Blaine leaned back against the hospital’s outer wall, the concrete cold enough to bite through his shirt. Sweat clung to his eyebrows even though the morning air was freezing — that strange mix of adrenaline and exhaustion that made his skin feel too hot and too cold at once.
He didn’t look like anyone famous. The black baseball cap hid most of his face, the brim shadowing the eyes that had sold big ticket movies and records to award level. The hoodie — gray, frayed at the cuffs, coffee‑stained from nervous hands shaking between contractions and delivery — hung loose over worn jeans. His sneakers were scuffed, his jaw rough with a several‑day‑old five‑o’clock shadow. Just another guy outside a hospital, trying to breathe.
He cracked open the beer he’d grabbed from the gas station across the street — the kind of cheap brand he’d never touch under normal circumstances — and gulped it down like water. The carbonation stung his throat. Good. He needed something to sting.
He crushed the empty can in his fist and tossed it toward the trash bin with the lazy confidence of a man who’d once played baseball in middle school and still believed he had the arm for it. It clattered inside. Small victory. He opened another, slid down the wall until he was sitting on the pavement, knees bent, the can dangling from two fingers.
The hospital smelled like disinfectant and cold metal. The parking lot smelled like rain and gasoline. The sky was a sheet of gray, but the sun kept trying to punch through it — thin rays flickering across the asphalt like they were searching for him.
A shadow fell over him.
“You alright, man?” a voice asked.
Blaine blinked up, squinting against the light. A guy stood there — mid‑thirties maybe, scruffy beard, hoodie, cigarette between two fingers. He looked like someone who’d been awake for too many nights in a row.
“Debatable,” Blaine said. “Theoretically, yeah. I just became a father. And despite the kid coming way too early, he’s big, pink, healthy — a fighter. They ran tests and said he’s shockingly developed. Maybe he won’t have to stay here for so many months. Maybe just two. And his mother is doing really good. Resting now. Both of them.”
The man nodded slowly. “Congrats.”
“Thanks.”
He slid down the wall beside Blaine, accepted the offered beer from the six‑pack, cracked it open, and took a long sip. Then he held out the pack of cigarettes. Blaine took one. The man lit his own, flicked away the butt of the previous one, then leaned over and lit Blaine’s.
They sat in silence, smoke curling upward, dissolving into the cold air, taking the occasional sips until they reached the final two cans — shared and half‑finished in quiet.
“So,” Blaine said eventually, “what brings you here?”
“Rehab,” the man answered — deadpan.
Blaine’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide.
The man burst out laughing. “Kidding.”
Blaine snorted. “Funny, you douche.”
“Sorry. I just lost my brother. He died earlier. Fuck cancer.”
Blaine’s chest tightened. “Sorry to hear. Condolences.”
“Thanks. For the better, honestly. He wasn’t living anymore. He wanted to go for months. It’s been rough. I was his primary caretaker. It’s what siblings do, right?”
“Yeah,” Blaine said quietly. “Right. Looks like you’re in a hurry to join him,” he added, pointing with his cigarette at the man’s second one.
The other guy shrugged. “We all gotta go sometime, right?”
“Right.”
But inside, Blaine knew he and his siblings would never go through such lengths for each other. They weren’t built like that. They weren’t raised like that. But maybe his son would be. Maybe Ashton — and whatever siblings came after him — would be the kind of family Blaine had always dreamed of: close, loyal, present. There for one another, through good and bad.
He hoped so. God, he hoped so.
NICU Weeks
Six weeks. That’s how long the world shrank to the size of a neonatal unit — six weeks of monitors beeping in uneven rhythms, nurses whispering like ghosts, and Lauren pumping milk at all hours while Blaine pretended he wasn’t terrified.
He learned the language of machines: the soft alarm that meant “check the oxygen,” the sharper one that meant “don’t panic yet.” He learned the rhythm of nurses’ shoes on linoleum, the way the air always smelled faintly of antiseptic and hope. He learned how to smile for Lauren when she was too tired to cry.
Every day was the same, until one morning wasn’t.
Blaine sat in the recliner, shirt half‑unbuttoned, Ashton’s tiny body pressed against his chest for skin‑to‑skin. The baby’s heartbeat was steady, warm, impossibly small. Blaine had stopped counting the minutes; he just breathed with him.
The door opened. The doctor walked in, holding a stack of papers and a smile that didn’t look routine.
“Mr. and Mrs. Cameron,” she said. “He’s ready. Ashton can go home.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. Lauren’s hand flew to her mouth. Blaine felt his throat close.
“Home?” he whispered.
“Home,” she confirmed.
Excitement hit first. Then fear. Ashton was still so small — impossibly small — but strong. Stronger than anyone expected.
The next few weeks blurred into checkups and cautious optimism. Each appointment stretched a little farther apart until one afternoon, the doctor handed Lauren the latest results. She read them, froze, then started laughing and crying at the same time.
