on the smooth wood he, Dad, and Grandpa Jack had refinished together. He watched me with that brooding, quiet expression he’d had since we were kids, the one that said he was listening to every word even when he looked like he wasn’t.

Between us sat a pathetic mountain of paper towels — because of course a Beau Wyatt Kershaw didn’t own a tissue box. I’d cried through half the roll.

I’d told him everything. Not neatly. Not in order. But orderly enough for him to understand.

My fears. The results. The overheard conversation. The running. Luc.

Beau didn’t interrupt. Didn’t judge. Didn’t even shift in his chair.

He just listened, jaw tight, eyes dark, the muscle in his cheek ticking every time I said something that hurt him to hear.

When I finally ran out of words — and tears — I slumped back in the chair, exhausted.

“Jus’ got one question.” he drawled, sipping his coffee.

“Ask.”

“Ya love him?” he looked straight at me as he sat his mug down. I was surprised at his question, but nodded, meeting his gaze.

“More than anything. And I know he loves me the same. That is not the problem, Beau. I know he would love me no matter what. But he isn’t just the man, he is also a king. He needs heirs, that is non-negotiable. Even if he would just ‘forget’ that fact, there are a lot of people in Bellacorde who would keep reminding him. It just would not work. All it would do was drag out the inevitable. I don’t want to be the next Mom and Brad. We already know how that ends.”

“Yeah, with them married and two kids between them.” my brother’s dry evaluation devaluated all my well laid out reasoning.

Silence settled between us. I looked at my brother and realized somehow, he had grown into a young man. He looked like a man, not a boy. When did that happen? Did I look grown up too?

I looked around the cabin — really looked — and felt a strange, soft ache in my chest.

It wasn’t the bachelor cave I’d imagined. It was… a home.

Warm wood walls. A stone fireplace. A real dining table. A proper living room. A staircase leading to the second floor. Three bedrooms upstairs — Beau’s, a guest room, and the one he’d built “for someday.” A second bathroom up there, the main one downstairs.

“It really is a nice place, Beau,” I said softly. “You… impressed me. Had I known it was this pretty here I would have come sooner.”

He snorted — actually snorted — and gave me a sideways smirk.

“If ya wanna stay for a while, just stay. Ain’t no need t’ sweet‑talk the man you spent your whole life callin’ stinky, filthy, and a hillbilly.”

I blinked at him. Man. There it was again. My brother was a man. When did that happen? How did that happen without me even noticing?

“Wellllll…” I said, wiping my face with another paper towel. “You kinda are all of the above.”

He grabbed the nearest object — a balled‑up paper towel — and tossed it at my head.

I dodged, barely.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I laughed through the tears and the pain. It hurt, but it felt good.

A Few Days Later

I stayed. I didn’t know how long. Nobody knew. I hadn’t turned my phone on since Bellacorde.

Beau didn’t ask. Didn’t ask what my plan was. He just treated me like someone hurting. He worked Dad’s ranch during the day, then came home at night and stayed close without hovering.

Sunday came warm and slow — the kind of day Chestnut Ridge saved for family. Dad usually took over the early chores, so Beau and Cody could ease into their day, usually a day off for both. Beau was home, grilling outside, smoke curling into the air, the smell of charred peppers and steak drifting across the yard. Horses grazed lazily in the paddock. The world felt far away.

I sat on the porch wrapped in one of his old jackets, knees pulled to my chest, staring at the ridge like it held answers. I had tried to help Beau cook but he sent me to sit every time. Dad was the same way. A man and his BBQ, I suppose.

It was quiet. Safe. Hidden.

Until the moment everything changed.

I heard hooves first — more than one horse. Fast.

Beau froze mid‑flip of a steak, spatula hanging in the air.

We exchanged a look.

My heart stopped.

I stood slowly, stepping to the edge of the porch.

Three riders emerged from the trees.

One of them unmistakable — Grandpa Jack, sitting tall in the saddle, posture stiff, jaw set.

