Cashmere & Cameron – The Cunningham Heir

Being Nate

My heart was beating somewhere up in my throat as I watched Dad seal the envelope — the one that held the next four or so years of my life. All of it, crammed into a single packet addressed to the Dean of Admissions at Britchester University. Getting in wasn’t easy, even for privileged kids like me. It took grades kept well above average, carefully curated extracurriculars that looked good on paper, glowing “Vitamin C” recommendations from ex‑alumni, riveting essays, and — judging by how fast my brain checked out halfway through reading the requirements — probably an arm, a leg, and a firstborn.

I stared at the envelope like it contained a death sentence, even though it was just my near future. And the beginning of the rest of my life. For the next four to five years.

Yay.

Before I go any further, let me introduce myself — you know, like in those narrated movies where the protagonist breaks the fourth wall because otherwise the audience would be hopelessly lost. And maybe, if I do it right, you’ll think I’m a lot cooler than I actually am.

My name is Nathaniel Cameron Cunningham. Seventeen — just a couple months from eighteen. Legacy kid. Yacht‑club uniform wearer. High‑school chess‑club president. Born with a hedge fund instead of a college fund. Future med‑school hostage.

And the only son left to carry on the name.

My older half‑brother, Graham, died two years ago on a vacation with his fiancée — proposed to her, got her pregnant, and never made it home. She had twin boys. They’re Cunninghams. They carry the name. But they’re toddlers. Dad needs an heir he can actually prepare for what being a Cunningham means in the foreseeable future.

So that would be me. The pressure? The expectations? The “you’re next, son” speeches? All of that falls on me.

I’m the son of a brilliant doctor and a world‑famous singer, which sounds glamorous until you realize it comes with expectations heavier than a grand piano. Everyone assumes I’m thrilled to follow in Dad’s footsteps. Everyone assumes I’m bursting with pride to be both a Cunningham and a Cameron.

Imagine generations of expectations weighing on you like a designer backpack full of bricks. My father is a medical prodigy. My late older brother was on track to be one. My older sister is in her final year of residency and about to marry yet another Cameron — no direct relation, don’t worry — and Lauren has a different mother than me anyway, so technically she’s my half‑sister.

Their mother — Dad’s Wife Number One — is still very much alive. For a while, she and my mom (Wife Two/Four) managed a fragile, almost‑friendly truce after years of toxicity toward both of them. Then Graham died, and everything shattered. Molly — sorry, Margaret — blamed Dad. Dad blamed himself. And the ceasefire evaporated. Now she hates my mom, me, my sisters, Dad, the weather, the mailman, life in general… you get the idea.

My family needs a map, so here’s the rundown.

Dad was married four times. Twice to the same woman — my mom.

• Wife #1: Molly.
  Who goes my Margaret now, which nobody ever remembers, everyone still accidentally calls her Molly, which upsets her.
  They married at twenty, still in college after my paternal grandfather — whom I never met — sabotaged Dad and Mom’s relationship. Yeah, my mom and dad were high school sweethearts and for a long time my dad’s father shipped it. Until something happened and he thought Mom couldn’t have kids. Seeing how she had four since then, I’m not convinced he was the medical genius everyone claimed. Dad, frustrated and heartbroken, slept with Molly, who’d been obsessed with him since junior high or something. She got pregnant. Grandpa forced the marriage. Great foundation. It sucked for a decade.
  Dad tried to divorce her once, but she manipulated him and got pregnant again — with Lauren.
  Dad gave up and stayed miserable.
• Wife #2: Briar Rose:
  Enter Mom into the picture again. Freshly divorced, glowing, impossible to resist. They saw each other for the first time in a decade, and it started with a drink Dad sent to her table, then a shared meal, then Mom kissed him atop the lighthouse, he took her to her hotel, she invited him inside and — surprise — I was conceived. So, you can guess how that rekindling went. Like a wildfire.
  Dad divorced Molly so fast it left scorch marks and married mom. I was born on their wedding day. Yes. Really. Dad teases Mom by saying she did that on purpose, so he would never forget their wedding day, but he loves her so much he would never. They had to wait for his divorce to finalize, Molly didn’t make it easy on him, then plan a Brindleton Bay sized wedding, so it took a while, but I wasn’t supposed to make an appearance for another month or so. Well, I guess I wanted a dramatic entrance. Her water broke during the first dance. They barely made it to the hospital and into a delivery room, I started popping out before the team was even fully scrubbed in. Then a few years in something happened — don’t ask me what, I was too little and it’s not exactly a family bedtime story — and Mom went back to her first husband, Jackson.
  He doesn’t like me. I don’t like him either.
  Mom bounced between them until Dad quit fighting for her and ended it.
  He refused to be second choice. But he kept me.
• Wife #3: Viola. They met at a bar or something but later discovered that she worked for one of the advertising companies that contract to Cunningham Medical, so, conflict of interest. They dated secretly for a while until they took the plunge and dad promised till death do us part for a third time. Really nice woman. She was like a mom to Graham, Lauren and me. Then she and Dad got pregnant with Charlotte. They were great together, and nobody saw it coming, but in just over a year Viola realized Dad would only ever love one woman — my mom — and bowed out. Another divorce. It was quick and amicable. They still speak like old friends. She has remarried, a man with a son who is now a young adult, and they had three more kids. Charlotte didn’t get along with her older stepbrother, so she grew up with us.
• Wife #4 Briar Rose.
  Yes, the re-run. Mom came crawling back after realizing Dad was her one true love, he took her back and married her again. She moved in with baby Caroline, who was originally named Eden —thinking she belonged to Jackson. Spoiler: she didn’t. While the birth certificate was corrected, they also changed the name to something less ‘country’.
  Mom and Dad are still going strong by the amount of smooching my siblings and I have to deal with, and Jackson seems to be permanently in the doghouse with Mom, I have no real idea why, and I don’t even care. I like it that way. If she hates him, he can’t get into her head, heart or pants. We do not need another divorce. Mom belongs here, with Dad. Period.

So the siblings.
Despite the complicated origin story, all five Cunningham siblings always got along great — and we still do. Of course, there is bickering, but it comes from a place of love.

Graham Alexander Cunningham — oldest, by Molly.
Deceased. Doctor. Would’ve been twenty-eight now, probably married to Whitney by now — she’s also from the Bay. Instead, he died before his life really began, the father of twin boys he never met.
Whitney somehow married him posthumously — I don’t understand how or why, maybe so the grandkids have our last name, either way, Dad agreed to it.
And now she went off to “find herself.” Dad thinks she has PTSD because she actually saw Graham die and couldn’t save him. She dumped the twins on us and her own parents to raise, they split the time best they can with Dad and they don’t live far from us, while the baby momma heck‑knows‑where.
He was like a role model to me growing up. Still miss him so much.

Lauren Elizabeth Cunningham — by Molly.
Twenty-six, sweet, calm, mature. A doctor, like Dad. The easiest of the siblings to get along with. About to marry Blaine and move to Del Sol Valley. Kinda sad. I’ll definitely miss her.