“Babe,” Blaine said, panicked, peeking at the paperwork. “I don’t speak medicine. What are we crying about?”
Lauren looked up, eyes wet and bright. “Ash is just… a healthy baby boy. Almost in range for his age group.”
They cried all the way to the car. Cried driving home. Cried in the driveway. Happy tears. Relief tears.
That night, Lauren had a tiny sip of champagne. Blaine had one too. Just a moment. Just a breath.
They’d made it.
Awards Night
That weekend, for the first time since Ashton’s birth, they had to let someone else babysit him. Blaine hated it. Lauren hated it. But the SAA Awards were calling, and obligations didn’t pause for new parents.
Channing was nominated for his thriller. Blaine was nominated twice — once for his music, once for his lead role in Midnight Agent. A double nomination.
And for the first time in decades, both awards went to the same person.
Blaine.
The after‑party was loud, chaotic, champagne everywhere. Blaine barely heard his phone vibrating until Lauren leaned in, lips brushing his ear.
“You’re vibrating.”
“I know, right?” he grinned. “Just wait till we get home and—”
“No, Blaine — your pocket.”
He fished out his phone. Connor.
He showed Lauren the Caller ID, kissed her, and told her he’d take the call outside — probably his family finally remembering he existed now that he was stacking awards they could brag about.
“I can’t wait to shoot down that BS,” he muttered.
He stepped outside, the noise fading behind him, replaced by the cool night air and distant traffic.
“You gotta speak up, dude, I can’t hear you!” Blaine said. “Still at the awards after‑party. I take it you saw?”
Connor’s voice cracked through the static.
“Mom passed.”
“What?” Blaine’s glee vanished.
“My mother, Hailey… she died yesterday.”
“Fuck. I’m sorry, dude.”
“Yeah. Listen… Dad didn’t take it well. He had a heart attack. I did my best, but he passed in the ICU this morning.”
Blaine’s stomach dropped. His brother Chase. Dead.
“Oh shit. When’s the funeral?”
“Thursday. I’ll send you the info.”
Blaine hung up, stunned. Chase — and his wife Hailey — had been the only sibling he still had any contact with. Not much — but more than any of the others.
He wondered if he should try to reach his parents, but the thought curdled instantly.
No.
They hadn’t come for Ashton’s birth.
They hadn’t come during PPROM.
They hadn’t come during NICU.
They hadn’t come when he begged through interviews.
They still hadn’t met their grandson.
Nope. Fuck that. Fuck them.
Fuck everyone with the last name Cameron — except Lauren and Ashton. And Channing.
Fuck all the rest of them.
Lauren insisted they go to the funeral. Blaine wished she hadn’t.
Funeral Cascade
Blaine groaned — earning a glare from Lauren — when they walked in, saw Lauren’s family, and joined them.
“Oh crap. He’s here too? Comes to nothing but this?!” Briar Rose snapped.
For a split second, Blaine thought she meant him. Then he noticed her eyes weren’t on his face — they were locked on something behind him.
He turned and saw Jackson — Briar Rose’s ex‑husband — and their son Beau with their wives and children.
Bri and Jackson had been an on‑again, off‑again mess since their teenage years, leaving Bri perpetually pulled between him and Brad. At some point, something Jackson had done — or failed to do — had knocked her rose‑colored glasses off for good, and she chose Brad and never changed her mind again. Ever since, she couldn’t be in the same room with Jackson without them bickering. Add Jackson’s deep dislike for Brad and his inability to control his temper, and you had a volatile mix. Usually he behaved when his current wife Amy was around, but she rarely came to events because she hated the tension.
“Bri!” Brad hissed, trying to stop her from marching over. She snapped at him, trying to shake out of his hold.
By the time he calmed her, Jackson and his family had reached them. Beau hugged his mother — calm, visibly sad.
“Relax, Bri,” Jackson said. “Ain’t here for trouble. Jus’ payin’ mah respects to Chase and Hailey. Damn shame. Wish I coulda made it to the last party. Been almost six months since I last saw ’em.”
“Eight,” Bri snarled. “It’s been eight months. But you’ve never kept up with anything beyond yourself and your horses. At least some things never change.”
Jackson ignored the jab. “Look, I know yer hurtin’, so I’m gon’ let that slide. I really am sorry, Bri. Condolences. I mean it. Whatever went wrong between us has no place here. Okay?”
She nodded stiffly. “Yeah. Okay. And… thank you.”
“Want a hug?”
“No, thank you. I do not hug people who hit my children.”
“What? When did I ever hit yer kids? Ya mean them lil love taps at Beau? He don’t mind — that’s how guys interact at the ranch.”
“I MEAN NATHANIEL!” Bri barked, on tippy‑toes in seven‑inch heels, inches from his face. “My poor son had a shiner for weeks!”