Relief washed through me so fast my knees nearly buckled.

Of course it would be Grandpa Jack. He must’ve figured out where I was and demanded to see me. That was exactly his style. A verbal reaming for both Beau and me — but still safe. Grandpa was all bark and no bite.

I exhaled shakily.

Then the second rider came into view.

My father. Oh boy. More yelling forthcoming. Splendid.

But then I recognized the third—originally I figured it would be Cody.

My breath caught. It was not Cody. It was

Luc.

On horseback.

Dust on the hem of impeccably tailored trousers. Hair wind‑tossed from the ride. Looking just right on that horse. So he could ride too? Was there anything that man did not excel at?

I blinked hard, thinking the heat or stress was playing tricks on me. But no — this was Luc. Sovereign. Elegant. Furious. Terrified. Undone. And very much real.

His eyes found mine instantly.

My mouth dropped open.

And the world stopped.

Grandpa Jack swung down first, boots hitting the dirt with a thud.

“Girl,” he barked, “ya gave half the damn family a heart attack! Did ya really think ya could just disappear and nobody’d say nothin’? Goddamn, I got half a mind to bend ya over my knee and give ya the spankin’ ya need! And you too, Beau Wyatt! Thought ya had more sense than helpin’ yer sister with such nonsense! If my wife’s cookin’ weren’t so damn good that I ain’t got a belt left that still fits, I’d take mine off and give ya both a whippin’!”

I stepped off the porch—

—and froze again. This was surreal.

Luc was already dismounting, movements sharp, controlled, too calm to be anything but barely contained panic.

Dad swung down next, eyes wide. “What the hell is goin’ on here? Beau Wyatt! Briony! I got my Pa showin’ up at my ranch with yer prince in tow, sayin’ ya been missin’ for a week, news to all of us — and then I come over here and there ya are! Why don’t I know y’all are in town!? That just ain’t right, kids! Briony, yer mother is worried out of her skull. So is the rest of yer family! The hell were ya thinkin’?! Were ya thinkin’ at all!? HUH!?”

But Luc didn’t look at him. Or Beau. Or Jack.

He looked at me. He stood just a few steps from me, so very real, yet everything felt like a dream. A very strange dream, I wasn’t sure wasn’t a nightmare just yet.

“Briony,” he said quietly.

Just my name.

My throat closed.

I stepped back instinctively — and the movement made the ring on my finger catch the light.

Luc’s eyes dropped to it.

Panic surged through me.

I ripped the ring off so fast it felt like I’d been caught stealing from the Bellacordian palace.

“Luc—” I choked, thrusting it toward him. “You need to take this back.”

His entire body went rigid.

“No.”

“Luc, please.” My voice cracked. “I can’t be your wife. I overheard you, Charles, and the doctor talking about my results. I went back and saw them myself. I sent them to Brad. He confirmed what I thought.”

Luc’s face drained of color.

“So what’s the point in staying?” I whispered. “I won’t do that to you. I won’t turn Charles into Brad’s dad — forced to break us up because one of your duties, and mine, is heirs.”

Luc inhaled sharply.

“I know my family history,” I said, tears spilling. “I know what those results mean. I know what your country expects. You need blood heirs, Luc. Not hope. Not maybe. Not—”

“Stop.” His voice cracked.

“Luc, I just… sped up the inevitable.”

Silence.

Then Luc moved.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… certain.

He grabbed my upper arm. Beau tensed. Their eyes met. Somehow — for reasons I’ll never understand — Beau stepped back.

Luc pulled me with him. Off the porch, past Grandpa Jack and Dad, past the paddock, away from everyone.

We stopped near a cliff overlooking the ridges and red mountains — the wide‑open spaces my father and Beau couldn’t live without. All three of them hung back, I could feel their eyes in our backs.

Silence settled.

“It hurt me,” Luc said quietly. “Qu’est‑ce que c’était, ça…? You just disappeared. Not a word. Not a note. No phone call. You didn’t answer mine.”