Me, Nathaniel Cameron Cunningham — by Briar Rose.
Almost eighteen, born during Marriage #2. Raised mostly by Dad. Brindleton Bay is home. Been to San Sequoia and Del Sol Valley and while fun to hang out, they’d never be home to me. Same with San Myshuno over here on the East Coast, huge metropolis, it’s like an hour or so from my home, depending on traffic. I love going there — which teen wouldn’t — but I couldn’t live there. Dad’s administrative headquarters are there and the Cunningham Medical flagship facility. So once I’m done with uni, I’ll end up working there. Cameron is my middle name, for… reasons. I don’t mind it, but people often get confused and think it’s like a hyphenated last name without the hyphen or something.

Charlotte Joy Cunningham — by Viola.
Charley just turned seventeen. She’s sweet, but she and Caroline are attached at the hip, constantly together, and I always feel like a fifth wheel.

Caroline Rose Cunningham — by Briar Rose.
Sixteen, going on thirty. She used to be Eden Leigh — that was the name Jackson and Mom gave her before anyone knew she wasn’t his. Everyone thought she was Jackson’s kid until she grew into a toddler with blond curls like all of Dad’s kids have. Dad had her tested and — surprise — she was his. Thank God, if you ask me. The moment the results came back, he and Mom changed her name legally. No drama, no hesitation. Just: “She’s a Cunningham, she needs a Cunningham name.” So, she’s been Caroline Rose on paper since she was two.

Both Caro and Charley are now legally allowed to drive. I didn’t say they can drive. Them behind a wheel is like Russian roulette for everyone else on the road.

And then there are my half‑siblings through Mom’s first marriage, the twins:
Briony Rose and Beau Wyatt.
Twenty‑four. No relation to the other siblings.

Briony’s great — she used to visit all the time before she married the monarch in Bellacorde. Stayed with us for weekends, holidays, random school breaks. We’re close. She’s close with Mom and Dad too, even though Dad isn’t technically hers. He loves her like a daughter. She’s an awesome sister, no notes.

Her brother Beau, on the other hand, was raised by their father — and you can tell. Same type of moron, just younger and weirdly quiet in that serial‑killer, zero‑emotion way. The only things we have in common are Mom and the green eyes. That’s it. He never came around much, and when he did, he acted like he couldn’t wait to leave. He never liked me or my sisters — except Briony, obviously. He and Jackson pretend Caroline doesn’t exist. I get there’s history, but she’s sixteen. Let bygones be bygones. Feeling’s mutual.

So yes — just like the other Cunningham kids, I was born with the proverbial silver spoon.

And because I was assigned male at birth, I get certain traditions pushed on me. Like med school.

I have zero interest in any of it. None. But apparently “a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” And in my family, medicine goes with Cunningham like wet goes with water. Before you say, “But Nate, your mom’s side is musical prodigies,” let me stop you. I didn’t inherit that talent either. I do fine on piano and violin, but trust me — you don’t want to hear me sing.

The car ride home from the post office — yes, my authority figures made me come mail the application ceremoniously, express courier, tracking, delivery confirmation, the whole thing — was peak parental enthusiasm. Mom and Dad were chipper, flirting, singing along to the radio. And in case you live under a rock: yes, my mom is that Briar Rose Cameron, the mega‑famous singer/songwriter with the generational fanbase. Cameron is her maiden name; she kept it as her stage name through all four marriages. Twice to Dad. Twice to Jackson.

Don’t ask me what I think about her indecisiveness. She’s my mom. I love her. That’s all I’ll say. I don’t know that I’d have Dad’s patience, but I guess that’s real love.

“Baby, why do you look so sad?” Mom asked.

“Boy has to be starving,” Dad said. “Wanna stop at the Haute?”

“Yeah, sounds great,” I lied.

Harbor Haute Cuisine — the Haute — is one of those places where everything is small, expensive, and perfect. Brindleton Bay is like that. Upscale everything. Ralph Lauren as a lifestyle. Yacht club membership as a social passport. I own more suits than any seventeen‑year‑old should, and I actually need them.

My hobbies are the typical Brindleton Bay boy ones: sailing, skiing, snowboarding, tennis, chess, piano, violin. I started mountain climbing, but Dad shelved that as “too risky” after Graham died.
My relationship status: single.
My experience level: zero.
Rumors because of that: plentiful.

It’s not that I don’t have options. I’m neither shy nor ugly. I just lose interest the moment I realize the girl is dating my last name, not me. Happens more than you’d think. Somewhere between sophomore and junior year, I tried to change my status to “in a relationship.” Didn’t happen. I tapped out early every time.

You can see it in their eyes — the moment they clock “Cunningham,” the moment they mentally calculate the status upgrade. It’s like watching a slot machine hit jackpot. Ding ding ding. Gross.

Which is why I’m inexperienced all the way around. Oh, I want to go there — badly. All my friends have, and the way they talk about it, it sounds like pure bliss. But every time things got hot and bothered with a girl I knew I’d never get serious with, Dad’s mistake with Molly flashed into my head and I lost all interest.

My friends don’t care. If something unplanned happened, they think Daddy’s wallet or status would make it go away. I don’t think like that. Neither does Dad. I’m not risking it. Not unless it’s worth it — not unless I could see myself marrying her.

Call me what you want. That’s how I want it.

Dad parked. His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror — that silent father‑son check‑in he does when he’s trying to gauge my mood without asking.

“Ready?”

“Sure.”

Mom reached for the door handle, which triggered Dad’s Pavlovian response: sprint around the car to open her door like they were still twenty and starring in their own music video. They kissed — not a peck, a kiss — and I pretended not to see it. I stared at the dashboard, the glove compartment, the stitching on the leather seats. Anything except them.

It took them a moment. A long moment.
When they finally managed to get their imaginary braces unstuck, I climbed out of the car too.

Dad wrapped an arm around my shoulders as we headed inside, the way he does when he’s trying to be supportive and affectionate and fatherly all at once. And I wondered, not for the first time, how I was supposed to live a life that didn’t feel like it was already chosen for me. Like I was walking down a path someone else paved, wearing shoes someone else picked, toward a future someone else decided.

After lunch, Mom and Dad started reminiscing — again — about how they re-met right here in this restaurant, the very day I was conceived. Same sparkle in their eyes, same soft laughter, same “wasn’t that wild?” tone. How Dad spotted mom after losing touch for amost a decade, how he sent a drink to her table, how they rekindled during lunch, then took a ferry to the island — the one popular with tourists and kids my age who go there for… well… privacy. Mom kissed Dad – who was still married to Molly then – and he took her to her hotel. She invited him in and … well … I was conceived.

So of course we had to go to the island next.

We climbed to the top of the lighthouse, and I heard the nine‑millionth retelling of their origin story — or maybe my origin story — while they snuggled and I stood there like the world’s most awkward third wheel. My sisters were off doing fun stuff. I was stuck on the nostalgia tour.

Great.

I tried to appreciate the view — the ocean stretching forever, gulls circling, wind whipping around the railing — but it’s hard to feel poetic when your parents are making heart eyes two feet away.

Then we trotted back down the lighthouse, across the island, all the way to the old pet cemetery, where they suddenly decided they wanted a pet.

I rolled my eyes so hard I probably saw my own brain.