“Mom…” Nate muttered, mortified.
“No, nothing ‘mom.’ That man knows what he did, and if he likes to forget, I’ll happily remind him!”
“BRI—” Jackson started, but a quick side‑glance at Amy shut him down. He exhaled. “I apologize. It was an accident. I don’t hit kids. And I think we’re even, considerin’ you kicked me in the crown jewels worse than an angry mare.”
“You deserved it!”
“He’s a young man now. No longer a kid,” Brad said.
Jackson shot Brad a glare — the kind that could curdle milk — and snorted.
“Young man? Brad, c’mon. That boy of yers is still wet behind them ears, betcha he still watches cartoons on Saturday mornings drinkin’ chocolate milk, eatin’ cookies on yer couch. Beau was muckin’ stalls at eight and ridin’ fences at ten. Don’t rewrite reality just ’cause ya like wearin’ rose‑colored glasses for yer own brood.”
Then, without waiting for Brad’s reaction, Jackson turned to Nathaniel — whose ears burned crimson, because Jackson had hit the nail embarrassingly on the head.
Nate instinctively stepped closer to his parents, shoulders hunched. Brad immediately wrapped an arm around him, protective and stiff. His sisters — both blonde curls and wide eyes — hovered behind him, glaring at Jackson like startled baby swans, clutching each other’s sleeves.
Jackson softened his tone.
“Hey kid. Wanted to tell ya sorry again for that last time ya’ll was over and I grazed ya. I hope ya know I’d never hit ya. It was an accident, but I’m real sorry.”
“Uh… yeah. Was nothing,” Nate mumbled, ready to bolt.
Amy stepped forward. “Our deepest condolences for the loss of your parents. Such wonderful, warm people. Jackson still speaks so highly of them.”
“Thank you, Amy,” Bri said, appeased only because Brad’s arm wrapped around her waist.
The rest remained civil. Somber. A sad but wholesome farewell.
Until it wasn’t.
Just after the funeral, Maddie — Colton’s wife and Hailey’s lifelong best friend — collapsed. Heart attack. Stroke. Brad, Lauren, Connor, Christian, Chris’ wife Cadie – all doctors, all present – tried everything.
She died. At the funeral.
A few days later, they all met again to bury her. Jasper barely held it together. Keira was a wreck. Their mother, Maddie, had been a dynamo.
Their father — Colton – Maddie’s husband of many decades and Chase’s former bandmate and lifelong best friend — shut down completely.
Detached.
Gone somewhere inside himself. Connor and Keira moved into the now‑almost – empty Seaglass Haven to be with him, leaving their own mansion to Christian and his growing family until things could get sorted.
On the way home from the second funeral, Lauren’s phone rang. Briar Rose. Lauren answered — then stiffened.
Blaine was snuggling Ashton, watching her face.
Lauren hung up and collapsed into his shoulder.
Her paternal grandmother, Belinda Stevens — Linda to friends, Mom to Brad, Grandma to all five of Brad’s kids — former judge, had died.
Another funeral. And another one Blaine couldn’t skip.
Oof.
While waiting for the jet to refuel in Evergreen Harbor, Lauren breastfeeding Ash in the lounge, the next call came.
Colton had died in his sleep. Holding an old photo of the four‑leaf‑clover group — Chase, Colton, Hailey, Maddie — singing in the studio in their twenties.
Blaine and Lauren skipped that funeral.
Too much death. Too much loss. Too much for one chapter of their lives.
Late Night Visits
One night, Lauren took an extra shift. Blaine stayed home, working on half‑finished songs — music finally feeling viable again, even if he wasn’t ready to leave film. Eventually he wandered outside for air, Ashton asleep in a travel crib beside him, the pool lights reflecting off the water like quiet little ghosts.
He exhaled a plume of cigarette smoke — a bad habit from high school, reawakened by stress and by the idiot who handed him one after Ashton’s birth. He smoked semi‑secretively now, because Lauren had a very specific reaction whenever she caught him, and it usually went something like this:
“You know what cigarette smoke smells like? Lung tissue. Rotting. I smell it on you.”
She could smell it instantly. She always could. And her face said it all, and she wouldn’t kiss him until he brushed his teeth and used half a gallon of mouthwash.
He took a drag, exhaled — and immediately heard a voice behind his ear:
“Breeding ourselves a nice big fat tumor, are we? I mean, I heard fun shit about cancer.”
Blaine froze.
The voice was right there. Not across the patio. Not behind the hedge. Right. There.
He shot to his feet so fast he nearly flipped the chair, heart slamming against his ribs. The cigarette flew from his fingers — only to be crushed instantly under a black boot that had absolutely not been there a second ago.
Blaine’s breath caught.
“DAD! Fuck! Crap! Holy—holy SHIT!”
His voice cracked like a teenager’s.
Ashton jolted awake and wailed, terrified by the sudden chaos.