“I needed space.”

He turned to me, furious. “Do you not know what I imagined could have happened to you? Briony, you are no longer just a girl. You never were, not with your family tree — but now your family tree is intertwined with mine. Do you still not understand what that means? What could happen to you?”

“I’m safe. Look.”

“Why?”

“You know why. I just told you, I know, Luc. I know. And please don’t say all the things I know you’re going to say. I know you love me. And I love you. This isn’t that. But I know what lies ahead, and I can’t do that to you. You need to take back the ring and the promise and find another Sovereign Princess. Luckily, we aren’t married yet. I’m sorry for wasting our time and for the heartbreak that will follow, but I didn’t know. You have to believe me — I didn’t know. But I know what this does to people. I can’t put you through it. Or myself.”

He stepped forward, gently took my shaking hand, and held it between both of his.

“Give me the ring,” he said softly.

I handed it over. When he reached for my hand again, instinct made me yank it back.

“Luc—”

“Briony.” His voice was low, steady, sovereign. “Give me your hand.”

My breath trembled as I lifted it.

Luc slid the ring firmly, deliberately, back onto my finger.

Slow. Intentional. Unshakeable.

“This was my mother’s ring,” he said, voice thick. “It is the most precious thing I own. And I gave it to the most precious woman in my life.”

Tears shot up into my eyes.

“I have chosen,” he said. “And I am not changing my mind.”

Luc cupped my face.

“I kept the results from you because I was afraid this is how you’d react. And I was right. I know about the fertility issues in your family. I knew there was a strong possibility you could be affected. I am not a fool, Briony. Nor blind. I knew all along there was a possibility that you inherited the issues. And I didn’t care. I also know you didn’t know, as I recall a very specific and peculiar pregnancy scare you had. Back at Philippe’s last year. If you knew or thought you would have issues, why all that?”

His thumb brushed my cheek.

“We will find a way. Love always does. Look at your mother. Your grandmother. Your uncle. All managed to have children. You’re young — that helps. Your results are not final. They mean it might take longer, not that it’s impossible. A complication. That is all I see. And I have never backed away from a challenge.”

He leaned closer.

“And on a very personal note – I don’t mind the extra practice.” A wink. A tiny half‑smile.

A laugh escaped me — broken, but real.

“Briony Rose Cameron,” he murmured, “ma chérie… you don’t get to decide you’re unworthy of me. You don’t get to decide my future for me. You don’t get to run because you’re scared of inconvenient news. If you want to leave me, it can only be because you no longer love me. Have you stopped loving me?”

Tears streamed down my face. I shook my head.

“Of course not.”

Luc rested his forehead against mine.

“I understand you’re terrified. I understand you think you’re sparing me. I understand you think you’re broken.” His voice cracked. “But you’re not. And even if you were — I would still choose you.”

My knees buckled.
Luc caught me, arms wrapping around me like a vow.

Behind us, Beau muttered, “Well… hell. If this were on TV, I’d change the damn channel. Anyone got crackers for all that cheese?”

Grandpa grunted.
“Girl, you better marry that man. I know a good man when I see one, and I’m lookin’ at one right here — frilly accent and all, I don’t care. That is a good man, I tell ya what.”

He waved a hand like he was swatting flies. “And y’all damn womanfolk always runnin’ off. Don’t none of ya realize that never solves a thing? Then again, I got me two sons guilty of the same nonsense, so maybe it’s just modern times makin’ people too soft.”

He jabbed a finger toward Beau without even looking at him. “And you shut up, Beau. This is good. Say somethin’ nice or keep that trap closed.”

Dad exhaled. “Goddamn. Prince sounds just like I once did with her mother — and yours, Beau Wyatt. Same exact conversation, same exact topic. Bri thought she was broken. I told her, ‘No ma’am, yer damn perfect.’ History repeatin’ itself. And prince — fair warnin’ — her mother’s got four kids now. And Bri actually was told she probably couldn’t have any.”