We used to have horses. Beautiful ones. But when they died, we were all too sad, so Dad tore down the stables entirely. Like grief could be bulldozed. And what good was a pet going to do me now? By the time it was trained and used to all of us, I’d be off to college. Off to Britchester. Off to med school. Off to the life I didn’t choose while the rest of the family might get to pet puppies or kittens. Great.

Thank God It’s Friday (?)

But first, the bliss of final‑year high school at Brindleton Bay Preparatory Academy — or Bay Prep. The elitist school. The place where legacies sharpen their silver spoons and polish their futures. Where everyone knows everyone’s business and pretends they don’t. Where the hallways smell like old money, new perfume, and generational pressure.

Same school Mom and Dad attended. Mom isn’t originally from San Sequoia — her parents moved there after she and Aunt Iris left for college, following their older brother Connor, who’d started a family there after getting a job at another Cunningham Medical facility. Grandpa Chase used to be the frontman of a famous grunge band; he and his bandmate Colton moved their families here thinking it was the perfect place to raise decent humans. Little did they know it was all prestige, affluence, and status. The only one who ever really fit here was Mom. Aunt Iris, Uncle Connor, and their parents never did. And, ironically, Uncle Connor is also a doctor. His son Chris is too. Aunt Keira is a painter. Yeah — I’m surrounded by medical professionals and artists.

So both sides of my family are from the Bay. All went to the elite school. All went to Britchester. All followed the path like it was a sacred pilgrimage.

Which is why telling any of them I wasn’t sure about my future — the future laid out for me since birth like clothes for a grade‑schooler — would be pointless. They all did it. So I had to as well.

Lucky me.

Thank God it was Friday. I just had to get through today and then a weekend of “rest,” or whatever counted as rest in my family.

I parked and headed to the main entrance, past the jocks and giggling girls. I didn’t know if they were giggling at me or something else, but the way their eyes flicked over me made my skin crawl. I kept walking, head down, to my locker.

I opened it — and it rained notes.

Actual paper notes. Pink, glittery, folded, perfumed, heart‑stickered notes.

With a deep sigh, I collected them, trying not to let the avalanche of desperation bury me alive.

Senior Prom was coming, and some girls hoping to slide their foot into the Cunningham door were tired of waiting for me to get off my ass and ask someone. I had no plans. My one plan was to skip — until last weekend, when it came up at family dinner and was unanimously decided over my head that Senior Prom is “special,” “once in a lifetime,” and something I’d “regret forever” if I missed it.

So I was going.

Find a date, kid.

I shuffled through the offers. Oh jeeze. The crème de la crème of high‑school mean girls and entitled nightmares. Sure — I’m sure it was my natural charm and general awesomeness that reeled them in.

I bet none of them could list even three things I like or dislike and get one right. But per my two authority figures, I had to pick a date.

Kyla? Oof. Tara? Even more oof. Kim? No. I’d heard enough from the guys at lunch. Pass.

I shoved the notes into my pocket and decided to deal with it later. Sat through classes. Pretended to care. Pretended to listen. Pretended to be the version of myself everyone expected.

When I walked in at home, it smelled like cake — warm, sweet, buttery — so I followed the scent to the kitchen.

“Mom?”

“Hi baby! Taste this for me.” She shoved a spoon at me. The filling was amazing. Then the frosting. Also amazing.

“Tastes great, Mom. Why the sudden Martha Stewart moment?”

“Because I want to take these to Chestnut Ridge. We’re going to meet your nephew. Dad’s getting the plane ready. We’ll hang with Grandma and Grandpa tonight and drive out in the morning. Come with us.”

“Okay, I’ll pack. Where are my sisters?”

“Oh, they’re not coming. One of Viola’s kids has a birthday, so Charley’s going, and she invited Caroline.”

“Hang on — just me again? Mom, I really don’t want to stomp through the desert again…”

“Baby, you’ll be inside. At Beau’s home.”

Dad appeared, smiling, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “I need you there, son — moral and physical backup in case your mother remembers she doesn’t approve of her new daughter‑in‑law.”

Dad meant Beau’s new redneck wife, apparently there is some feud between the Kershaw family and hers, marrying each other didn’t help the case, and Mom hates her new daughters-in-law’s family even worse, I don’t really know why, and I honestly don’t care.

“Oh, don’t you get me started, Braddy! McCoys are the worst!” Mom exploded right away, and all I could think was ‘here we go again.’

“Go pack, son. Wheels up in two hours. I need to help your mother finish here.”

With another deep sigh, I trotted upstairs and flopped onto my bed.

Great. Weekend ruined.

Flying

When the plane climbed to cruising altitude, the flight attendant brought my dad some of his favorite: a dry gin martini. Stirred. Lemon twist.

I eyed it.

Mom disappeared into the restroom, and Dad slid the drink toward me.

“Go ahead. You are almost eighteen, which is the legal drinking age in Henfordshire where you will be at college for about four or so years, so might as well prepare you.”

I smiled big and grabbed it. The smell stung my nose and eyes, but not as much as that first sip.

I tried to hold any and all facial expressions and appear pleased.

“It’s good,” I nodded. It wasn’t This was what I would imagine it tasted to drink Windex.

I don’t know if I fooled Dad or if he just humored me, but I remembered my Prom problem.

“Hey Dad, you know how you wanted me to go to Prom? I could use your help. Here.” I dug in the side pocket of my carry‑on and handed the prom invite slash almost‑love‑notes to my father.

His eyebrows rose toward his hairline as he shuffled through them briefly, then looked at me.

“Is that how this is done these days? Back when I was in high school, the boys asked the girls out.”

“Welcome to 2026, Dad. Which one would you pick? Or better: can you pick one for me?”

Dad lowered the cards and leaned back.

“Nate… this is not what your mother and I meant. We are not forcing you to prom. We just think if you boycott it, you will regret it. Don’t pick a random girl. That is kind of what I did with Molly, and it landed me in a very loveless, forced marriage for over a decade. I would never want that for you. I want you to keep your eyes and options open and find someone like… like… well… like your mother.”

“Right, Dad. Which boy wouldn’t want to date his own mother.”

“You know what I mean, kid. Ah, there she is again. Have her sort through those cards, if you are hellbound on us picking for you.”

“What cards? Oh, can I get another champagne?” Mom ordered her latest favorite beverage, Bellacordian champagne, and within seconds it appeared. My other sister — half‑sister — Briony, had married a monarch in Bellacorde and that champagne was made at their vineyards. Yeah. Briony was cool, we always got along great, and I really liked Bellacorde. Wished that’s where we would be flying to, not Chestnut Ridge.

“Oh baby, look at how many girls are bending over backwards to go out with you. My sweet handsome man.”

“Mom, they are trying to date the last name. Not me.”

“You don’t know that! Oooh, listen to this — ‘Dear Nathan, your green eyes are the first thing I think of when I wake up and the last thing before I fall asleep. Will you go to prom with me? XOXO Heather.’ DAWWWWWW! My baby boy is such a hit with the girls!”

“Yeah, and I couldn’t pick that Heather out in a crowd, and I think it’s mutual or she would know I never go by Nathan. It’s Nathaniel or Nate. Yuck.”