Blaine Sr. didn’t even blink. He just reached into the crib, scooped the baby up with one arm like he’d been waiting for this exact moment, and settled Ashton on his shoulder. The baby quieted instantly, drooling into his grandfather’s shirt like he’d found his favorite pillow.
Blaine Jr. stared at him — pale, wide‑eyed, still half in fight‑or‑flight.
“Okay… okay, I’m impressed,” he managed. “You gotta teach me that magic.”
Blaine Sr. smirked, brushing a fleck of ash off his boot.
“Comes easy around child three or four.” Blaine Sr. smirked, bouncing Ashton once on his shoulder. “Cute kid, by the way. Nice work, son. Thanks for not breeding ugly into the family. Nice set of lungs he’s got on him — sounds like he’ll continue the music legacy once he grows a little more. Bit on the scrawny side, aren’t we, huh? Whatcha name him? Please do not say Blaine.”
“If you had been around, you’d know why he’s tiny,” Blaine Jr. shot back, folding his arms. “Lauren ended up with PPROM — and if you’re like me and don’t know what that is, read up on it. It’ll change your world. Either way, he made it, but came way too early. For all that, he’s growing like a weed and super healthy. At least the delivery was smooth and relatively fast.” He gestured at the baby. “That’s Ashton Jude Cameron you’re holding. Ash, meet your other grandpa… finally.”
The older Blaine gave his son that look — the one that meant he was amused, impressed, and mildly offended all at once. He pointed at him with one finger, smirking.
“Ah, here it comes. Nice one, kid. Jab received and noted. Got any more?”
“Nah, I am good for now,” Blaine muttered. “Hey Dad … not sure if you heard, but I finally got an award for my music. And one for acting, same night too. As cool as that was, doesn’t help — I’m still torn which way to go, film or music. Got a tile too. Walk of Fame. Just a few steps from yours.”
“Congrats, son.” Blaine Sr. grinned. “Officially, Cesare keeps us cut off from mortal news, but we got our ways. We saw. Watched the whole damn thing. Made it a drinking game — your mother and I took a shot every time you were on camera. Or the wifey. Was a lot, by the end of the night we were so fucking wasted you’re lucky we didn’t make you a new sibling. Lauren looks great, by the way.”
“Yeah, she’s a trooper. Hey, where’s Mom?” Blaine looked around.
“Not here. She sacrificed herself so I could come harass ya. She’s distracting Cesare so he won’t start looking for me. Bitch is onto us sneakin’ out. Keeps tabs like it’s boarding school for the fanged. I swear, I’m not doing that for eternity. I aged out of curfews many, many decades ago.”
“Oh — speaking of eternity… not sure if you heard, but… we had some losses in the family.”
“Yeah, I heard.” Blaine Sr.’s face softened. “We went to the crypt. Said goodbye privately. Damn shame. You know your brother was born with fangs, but the remedy took for him and your siblings. It’s what they wanted. Not what your mother and I wanted, but okay. This — all of this — is why your mother and I made so many mistakes.”
“Mistakes?”
“Well, you sprung from one of ’em.” He held up a hand. “Not sayin’ you were a mistake. Just the result of one. We lost a few kids, son. Hurts like hell. I hope you never know how much.”
Blaine swallowed hard.
“So we tried to cure ourselves. I used to be mortal — no problem, the cure took. But your mother was born with fangs. Well, not born with them, but you know what I mean. Vamp babies are bald and toothless like the rest. Anyway, something didn’t adjust right. Suddenly we were both mortal. And pregnant. Nobody knew that could happen, ya know, for us vamps fertility doesn’t spring eternal, it times out. We had long timed out. But us reverting to mortality triggered our juices or something and you were on our radar. Your siblings and Cesare were less than thrilled. That’s why there’s such a huge age gap between you and your siblings and why you are younger than most of your nieces and nephews. Everyone cringed. We cringed. Cesare uber‑cringed. But it was what it was.”
His voice dropped.
“Until it wasn’t. Your mother died givin’ birth to you.”
“WHAT?!” Blaine nearly fell over.
“Yeah.” Blaine Sr. sighed. “I didn’t take it well. Neither did Cesare. He hated my guts. So, there I was — all alone with you, barely functioning to begin with, and digging in my memory as the last time I had to take care of a baby was many decades before you. But my mental and physical health kept going down fast. Maybe it was that I’d been vamp too long. Maybe it was… what did Connor call it? Broken heart syndrome. I am no good without your mother. Just couldn’t do it. I could feel my body givin’ out. So I took you and went to stay with Connor for a visit – supposedly. I … died too and left you in his care for a while.”
Blaine stared, speechless. This was the first time he heard about any of this.