Luc turned, smiling faintly. “That suits me just fine. We have plenty of room. Maybe one day all of you will come visit us. That is… if Briony will change her mind and come back home.”

Home.

That word I’d always longed for.

It buzzed in my ears like a choir of angels.

All my life I’d had many homes and no home at all. And now Luc — unknowingly — dangled the one thing I’d always wanted most.

And it came with him.

With Bellacorde.

With a life that terrified and thrilled me in equal measure.

With a future that felt like destiny.

One voice screamed that choosing the easy path now would only lead to heartbreak later.

The other whispered that I would be clinically insane not to leap into the arms of the man who crossed an ocean and a continent to find me — a sovereign prince who rode a horse across my father’s land and called Bellacorde our home.

Not his.

Ours.

Luc and I stood there, foreheads pressed together, breath tangled, the world finally steadying beneath my feet.

Behind us, Beau cleared his throat loudly. “Well… since y’all are done havin’ your dramatic movie moment, and I think we all know how this will end, come eat, them steaks are about ready’.”

Jack snorted. “Boy, ain’t nobody eatin’ yer damn steaks. I told ya not to leave ’em on so long. They’re charcoal with seasoning. Ya can fuel a fireplace with that there that ya call steak, ain’t nobody wantin’ to eat them.”

Dad shrugged. “Pa, leave Beau alone, them steaks are fine. Lil more on the done side than I personally like, but still food if ya’re hungry enough.”

Beau flipped them anyway. “They’re fine. They are charbroiled. The inside is soft and pink. I am not a rookie here!”

Luc blinked, as if only now remembering the rest of the world existed. “Steaks? On a grill?”

Jack slapped him on the back so hard Luc actually stumbled. “Damn right, steaks off the BBQ! It’s Sunday! We barbecue on Sundays and ya ain’t lived if ya had good steaks right off the damn grill. Even them charcoaled ones my grandson insists on makin’ even though I taught that boy better. Yer stayin’ for supper, son.”

Luc straightened, trying to recover his dignity. “I—yes. Of course. Merci, vraiment.”

“They are charbroiled, not chacoaled, Grampa!”

“Boy, I can sole my boots with them there steaks. That is charcoal, not that modern nonsense y’all think yer bein’ fancy with.”

Dad clapped Luc on the shoulder. “Come on, son, grab yerself a plate. And don’t stand there lookin’ pretty — help Beau with the corn. Like a real man. Ya wanna marry my daughter, ya best learn where she comes from. At least the other fifty percent, I know ya experience the fancy half. This is the grounded half. The half of her that made her tough.”

Luc looked at me, quietly panicked.

I bit back a laugh. “Go on. It’s a ranch. We feed people. I would help too but Beau forbade me near any grill or stove. Evidently I am not domestic enough for my brother.”

“I don’t care if y’all are domestic or not, I ain’t gotta marry ya, but I don’t want ya to burn down my damn cabin tryin’ to boil water!” Beau chimed in.

Smirking, Luc nodded, squared his shoulders like he was preparing for a diplomatic summit, and walked toward the grill.

Beau handed him tongs. “Hold these.”

Luc held them like they were a ceremonial scepter.

Beau sighed. “Lord help us.” He reached in and adjusted Luc’s grip.

Jack leaned over to me. “He’s purdy damn good on a horse, though. Didn’t expect that. When he showed up in that black limousine with all them security folks at my ranch, I had to have some words with them all. No way are they sittin’ they fancy asses on any of my horses. And if I get back home and hear they harassed my wife then Iya will be in need of new staff, Prince.”

“I instructed them to not leave the car or bother anyone. I assure you, Monsieur Kershaw, they won’t bother your wife, je vous le promets.”

My head snapped toward Luc. “Yeah, about that. You ride? Why did I not know that? Luc, we have been together for over three years now? We are engaged.”