Well, we landed. Ended up with my grandparents, who were awesome — but getting old, which was hard. They were not at all as I remembered them, and it hurt. I could tell they were giving up and just waiting to leave this earth, and I hated it. We used to visit so much, and some of my best childhood memories were with Grandpa Chase and Grandma Hailey.

I turned in soon and just wanted to get this weekend over with.

Ridge Bound

The drive out to Chestnut Ridge was like a long, dragged‑out walk to the guillotine, and when we parked outside Beau’s cabin, I wanted to hide in the trunk. Beau was Briony’s twin, and while I got along great with her, he mostly ignored me. Always had. Just like this time. I stumbled out of the car after Mom and Dad, Mom hugged him, Dad shook his hand, and… Beau turned around and walked into the house like I was invisible.

Eyeroll.

Then the cooing over the baby. Honestly, after my two nephews had been dumped on us part‑time, splitting their care fifty-fifty with their other grandparents while their mother was living it up somewhere, I was over babies. I pretended to be interested in Beau’s newborn but was glad when nobody paid attention to me. Then Jack and Jackson came over — I could hardly ever understand what they were saying — both treated me like air, and finally I had enough.

I went outside to… well, I would say catch a breath, but this was Chestnut Ridge, and the air was always unbreathable, hot, and dusty. I hated it.

I walked over to the horses. I mean, I had horse experience. I could ride well. But none of those were interested. They flicked their ears at me, snorted, and went back to their hay like I was just another useless city boy in loafers.

Which, I guess, I was.

I sighed, wiped the dust off my jeans, and was about to wander farther when I heard it.

Voices. Loud. Sharp. Drawled. Angry. The Chestnut Ridge guys drawling which I couldn’t understand when I was in the same room with them, my mom’s, she was angry, which wasn’t unusual around Jackson.

Then another voice — my father’s — lower, controlled, but strained.

My stomach dropped.

I knew that tone. I knew that tension. I knew that sound of two men circling the same old wound.

I ran.

The screen door slapped behind me as I burst inside.

And there it was.

Jackson Kershaw — tall, sun‑baked, furious — stood there with his chest heaving, jaw locked, blue eyes blazing like a storm rolling in off the plains. My father, Brad Cunningham, stood opposite him: stiff, squared shoulders, hands open but ready, the way he gets when he’s trying not to escalate something. And honestly? In a real fight, Dad wouldn’t stand a chance against a guy like Jackson.

And between them, the air crackled with old history and new resentment.

“Ya think y’all can just waltz in here,” Jackson snarled, “act like yer some kinda saint, after all the shit you put all of us through? The crap you put my boy through?!”

Dad’s voice was low, even. “Jackson, I’m not doing this with you. Not today.”

“Oh, yer doin’ it,” Jackson shot back. “Ya always do. Just prance ’round with yer fancy degrees and yer fancy words and yer fancy life and ya think yer better than everyone—”

“That’s enough,” Dad said sharply.

“—and I’m sick of it, Brad. Sick of you. Sick of your face. Sick of your voice. Sick of—”

Jackson wasn’t hearing anything. He was too far gone. He shoved my dad backwards. And again. And again. Jack and Beau just stood there, Mom attached to Jackson’s arm, trying to stop him. Are you kidding me? My mom was the only one with balls here?

“HEY!”

I didn’t even realize the shout came from me until both men turned.

My heart hammered. My palms were sweating. But I stepped between Jackson and my Dad anyway.

“Stop it!” I said, louder than I meant to. “Just—stop! This is stupid! You’re both adults! You’re both—”

And then it happened.

Jackson moved. Not at me — he was probably trying to shake mom off his arm. A frustrated, wild, half‑step forward, a hard pull, mom stumbled backwards and

… I was in the way, right in the line of fire.

His arm clipped me across the cheekbone — not a punch, not intentional, I knew that, but hard enough to send me stumbling sideways into the wall.

Pain exploded across my face. My vision blurred. My ears rang.

Everything froze.

“Nate! Oh my God!” I heard Dad then felt him grab me.

Jackson’s face drained of color.

“Oh—hell—kid—Nate—shit—” He reached for me, horrified. “I didn’t— I wasn’t— damn it, I didn’t mean—”

Before he could finish, a blur of blonde fury launched at him.

Mom.

Briar Rose Cunningham — five‑foot‑seven of rage and maternal vengeance — slammed both hands into Jackson’s chest.

“You absolute idiot!” she shrieked. “You hit my son?! You hit my baby?!”

“Naw, I didn’t, Bri, ya know me better’n that! It was an accident!” Jackson barked, stumbling back.

“Oh, I’ll give you an accident!” Mom snapped — and then she kicked him.

Right in the balls.

Jackson folded like a lawn chair with a strangled gargle.

Beau finally snapped out of his statue‑mode and lunged forward. “Mom—Mom, stop—”

“Oh, don’t you Mom me!” she yelled, hair flying, eyes blazing. “Your father is impossible! And you and Jack just stood there! Unbelievable! I should’ve gone to court and vetoed custody when you were little and raised you and your sister together. No judge alive would think that man is better suited to raise a child than I am! And then you would’ve had a real future, Beau! Now you’re just like him!”

“Mom,” I croaked, hand pressed to my cheek. “Mom, stop. Please.”

She froze. Turned. Saw me holding my face.

Her whole expression shattered.

“Oh baby…” she whispered, rushing to me. “Oh sweetheart, let me see—”

Dad was already there, checking my cheek, my pupils, my jaw. “Does it hurt when you open your mouth? Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“I’m fine,” I muttered, mortified.

“I am not convinced. You might have a mild to medium concussion!”

Jackson was still hunched over, wheezing, but his eyes were on me — wide, guilty, devastated.

“Nate,” he rasped. “Kid… I’m sorry. I swear to God, I didn’t mean—”

I didn’t feel like making him feel better. He hadn’t cared about making me feel better earlier, nor had Beau.

The visit was ruined. The day was ruined. The weekend was ruined.

And everyone knew it.

Airborne

We left right after that. My head and cheek throbbed and I felt like my teeth were pulsing in my skull, like each one had its own heartbeat.

Jackson didn’t look at me again. Beau didn’t say a word. The baby cried. The air was thick and hot and awful.

And now we were on the plane — and I was glad of it. Glad to be sealed in a pressurized metal tube far above Chestnut Ridge and all its dust and drama.

Dad kept eyeing me, that doctor stare he gets when he’s trying to assess without alarming. Mom had them bring me my favorite ice cream — the fancy imported kind — and we watched a movie together. Mom ordered more champagne, I tried to steal some, she nixed it with a glare sharp enough to slice steel.

Mom sat beside me, fussing, dabbing my cheek with a cold compress. Dad sat across from us, jaw tight, staring out the window like he was trying to hold the entire world together with sheer willpower.

I leaned back in my seat, exhausted, humiliated, and angry in a way I didn’t have words for.

This was supposed to be a simple weekend.

Instead, it was a disaster.

Dad finally broke the silence.

“Nate,” he said quietly, leaning forward, “look at me.”

I did. He held up a finger.