“So we had two funerals. One real. Then almost two decades later a fake one — the one Cesare threw to make us disappear after you turned eighteen. Mortals forget fast. Fast by our standards. If you’re immortal, time stops meaning anything. Feels like we “died” and moved away from here last year, but it’s been what… ten? You’re twenty eight now, right? Anyway — love what you’ve done with the place. When we heard you were tearing the old shed down, we thought the worst. But this? This is nice. I could live here.”
“I wish you would,” Blaine whispered. “But wait — if you both died for real… how are you here? I mean, clearly you weren’t vampire then, but you are now. Somehow that math isn’t mathing for me.”
“Oh, right.” Blaine Sr. waved a hand. “Don’t worry, I’m not a ghost. Just a vampire. Scarlett’s mom — the trad‑wife mute Branwen — just playing, she’s real sweet, – but she actually said something useful once. Cesare listened. Scarlett’s brother — Creepy Caelan — has an illegitimate daughter. Necromancer.”
“I have no idea what that is, Dad. Necromancer? Is that the people who… you know… do it with dead bodies?”
Blaine Sr. burst out laughing, startling Ashton, who fussed until his grandfather kissed his head and soothed him again.
“No, son. You wish it were that simple. Then again, Leeora is Caelan’s daughter so I wouldn’t put it past her, and she is married to a vampire, we are debatable not really alive by mortal standards, but no. Necromancers are witches that can kill you or raise you again. Don’t ask me how — I don’t ride brooms. But yeah, she brought your mom and me back from our dirt naps. Cesare made sure we got fangs again so we don’t check out prematurely again, and well — rest is history. You were too young to know all that. Then our real deaths were played off as a marketing stunt because my Dark Lacrymosa album was ready and released same time we came back to life as far as the public is concerned. That’s why so many people thought the second deaths were smoke and mirrors, and Cesare had to go through great lengths to make it pass all the AI and deep‑fake testing and all that shit I won’t pretend to understand. Took a lot of effort, but most finally bought it. Which is why Cesare is adamant we’re never seen. One slip and people remember the first funeral and realize we’re still around. If that happens, I have the inkling Caelan would off me for realz and permanently, then Scarlett would go nuclear on them and … well … let’s just not.”
“Yikes,” Blaine muttered. “I knew the family hinted at stuff, but I never wanted to read up on it. Should’ve trusted my instincts. Yikes. Not only are my parents vampires, but also kinda‑sorta zombies. Mega‑yikes.”
“Yeah, well — that’s mortality for ya. You’re mortal, you die. We died. Others die. It never gets easier. Chase and Hailey were special to me. Hit me hard. You’d think after living as long as I have, you’d callus over. I never did. Which is why seeing you thriving, starting a family… makes me proud.”
Blaine Sr. looked unusually vulnerable. Blaine Jr. felt something twist in his chest — something instinctive and old.
He stepped forward and hugged his father, careful of Ashton, pressing his forehead to the shoulder not occupied by the baby.
“Thanks for coming, Dad. I needed this. And I’m glad you finally got to meet him.”
Blaine Sr. wrapped his free arm around his son, pulling him close, kissing his head, then Ashton’s.
“Love you, kid. But here — take the baby. I gotta go.”
“Why?”
“Because your wife is drivin’ up and I’m about to look very unmanly, so I’m outta here. Love ya, love my grandson, and I’ll see ya when I see ya.”
Blaine barely got a proper grip on Ashton before a black cloud dissipated where his father had stood — like he’d been imaginary all along.
Testing, One, Two
Lauren didn’t hear the door open.
She didn’t hear the footsteps, either — the soft, measured stride of someone who knew this medical center down to its bones. Her father’s gait. Familiar, steady, impossible to miss under normal circumstances.
But she wasn’t in normal circumstances.
She was hunched over the lab bench, shoulders tight, hair slipping from its clip, eyes burning from hours of staring at numbers that refused to make sense. The centrifuge hummed behind her, a low mechanical heartbeat. Her gloved fingers trembled slightly as she scrolled through another panel of results, cross‑checking values, comparing them to reference ranges she knew by heart.
She didn’t look up when Bradford Cunningham stepped inside.
He paused in the doorway, watching her. His eldest daughter — brilliant, meticulous, usually composed — now frayed at the edges. Papers scattered. Notes scribbled in frantic handwriting. A stack of requisition forms she shouldn’t have access to without authorization.
“Hello sweetheart,” he said gently.
She didn’t react.
He tried again, a little louder. “Lauren, did you hear me?”
Nothing.
Brad frowned, then stepped forward, closing the distance. When he reached her side, he touched her shoulder lightly.
She jolted so hard the pen flew from her hand.
“Dad!” Her voice cracked, breath catching. “You scared me.”
“I said hello twice,” he murmured, eyes soft but searching. “You didn’t hear me.”
She flushed, immediately gathering the papers, trying to stack them, hide them, bury them under a folder. “It’s nothing. Just… research. I’m fine.”
Brad watched her hands — too quick, too nervous. He knew her tells. He knew when she was lying. He knew when she was terrified.