“Part of my training growing up,” Luc said, a tiny smirk tugging at his mouth. “There have not been horses kept at Beauvigne for almost two centuries, but Sovereigns are expected to know how to ride, hunt, sail, fence… all the things that look impressive in portraits, n’est‑ce pas? Besides, my stepmother is from House Cromwell, who are more than famous for their amazing Cromweller horses. Naturally I was granted the courtesy to ride when visiting my stepuncle, the King of Henfordshire.”

I stared at him. “Of course.”

Jack slapped him on the back again — harder this time. “Goddamn, small world. That young man is related to AG and Max. He knows Vivienne, and I am sure then ya know she is my daughter. But this boy rides like he was born in the saddle! Kept up with me and Jackson the whole way. Didn’t complain once. When I suggested it I thought I’d have to help him in the saddle to make sure he ends up facin’ the right way, but no Ma’am.”

Luc winced. “Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Kershaw.”

Luc tried to flip a steak. It was heavier than he anticipated, his grip with the tongs wasn’t firm enough, so it slid off the grill and hit the dirt.

Beau groaned. “Jesus Christ, Yer Highness.”

Luc looked genuinely horrified. “I— I am awfully sorry— pardonnez‑moi—”

Jack waved him off. “Leave it. Coyotes’ll get it. We always cook more than we can ever eat anyway.”

Dad handed Luc a beer. “Here. Drink. Don’t touch nothin’ else. Just be our guest.”

“Ya invitin’ guests to my home now, Pa?” Beau snickered.

“A home I bought for ya, and helped ya rebuild from scratch, ya mooch!” Dad shot back. “Speakin’ of mooch, Briony, can ya manage to bring out some plates and silverware?”

I saluted him. “Sir, yes Sir!”

I carried out the requested items, placing them on the picnic table out front. Then I leaned against the porch railing, watching Luc — this elegant, sovereign man standing in dusty shoes, hair wind‑tossed, holding a beer like it was a foreign object, trying so hard to fit into a world that wasn’t built for him.

And somehow fitting anyway.

Three generations of Kershaw men talked to him, joked with him and about him, and he took it in stride. He wasn’t a stranger to rough teasing; I had witnessed him sound very much like them when alone with Philippe outside formal settings.

My heart ached in the best way.

Beau nudged me. “He’s tryin’, sis.”

“I know.”

“And he crossed half the damn world for ya.”

“I know.”

Beau grinned. “Then quit bein’ stupid and marry the man.”

“I will.” I held up my ring to him. “He kinda reproposed and I kinda re‑accepted.”

“Ya girls are just so damn complicated. And we men are just so damn stupid to cater to all that nonsense, every damn time. If yer wonderin’ why Cody ain’t here, that’s why. He been kissin’ up to Tansy somethin’ fierce, talkin’ marriage and all. She’s still neutral, still says he has grown up to do.”

“Yeah, what about you and your woman, sweet brother o’ mine? I didn’t get any wedding invites from you yet.”

“Ain’t in no hurry. There was a time or two where we thought we might end up in a hurry but we lucked out so far. I don’t see a point for us to make it official before mid‑twenties or somethin’, we ain’t plannin’ on no kids before that.”

It gave me a pang in my heart to realize yet again that my brother and I weren’t children anymore. He was a grown man, and I was a grown woman now, talking marriage and kids. Time really snuck up on you sometimes.

But it felt right.

Somehow, this day ended with my grandfather, my dad, my twin brother and Luc eating al fresco, having a nice talk. Then we rode up to Dad’s farm to say hi to the family, spent some time. Then we rode over to Grandpa’s place — Izzy just couldn’t get a hold of herself over Luc and his accent for some reason — his security detail sighing a collective sigh of relief to see him return unharmed after being gone from their sight for hours, something that should never happen, but Luc still overruled them and had a very distinct way to make his voice heard if need be.

And then we were waving goodbye as we made our way back to the International Airport in San Sequoia, where the royal jet of Bellacorde was waiting to take us home again.

Home.