“Follow this with your eyes.”

I did. Left, right, up, down. My head throbbed, but I could track it.

“Good,” he murmured. “Any nausea?”

“No.”

“Dizziness?”

“Only when Mom starts talking about the Karens in her yoga class again.”

Mom swatted my arm. “Don’t be fresh.”

Dad ignored us both, continuing.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Yeah. Jackson was coming after you again, I stepped in, and my face met his arm and then hugged the wall.”

Dad’s jaw flexed. He hated that. Hated that he hadn’t stopped it. Hated that I’d been the one hit.

He checked my pupils next — just looking, no flashlight, no fuss — and nodded to himself.

“Speech is normal. Balance seems fine. No vomiting. No confusion.” He exhaled slowly. “You can sleep. But I’m waking you every hour.”

Mom frowned. “Brad—”

“It’s safe,” he said gently. “He’s fine. I just want to monitor him.”

Mom sighed, still fussing with the compress like she could fix everything with cold water and maternal love.

The flight attendant returned with another glass of champagne for her — and, to my surprise, a second one. The attendant placed it in front of him, he slid it towards me.

Mom blinked. “Brad?”

Dad shrugged. “He’s almost eighteen. And after today…” He slid the glass toward me. “…I think he’s earned a sip. He stepped in front of me like a man, protecting his family. And he refused pain meds.”

Mom hesitated, then relented. “Fine. But only one glass.”

I took the glass. It smelled like apples and flowers and something sharp. I took a sip.

It was… good. Really good. Warm and fizzy and soft around the edges.

I took another sip. Then another.

Mom didn’t stop me this time. Dad pretended not to notice.

The warmth spread through me, loosening the knot in my chest, softening the ache in my cheek, making everything feel a little less awful.

By the time I had the glass empty, the movie blurred. Mom’s voice softened. Dad’s silhouette against the window looked less tense.

I blinked slowly, the champagne making my eyelids heavy.

“Hey,” Dad said gently, tapping my knee. “Stay awake a little longer. Just a few more minutes.”

“I’m awake,” I lied, slurring slightly.

He checked me again — quick, subtle, practiced — then nodded.

“Okay. You can rest. No concussion. You are one tough cookie, son.”

I curled into the seat, the hum of the engines vibrating through me, the cabin lights dimming, Mom’s hand smoothing my hair like I was five again. Dad spread out a blanket over me.

I drifted.

I don’t know how long I slept. I only know that when I woke up, the plane was descending, the light outside golden and soft, and Mom was smiling at me like she had a secret.

“Baby,” she whispered, brushing my cheek. “Wake up. Look outside.”

I blinked, groggy, confused, and turned toward the window.

And there it was.

Bellacorde.

The palace spires catching the sunset. The vineyards glowing gold. The coastline curving like a painting.

I shot upright, staring out the window.

My favorite place in the world.

Dad smiled faintly.

“We thought you could use something uplifting today.”

Mom kissed my forehead.

“Surprise.”

And for the first time since my face collided with Jackson’s arm and the wall, something in my chest unclenched.

The wheels touched down with a soft thud, and the cabin lights brightened. My cheek still throbbed, but the champagne haze that had made everything feel soft and floaty was long gone now. Reality — and pain — had returned.

Mom squeezed my hand. Dad gave me a small nod. And then the plane door opened.

Warm, golden Bellacorde air drifted in — salty, floral, sun‑kissed — nothing like the dusty furnace of Chestnut Ridge. I inhaled deeply, letting it fill my lungs, my chest, my whole damn soul.

Waiting at the bottom of the steps was the royal limousine — long, sleek, deep navy with the Beaumont crest gleaming on the door. Two palace guards stood beside it, perfectly still, perfectly formal, perfectly Bellacorde.

The moment my foot hit the tarmac, the driver bowed.

“Dr. Cunningham. Madame Cunningham. Monsieur Cunningham. Bienvenue à Bellacorde. Their Serene Highnesses are expecting you most eagerly.”

Mom beamed like she was born for this. Dad nodded politely. I tried not to look like a stunned tourist.

The arrival at the palace was grand — marble, sunlight, fountains, the whole royal‑storybook thing. Luc and Briony greeted us warmly, and before I could even process the scale of the place, we were ushered to the East Loggia for breakfast.

The spread was ridiculous — pastries, fruit, eggs, cheeses, coffee that smelled like it had been blessed by angels. Luc was an expert conversationalist, slipping between English and French like it was nothing. He mentioned his parents were away visiting his sister in Henfordshire, which immediately triggered Mom and Dad launching into the whole “Nate will be attending school there soon” spiel.

Thanks, parents.

After breakfast we said hello to my niece — cute baby, very grabby — and then Mom and Briony went off to meet Briony’s BFF Eloise and cousin Ana. I didn’t feel like tagging along. Dad had to take a business call, so Luc offered to walk me through the palace gardens.

The gardens were insane — roses, fountains, citrus trees, everything perfectly manicured. Then he took me through the vineyards, sunlight catching on the grapes like tiny jewels.

I mentioned I’d had my first taste of champagne on the flight.

“Espérons que c’était du Beaumont, n’est‑ce pas? I trust it was Beaumont champagne?” he said with a wink.

“Actually, it was. And I loved it. Very… fruity but rich, with a tart undertone.”

His eyebrows shot up, impressed.

“Très bien. I like to say it tastes like sunlight caught in a bottle — soft, golden, and just a little dangerous.”

“Dangerous is right. I was super tense until that glass was empty, then everything in me relaxed and life was good again.”

He laughed, then gestured at his own cheek — the same side that now glowed on me in deep red, blue, green and purple.

“Puis‑je demander ce qui t’est arrivé? What happened?”

“You ever met Jackson?” I asked, grimacing.

Luc blinked, surprised. “Mais bien sûr — he is my father‑in‑law. But non…” His expression sharpened, voice dropping. “Are you implying…? He would not hit you, would he?”

“He was going after my dad again, and I was tired of his bullshit — sorry, Your Majesty — I mean, I wasn’t gonna let him. So, I stepped in, and he got me, and I got the wall. I know he didn’t mean for it to happen, but still. What an ass. Uh… sorry again for the .. language.”

Luc’s jaw tightened — not with anger at me, but at the situation. “Mon Dieu…” he murmured, then steadied himself. “Do not apologize. And do not worry about words. What matters is this: you acted to protect your father. That is not foolishness. That is honor.”

He studied me for a moment — really studied me — like he was weighing something.

“Oh — and, ah, Nathaniel…” Luc’s tone softened, almost apologetic. “There is no need for formality with me. But if you ever choose to use it, or if the setting requires it — not to sound nitpicky,” he added gently, “the proper address is Your Serene Highness.”

He placed a steady hand on my shoulder, grounding, warm.

“But intentional or not, what you did was very brave.” His eyes held mine, earnest. “Être un homme, ce n’est pas seulement anatomique. Being a man is not about anatomy — it is about the choices we make, and the reasons behind them.”

A faint sigh escaped him.

“And that is, unfortunately, a field where Jackson has… room for improvement. I, too, have observed many times that his anger toward your father is as unfounded as it is boundless.”