“Research? What sort of research?”
“Just … research type …. research.” she rambled, realizing it, swallowing hard.
“Lauren,” he said quietly, “let me see.”
“It’s nothing,” she insisted, clutching the papers tighter.
He didn’t push. He simply waited — calm, patient, immovable. The way he had waited when she was a child trying to hide a broken vase behind her back. The way he waited when she tried to pretend she wasn’t crying after her first heartbreak.
She swallowed, eyes darting away.
She hadn’t meant to go rogue. She knew better than to run unauthorized panels, especially on herself. But the fear had crept in slowly — first as a whisper, then a hum, then a roar. And once the idea of “something is wrong” lodged itself in her mind, she couldn’t silence it. Running the labs felt like the only thing she could control.
He reached out, slow and deliberate, and took the papers from her hands.
He glanced down at them briefly, then at her.
“These are yours,” he said, brows knitting. “Why are you running full panels and endocrine markers? Lauren… what’s going on?”
Lauren blinked rapidly, trying to keep her composure. “My period still hasn’t resumed. It’s been months. I know postpartum amenorrhea can vary, especially with breastfeeding, but… something feels off. Something’s wrong.”
Lauren had been tracking her postpartum recovery with the same precision she used for her patients. She knew the ranges, the averages, the outliers — but knowing the data didn’t stop the creeping dread. Six months postpartum was well within the normal window for amenorrhea, especially with breastfeeding, but her last pregnancy had been so medically chaotic that “normal” no longer felt like a safe word. Every deviation felt like a warning sign.
Brad’s expression shifted — not alarmed, but attentive.
“I don’t feel sick,” she continued, voice tight. “I feel like a new mom — tired, sore, sleep‑deprived — but by now I should have at least started spotting. I’m not even cramping. I’m worried something happened during the delivery that we missed. My pregnancy was rough, and Ash’s birth was so fast and smooth it almost felt unnatural. I keep thinking… what if there was retained tissue? Or postpartum thyroiditis? Or hypothalamic suppression? Or a prolactin issue? Or some kind of pituitary dysfunction?”
Lauren watched him scan the first page — then squint. Then lean back. Then squint harder.
“Dad,” she muttered, “you need glasses.”
He straightened, affronted. “I do not. I’m only in my early fifties. I don’t need glasses.”
He blinked. Squinted again. Tilted the paper like the lighting was the problem.
Lauren reached into the drawer beside her and handed him a magnifier.
He stared at it, offended.
“Here,” he said, tapping a line of her notes, “you missed something when running the tests. You need to—”
She gently pushed the magnifier toward him again, pointing at the exact spot he thought she’d overlooked.
Brad sighed, defeated. “Fine. I’ll see an optometrist. But if Bri leaves me because I have to wear glasses, I will blame you.”
Lauren snorted. “Please. Bri won’t ever leave you again. Whatever rose‑colored glasses she had for Jackson have long come off. Seriously, Dad. Even Graham knew you two were endgame. I do too. She’ll probably think glasses would be sexy on you.”
He tried to look annoyed. Failed. Looked flattered instead — amused, warm, a little smug.
Then he grabbed the magnifier, refocused on the paperwork… and the humor drained from his face as he reached the page that mattered.
Brad had seen thousands of lab panels in his career — some benign, some devastating. But seeing abnormal values on his daughter’s paperwork hit differently. He wasn’t just a physician now; he was a father trying to keep his face neutral while his heart lurched.
“Dad?” Her voice was small. “Did you see something? What did I miss?”
He didn’t answer immediately. He lowered the papers, exhaling through his nose, the kind of breath he only took when he was preparing to deliver news no one wanted to hear.
Lauren’s pulse spiked.
“Dad…?” Her voice trembled. “You’re frightening me. Is it… is it cellular? Cos I thought it might be.”
Brad’s eyes lifted to hers.
He nodded once.
Her knees nearly gave out.
He stepped closer, placing the papers on the counter, tapping a specific section — a cluster of elevated values, abnormal markers, readings that didn’t belong in a healthy woman’s panel.
“It is very much cellular,” he said softly.
Lauren’s breath hitched. “A tumor? Where?”
He didn’t answer that. Instead, he lifted the paperwork again, turning it toward her, tapping the numbers she had skimmed past in her panic.
“Lauren,” he said gently, “you missed something very important.”
She stared at the values. They blurred. They sharpened. They blurred again.
Her mind raced through possibilities — ovarian cyst, fibroid, endometrial mass, hormonal dysregulation, early malignancy, pituitary injury, thyroid dysfunction. She had seen these patterns before. She had diagnosed them in other women. She had never imagined seeing them in herself.
Her voice broke. “No. No, Dad… no. Is it cancer? You think it’s malignant?”
Brad placed a steady hand on her shoulder.