“Yeah, no kidding. He’s the reason my sisters and I kinda stopped wanting to go to our grandparents’ parties in San Sequoia. That place is so gorgeous, we love visiting them, but they’d invite him, and the minute he sees my dad? Boom — something starts. And that man is a tree, like… super strong from all that ranch work. What’s Dad supposed to do about him? He’s a surgeon, not Rocky Balboa.”

Then he turned, suddenly purposeful.

“Come with me, Nathaniel.”

We walked through a long corridor lined with portraits of Beaumont ancestors, sunlight catching on gold frames. He led me into a room that looked like a museum vault — mannequins in armor, swords displayed on the walls, shields, spears, the whole medieval‑royal package.

I stopped dead.

“Uh… what is this place?”

Luc’s mouth curved, pleased by my reaction.

“La salle d’armes,” he said first, then added, “The armory. Every Beaumont trains here. My father, my grandfather, me,  and many ancestors before us … dates back many centuries.”

I turned slowly, taking it all in — armor on mannequins, shields mounted like artwork, spears lined in perfect symmetry. It looked like a museum, but alive.

“Would you like to try?”

“Me? Like with a real sword?”

“A training sword. Trust me, real swords are very heavy and delicate. One bad hit and the blade is damaged. Best to leave them for when you are efficient. So, would you like me to show you?”

“Yes!”
Did I ever!

Luc lifted a hand and waved over a staff member. A quick exchange in short, clipped French followed — nothing long, just efficient, practiced.

The man nodded and disappeared.

I swallowed. “So… swordfighting. Like… actually?”

Luc gave a soft laugh. “Oui. Actually.”

The staff member returned with padded training gear and a blunted practice sword. Luc took the sword, tested its balance with a flick of his wrist, then handed it to me.

“For you. Put the gear on.”

I did — vest, gloves, forearm guards. Everything felt stiff and oversized, like I was wearing someone else’s skin. When I looked up, Luc was watching me with that calm, princely focus.

“Now,” he said, “show me how you think you should hold it.”

I gripped it like a baseball bat.

Luc stared. “Mon ami… non. Absolutely not.”

He stepped behind me, adjusting my hands with light, precise touches — one on the hilt, one on the pommel.

“Relax your shoulders. You are not chopping wood. You are guiding a line of force.”

He nudged my stance with the tip of his boot.

“Left foot forward. Bend your knees. Not too much. You are not preparing to leap.”

I adjusted. He circled me once, evaluating.

“Better. Now lift the blade.”

I did.

“Not like that. Like this.”

He raised his own sword — elegant, fluid, effortless. I tried to mimic him. My arms shook almost immediately.

Luc smiled. “Everyone shakes at first.”

He tapped my blade with his. “Again.”

I reset.

“Again.”

I adjusted.

“Good.”

Something clicked in my chest — not fear, not embarrassment. Something like pride. Like I wanted to get this right.

Luc saw it.

“There,” he said softly. “You feel it now.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I… actually do.”

“Then let us see what you can do.”

Luc stepped back, raising his sword in a simple guard.

“Nothing dramatic,” he said. “Just movement. Balance. Reaction. I will not strike hard.”

“Okay,” I said, though my heart was pounding.

He moved first — a slow, deliberate swing. I blocked it. Badly, but I blocked it.

“Good,” he said. “Again.”

He swung from the other side. I parried. My arms shook, but I stayed upright.

Luc’s smile widened. “You learn quickly.”

He stepped in, tapped my blade, stepped out. I followed without thinking. He nodded, approving.

“Now you attack.”

I hesitated. “I don’t want to hit you.”

“You won’t,” he said simply. “Try.”

So I did — a clumsy forward strike. Luc deflected it with a flick of his wrist, spun lightly, and tapped my shoulder with the flat of his blade.

“Dead,” he said cheerfully.

I laughed, breathless. “Okay, that was cool.”

“One more.”

We went again — and this time, I lasted longer. I even made him take a half‑step back.

Luc’s eyebrows lifted. “Ah. Interesting.”

And the wildest part?

I loved it.

A voice echoed from the doorway:

“Are you bullying people already?”

Luc groaned. “Oh, perfect timing.”

A tall, unfairly handsome man strolled in — dark hair, brilliantly blue eyes, sharp jaw, dressed like he’d stepped out of a Bellacorde fashion magazine. Luc gave an exaggerated flourish.

“May I present the Duc Philippe Laurent de Villeneuve… and the greatest pain in my rear.”

Philippe bowed dramatically. “And back at you, Your Serene Highness.” Then he looked at me. “Whom have we here?”

“May I introduce my brother‑in‑law from Brindleton Bay,” Luc said. “Nathaniel Cunningham.”

Philippe’s smile warmed. “Enchanté, Monsieur Cunningham.” Then his eyes landed on my cheek. “But what happened here? Luc tell me that wasn’t you.”

Luc answered for me. “Of course not! Do you remember Briony’s père, Jackson Kershaw?”

Philippe’s face twisted. “Merde. The cowboy hit the boy?”

“I am not a boy!” I blurted. “I’m eighteen! Well… in a few months.”

Philippe smirked — the kind of smirk only someone born entitled could pull off. “My apologies, Monsieur Cunningham.”

He glanced at the swords. “So Luc is teaching you? Would you like a proper demonstration?”

Luc rolled his eyes. “Stop talking, Philippe. Allez.”

And then they went at it. With real swords and no training gear.

Fast. Precise. Beautiful. Steel clashed, feet slid, blades flashed in the sunlight. It wasn’t violent — it was like watching two languages collide and dance.

I stood there, jaw hanging, absolutely stunned.

I was fascinated, mesmerized and intrigued.
All my hobbies paled in comparison.

Later, we met up with Dad again. I didn’t even wait.

“Dad, I want to learn swordfighting.”

Brad’s eyes went wide. “You what?”

Luc chuckled. “Brad, je suis désolé — I am afraid I am to blame for his new wish. I took the liberty of giving him a brief introductory lesson, and Nathaniel enjoyed it very much.”

“Yeah, I did. Please dad. They might offer it at Britchester.”

Philippe added, “Indeed they do, and I support his wish, it helps with balance. Coordination. Discipline.”

Brad blinked. “Well… if it’s supervised…”

“It will be,” Luc promised.

Philippe invited us to his estate called Le Belvedere — a warm, elegant palace-looking estate right by the coastline, overlooking vineyards and the ocean. He pointed to land across a broad channel and explained that was Dambele. My mouth hung open. Wow.
I thought the view from our estate in Brindleton Bay was awesome, a lighthouse. This man rose to looking at another country!

He poured wine — something deep, ruby, expensive.

I looked at Dad.

Philippe waved a hand. “Allons, allons — Nathaniel mentioned he is almost eighteen, and we can all agree he is a man now. Even children in Bellacorde may drink wine at fourteen with their parents. It is cultural. It is normal.”

Dad hesitated, then nodded. “One glass.”

And suddenly I felt… adult. No idea why there’d been so much booze in my life lately, but I wasn’t hating it. There I was, swirling wine on the terrace of what I could only describe as a small coastal castle, sitting with grown men, talking politics and history like I belonged.