“Lauren, listen to me. There is nothing here that suggests cancer. No abnormal cell lines, no inflammatory response, no tumor‑associated hormone activity. The pattern you’re seeing is endocrine — but not malignant. You are missing the obvious. Let’s verify these readings. I’ll run the tests this time.”
Lauren nodded, but her eyes stayed locked on the numbers — the ones she had missed, the ones she had feared, the ones that now felt like a countdown.
She didn’t know yet what they meant.
But she knew one thing:
Something was wrong.
In a way she was glad her dad had just walked in and insisted to help. She knew if there was anything to find, he would. And he would know what to do.
Lauren sat on the exam table, paper crackling beneath her as she tried to steady her breathing. The room felt too bright, too sharp, every surface too clean. Her pulse thudded in her ears.
Brad prepared the blood draw with a focus that made her stomach twist. He wasn’t panicked — but he was intent. And that was worse.
“Dad,” she whispered, “just tell me if you think it’s serious. Be honest with me.”
Brad didn’t look up. “Let’s get the sample first.”
His voice was calm, but not casual. Measured. Controlled. The way he spoke when he already had a theory he didn’t want to say aloud.
Lauren swallowed hard. “I’m scared.”
He tied the tourniquet around her arm, gentle but firm. “I know.”
The memory of her last pregnancy still lived under her skin — the PPROM, the hospital stays, the constant monitoring, the fear of losing Ashton before he ever took a breath. She wasn’t sure she had the strength to survive that again. The idea of another pregnancy felt like standing at the edge of a cliff she’d only just climbed away from.
Brad didn’t speak for a long moment when he returned after the machines had analyzed the data.
He stood at the counter, the new printout in his hand, the magnifier dangling between his fingers. Lauren watched him, her breath shallow, her palms damp. The silence stretched — too long, too heavy, too unlike him.
“Dad?” she whispered. “Please say something.”
He turned, walking over to her, sitting beside her as he flipped to the β‑hCG line.
His eyes softened.
“Lauren,” he said quietly, “the β‑hCG is elevated. Significantly.”
She blinked. “What? Why would—”
Brad tapped the number again. “Combined with your estradiol, progesterone, and suppressed LH/FSH… these levels are not consistent with malignancy.”
Her stomach dropped. “Then what—?”
He looked at her, steady and clinical. “Think, Lauren. You know the answer. Interpret this as if it were a patient presenting with your symptoms and these labs. What do these readings add up to?”
Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open. “They’re consistent with… early pregnancy.”
Lauren snatched the paper from his hands so fast he almost dropped it.
“What?!” she yelped, staring at the number again as if it might change. “No. No, that’s impossible. I just had a baby. I haven’t even— Blaine and I— we weren’t— oh. Oh no. There was that night after he won two awards. Oh no. Oh my God.”
Brad rested a hand on her shoulder, his voice gentle.
“Lauren… the numbers don’t lie.”
She stared at the paper, breath shaking. “Oh my God. I am such an idiot! This shouldn’t happen to a doctor. What am I gonna do now?!”
She wasn’t angry about the pregnancy — she was angry at herself for missing it. Doctors weren’t supposed to be blindsided by their own bodies. But postpartum physiology didn’t care about degrees or training. It was messy, unpredictable, and sometimes cruelly ironic.
Brad nodded once, shifting into his physician voice. “First, you are going to calm down. We do not need stress, and we are not repeating the scares from the last pregnancy. I am your father, but I am also your superior, and I need my doctor sharp.”
He folded his arms. “Tell me why conceiving again barely six months postpartum is medically concerning. Explain it as if I were the patient. And then list what we will do now to avoid potential risks.”
Lauren swallowed, wiped her face, and forced herself into clinical mode.
“Fine,” she said shakily. “If you were the patient, I’d explain it like this:
‘Conceiving again at six months postpartum is possible because ovulation can resume as early as six to eight weeks after delivery — even earlier if breastfeeding is inconsistent or has tapered. Fertility returns before the first postpartum period, so pregnancy can occur without any warning signs.’”
Brad wasn’t trying to lecture her. He was grounding her — pulling her out of panic and back into the clinical mindset where she thrived. When Lauren thought like a doctor, she steadied. When she thought like a frightened patient, she spiraled. He needed her in the former state, not the latter.
She took a breath, steadying herself.
“‘But medically, a short interpregnancy interval increases several risks. The uterus may not have fully involuted. Nutrient stores — especially iron and folate — may still be depleted. Hormonal regulation may still be unstable. There’s a higher chance of preterm labor, placental abnormalities, low birth weight, and maternal anemia. And given my last pregnancy’s complications… the risk profile is higher.’”
Her voice wavered, but she kept going.
“‘So the first step is confirming viability and dating the pregnancy. Then we run a full prenatal panel, check iron stores, thyroid function, and repeat quantitative β‑hCG to ensure appropriate rise. We’ll schedule an early ultrasound to rule out ectopic implantation and assess uterine recovery. And we’ll monitor closely — more closely than last time.’”