Hell yeah.

Later, being a “real man among men” got boring fast. Their political debate might as well have been in another language, so I slipped away to stretch my legs. I wandered the estate grounds, then drifted toward a little plaza that caught my eye. I must’ve looked like the clumsiest tourist alive — staring up at balconies, carved stonework, old shutters painted in sun‑faded colors.

I was so busy gawking that I nearly walked straight into a girl about my age.

Soft brown hair. Bright blue eyes. A shy smile that hit me like a truck.

She said something fast in French — light, musical, way too quick for me to catch.

I panicked. “Uh… je… ne comprends pas? Parlez‑vous… Anglais?”

She brightened. “Yes, a leetle…” Her accent was adorable. Her smile even more so.

“More than I can say en français,” I admitted. “What you heard already and ‘Où sont les toilettes?’ and ‘Vous prenez les cartes de crédit?’ is basically my entire vocabulary. Oh — and ‘un café, s’il vous plaît.’”

She giggled — a soft, sweet sound — then her eyes drifted to my cheek.

“Oh…”

I shrugged, trying to look tough. “It’s nothing. I barely feel it. And you should see the other guy.” Lies. I felt it. A lot. It pulsated and throbbed and hurt like hell.

She laughed harder, and I swear I grew three inches on the spot.

A cute girl thought I was funny. Hell yes.

I was already trying to figure out how to casually mention swordfighting — because obviously I was a warrior now — when she looked at my hair. Really looked.

Then, in careful, broken English: “Can I… touch?”

I blinked. “Uh… sure?”

I had no idea what was happening.

She reached out, fingertips brushing my curls like they were some rare artifact. Her eyes went wide.

“So… soft. Real? Not… how you say… fake made curl?”

“A perm?” I said. “Oh no, this is natural.” Maybe I sounded a little too proud.

She blushed. “I have never seen ‘air like zis on a boy. Especially such a pretty one.”

She ran her fingers through it — actually through it — then jerked her hand back, cheeks pink.

And I swear — I almost ascended straight into the Bellacorde sky. Wow. Oh my God, yes. More of this please.

“You visit? Touriste?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah. Visiting… family. You live here?”

“Oui. By ze ‘arbor on the other side of the bay. Mon père… uh… dad… he… catch fish. He teach my brozer and me.”

“Fisherman,” I said, impressed. “Cool.”

She nodded. “Oui. Et toi?”

“Me? I go to school. Almost to university.”

“Oh! Student. You look… uh… old. I mean… like man.”

And there went another three inches of height.
Yes. Please. Continue.
If she kept going like this I was leaving here married!

“I’m almost eighteen.”

Her eyes lit. “Oh! I am seventeen, eighteen in some months. Je suis en terminale. A le lycée. Umm… ‘igh school, end semester, non?”

“Yeah, me too. Final year, then graduate, then uni. You?”

“Non université. I find work when I graduate.” She hesitated, then smiled again. “Votre nom? What your name?”

“I am…” I paused, then heard myself say, “Cameron.”
I was shocked at myself. My middle name.

She smiled shyly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she gathered the courage to finish her sentence.

“Je m’appelle Élodie.”

She said it softly, like the name itself was something delicate she was offering me. And I swear it was the prettiest name I had ever heard.

I tried to repeat it. “Eh… low… dee?”

She giggled again, covering her mouth with her hand. “Close,” she said gently. “É‑lo‑die.”

I tried again. “Élodie.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oui! Parfait.”

It wasn’t perfect. But she made it feel like it was.

She shifted her weight, hands clasped in front of her, the breeze tugging at the loose waves of her hair. Up close, I noticed the faint freckles across her nose, the sun‑kissed warmth of her skin, the way her blue eyes seemed even brighter in the afternoon light. She looked like someone who belonged to the sea — soft, warm, quietly strong.

“Hey, what do you do for fun? Like, when you’re not in school and running into tourists?”

She smiled, but it was a sad little smile. “Not much. Not much time for fun. I go to school, zen ‘ome, cook for my siblings, zen work.”

“Work? Where are your parents?”

“My family is Marceau,” she said softly. “Oh, you can’t know. It was all over ze news for a while.” She lifted her hand, gesturing vaguely toward the street. “We were big family, lived down zis road to ze left. Grandmère and grandpère lived with us, watched ze little ones when Maman and Papa work. My brozers and I, we were ze oldest. We had… fun time. Loud house. Always someone laughing.”
Her voice thinned.
“But zen… ze fire ‘appen.” She swallowed. “I woke up, smoke everywhere. I woke my brozer Pascal and my sister Anaïs and we ran out. But zen it was loud, and somezing explode, and after… all was fire. Zey all die. Zree sibling, grandmère, grandpère, Maman, Papa.” She blinked hard, fighting it back, then forced a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “We live in Verdemar now, near ze ‘arbor. After ze fire, we move to small house close to plaza. I work mornings before school and afternoons. My brozer Pascal ‘elp neighbors … repairs and make wood zings for money or food. And my leetle sister Anaïs stay with Madame Celine until I come ‘ome. She does not talk much. She draws… always draws. Usually our family. All of zem.”

“That sounds… tough,” I said. “I am from a big family too. My oldest brother died recently as well, so I get it.”

She shrugged with a small smile. “I am so sorry. It is life. But good life. I like family.”

She looked at me again, studying my face with that same gentle curiosity she’d had when she touched my hair. “You first time ‘ere.”

“No, but the last time we were here for a wedding and I didn’t get to explore. Is is that obvious?”

She laughed softly. “A leetle. You look… how you say… lost but ‘appy.”

I felt my cheeks warm. “Yeah. That’s probably accurate.”

She tilted her head, eyes sparkling. “You stay long in ‘ere in Bellacorde?”

“Just till tonight. But… I like it here. A lot. Will definitely be back soon. I wanna see more.”

“Oui,” she said, and it sounded sincere. “is very pretty, people here are kind. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

She grinned. “Some tourists are… ‘ow you say… loud and… uh… entitled.”

I snorted. “Yeah, that tracks.”

She hesitated, then asked, “You walk wiz me? I show you ze ‘arbor. Is very pretty now.”

My heart did a weird flip. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

We fell into step together, her pace small and light beside mine. She pointed out little things — a bakery her mother used to work at, a mural painted by local kids, the best place to get ice cream in summer. Her English was broken but charming, and every time she searched for a word, she’d glance up at me with that shy smile, like she hoped I wouldn’t mind.

I didn’t. I could’ve listened to her all day.

At one point, she brushed her hair back again and looked at me sideways.

“You are very… how you say… gentil.”

“Is that good?”

“Very good,” she said, cheeks pink. “Do you want to exchange phone number? In case you come back and ‘ave… uh… question. Or, I can ‘elp you explore. Tour guide.”

And I swear — I floated. Her as my tour guide!? Yes, please!

“Yeah, totally!” I pulled out my phone and handed it to her. She took it and paused.

“I do not know… uh… international code. I write on paper and you look up, non? Please call me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” She smiled and wrote. I accepted the paper like a diploma.

“I have to go now, Cameron. Zat is Pascal and Anaïs.” She pointed toward a boy with dark blond hair, maybe fifteen or sixteen and a little girl, I’d guess maybe eight or nine. “My brozer and sister.”

Pascal lifted a hand in a shy wave, Anaïs clutching a small sketchbook to her chest. Both looked sun‑tired but content, the kind of quiet resilience that only comes from surviving too much too young.

Élodie smiled, proud and protective. “We go ‘elp at ‘arbor before sunset. We get to keep some of the fish, for dinner.”

And just like that, she was gone — walking toward her family, toward the life she knew, toward the sea.

I stood there long after Élodie reached her family, watching as they climbed into a small, weather‑beaten fishing boat tied to the dock. Pascal untied the rope with careful hands, Anaïs settled beside him clutching her sketchbook, and Élodie jumped aboard with practiced ease.

She turned once, just before the boat drifted away, and lifted her hand in a small wave.

I waved back like an idiot. Probably too enthusiastically. Whatever.

The boat pulled away, engine sputtering to life, and I watched until they were nothing but a speck against the glittering water.

Then reality hit me.
Sun was setting.

I had to get back.

I sprinted across the plaza, through the narrow streets, past the bakery Élodie had pointed out, and up the hill toward Philippe’s estate. By the time I reached the door of the palace‑like place — all carved stone, tall windows, and the kind of architecture that made you feel underdressed just by standing near it — I was out of breath and sweating, but I didn’t care. I shoved it open and stumbled inside.

Dad was waiting.

Arms crossed. Foot tapping. Face set in that “you just had to try my patience” expression.

“There you are,” he snapped. “Do you have any idea how long you’ve been gone? We have to fly home, the flight is five hours with tailwind, and then another two hours driving home. Tomorrow is a school day. You can’t just wander off in a foreign country for hours, Nate—”

I nodded, or pretended to. Honestly, I didn’t hear a single word. My brain was still on the harbor. On her smile. On the slip of paper in my pocket.

Luc was on the phone in the next room, speaking rapid French. Philippe lounged on the sofa like a cat, one eyebrow raised, watching me with way too much amusement.

I marched straight over to him.

“Duke Philippe,” I hissed. “Help me. What do I dial to call this number from Brindleton Bay? And how do you spell… uh… Eh‑Low‑Dee?”

He blinked, then grinned like Christmas had come early.

“Oh ho ho. Mon ami. You have been gone two hours and return asking how to call a girl? You work fast.”

“It’s not— I mean— just tell me.”

He leaned back, hands behind his head. “Ah, young love. It is beautiful. We do have some of the most beautiful women in the world right here in Bellacorde, a known fact. And this scar on your cheek? Magnifique. Girls adore a man with a story.”

I groaned. “Philippe, please.”

He wasn’t done.

“You have game. Very impressive. Allez, Luc! Your brother‑in‑law has seduced half of Bellacorde already!”

Luc ended his call with a sigh and walked over.

“Philippe, stop tormenting him.”

“I am encouraging him,” Philippe protested. “Is good for morale.”

Luc ignored him and held out his hand. “Let me see the number.”

I handed him the slip of paper like it was sacred.

Luc glanced at it, nodded, and said, “You will need the country code. I will write it for you. And the name is spelled É‑L‑O‑D‑I‑E.” he pulled a Montblanc pen from his shirt pocket and wrote it down in perfect penmanship, looking up “Did she give you a last name?”

“Yes, Marsow or soemthing like that.”

“Ah, Marceau. Tres bien.” He added the last name, then added the country code to her digits, handing it back to me.

“E voila, Mademoiselle Élodie Marceau’s phone number.”

I repeated it under my breath. “Élodie.”

Philippe clutched his chest dramatically. “Listen to him. Already he says it like a poet.”

“Ha ha ha – funny,” I muttered, but I couldn’t stop smiling.

Philippe elbowed me. “Call her tonight.”

Dad overheard that part and glared. “We are not calling anyone tonight. We are leaving for the airport right away. Tails up in an hour. Apologies for the rush, Luc. And thank you for your hospitality, Philippe. I enjoyed this very much. You wine is excellent.”

“Oh, it was my pleasure, I hope we can soon repeat it. And clearly, Nate enjoyed it most of all.” Philippe grinned.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t even pretend to. I just tucked the paper safely into my pocket, feeling like it was burning a hole straight through the fabric.

Because I knew one thing for sure:

I was calling her.
And I was coming back.

Departure

The goodbyes were a rushed blur — quick hugs and kisses, the usual promises to be back soon, which I definitely intended to keep this time. We leaped into the limo, it rushed to the airport, and we galloped into the cabin like we were fleeing a crime scene.

Then the jet door sealed shut with a soft thump, and the engines hummed low beneath the floor.

Mom sank into her seat with a sigh. Dad rubbed his forehead, muttering something about runway delays. I didn’t sit. My cheek felt hot and tight, like it was pulsing under the skin.

“I’m gonna use the bathroom,” I said quietly.

Neither of them argued. They were too drained to do anything but nod.

I slipped into the tiny jet bathroom and shut the door behind me.

The mirror didn’t hold back.

My cheek was swollen — not huge, but enough that it looked like I’d taken the express route down a tree, face first. A red smear of color spread under the skin. My hair was a mess. My eyes were tired. I looked like someone who’d had a day.

If Élodie liked me looking like this, she’d love me when I looked like myself.

I touched the bruise lightly and hissed.

Fantastic. Exactly what I needed before school tomorrow.

Bay Prep was going to have a field day with this.

I could already hear it:

“Dude, what happened?”
“Did you get jumped?”
“Did you get knocked unconscious?”
“Bro, sick bruise?”

And what was I supposed to say?

“Oh yeah, this? My mom’s ex accidentally clipped me in the face while trying to fight my dad and I ended up kissing the wall. Totally normal weekend. How was yours? Since you have all your teeth, I assume boring?”

Right.

I leaned closer to the mirror.

I didn’t look like a Cunningham heir.
I didn’t look like a Cameron legacy.
I didn’t look like the future doctor everyone kept shoving me toward.

I looked like a dumb kid who stepped between two grown men fighting and got knocked into a wall for it.

But I would do it again. My dad deserved better than Jackson’s bullying. And I was a swordfighter now. I would definitely look into finding some club or courses for that. Luc looked legit and totally boss doing it.

My cheek throbbed. My teeth ached. My eyes stung.

I gripped the sink, breathing slowly.

Some girl at school would think it was badass. Some would think it was pathetic. Some would ask if I’d at least hit back.

I hadn’t. I wasn’t trying to fight.

I was trying to stop one.

The intercom crackled. “Cabin crew, prepare for takeoff.”

I splashed cold water on my face, wiped it with one of those tiny towels, and took one last look at the bruise.

Yeah. It hurt.

But I had done something. Stopped something. I was good with it.

I opened the door and stepped back into the cabin. Mom looked up immediately, worry softening her face. Dad too. The engines roared louder.

I buckled in, stared out the window, and tried not to think about school tomorrow. Mom wrapped her arm around me.

Tried not to think about the bruise.

I thought about blue eyes. About what I would say when I called her.

I closed my eyes.

Just for a moment.