She exhaled, trembling.
“That’s… what I’d tell a patient.”
Brad’s expression softened — proud, worried, relieved all at once.
“Oh my God, Daddy, what did I do?”
Brad sighed, leaned over hugging his daughter, holding her close.
“I am to blame for letting you marry a Cameron. I would have firsthand knowledge of how fertile they are. All it took for me and Bri was one night after not having laid eyes on one another for years and Nathaniel was conceived. Similiar story with Caroline. And that from a girl my father swore would never be able to carry a single pregnancy to term, with one barely functioning ovary. Trust me, I know about how fertile Camerons are.”
Lauren stiffened, pulling away, staring at her father.
“Dad, is Bri pregnant again?”
His eyes grew wide in shock, then he laughed, shaking his head.
“At our age?! I sure hope she is not at almost fifty, or I will jump from the plane when flying back home, as she made it very clear to me years ago that she is done having kids and if I – and I quote – fucking get her pregnant again she will kill me. I will spare you the very detailed and concerning description of how she would go about it, but as a spoiler, she would start with my nether regions.”
Lauren had to laugh too.
It wasn’t just a joke — Cameron fertility was practically a family legend. Every generation had at least one “surprise baby,” conceived during a moment of emotional chaos or celebration at the more inopportune time. Blaine’s branch of the family was notorious for it. Brad wasn’t exaggerating; he was speaking from experience.
They quieted again, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest with the kind of embrace that wasn’t doctor-to-doctor, wasn’t superior-to-subordinate — just father-to-daughter. Lauren collapsed into him, her forehead pressed against his shoulder, her hands clutching his coat like she was drowning.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “Lauren. Breathe.”
She tried, but her breath shuddered.
“You’re not alone,” he said, tightening his hold. “You hear me? You are not doing this alone. Not medically, not emotionally, not practically. You have me. You have Bri. You have your brother and sisters. You have Blaine. And you have an entire medical center full of people who would walk through fire for you.”
She shook her head weakly. “Dad… I don’t even feel sick. Last pregnancy I was basically a sprinkler — morning sickness around the clock, couldn’t keep anything down. And now I’m… fine. Tired, but fine. I just never got my period back and started spiraling. Now I am thinking without it I might have turned into one of those shocker headlines — you know, the women who find out they’re pregnant when they go into labor.” She let out a shaky laugh. “And that as a doctor. Oh good grief, I’m really starting to doubt my career choice.”
Brad gave her a look — the kind that was equal parts fatherly exasperation and clinical disbelief.
“Lauren,” he said gently, “postpartum physiology is unpredictable. You know that. Some women don’t menstruate for months, even without breastfeeding. Some ovulate early. Some ovulate silently. And some — especially those with rapid hormonal normalization — conceive again before they ever see a single drop of blood.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “You didn’t miss anything because you’re a bad doctor. You missed it because biology doesn’t care about your degree. And because you are married to a Cameron. And not just any Cameron, one named Blaine. I am not surprised at this in the slightest.”
He cupped the back of her head. “You did everything right. You recognized something was off. You ran the labs. You came to me. Well, sort of. We’ll just count your compliance after the fact as initiative. That’s what a good doctor does. That’s what a good mother does.”
Lauren’s tears soaked into his shirt.
“And listen to me carefully,” Brad said, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes. “This pregnancy is not a failure. It’s not a mistake. It’s not a sign you’re weak or careless. Biology doesn’t care about timing. Fertility doesn’t care about plans. You ovulated early. You conceived. That’s all.”
She swallowed hard, still trembling.
“We will monitor you closely,” he said. “We will protect you. We will protect this baby. And we will make sure you stay safe. I promise you that.”
Lauren nodded, barely.
Brad brushed her hair back from her face. “You’re my daughter. And you’re a damn good doctor. Most doctor miss things when analyzing themselves, it is impossible to be objective in such cases. You’re going to be okay. But you need to tell Blaine. We need him to support you now.”
“Dad, it’s too early. I can’t be more than a few weeks along. There is a high chance that … well, you are a doctor, you know. I can’t do that to Blaine.”
She remembered how terrified Blaine had been during her last pregnancy — how he’d barely slept, how he hovered, how he panicked at every contraction. She didn’t want to put him through that again unless she was absolutely sure this pregnancy was viable. She wanted to protect him from the fear she was already drowning in. He had lost too many family members of late for her to want to put him through another loss, so close to home.
“I think you underestimate your husband.”
Tell him
“Blaine?” she called, stepping into the Cameron Mansion — still in the final phases of its remodel. The scent of fresh concrete, paint, and new wood hung in the air like a diffuser scented with chaos. A guitar riff echoed through the house, loud enough to sound like a stereo, but Lauren recognized the tone and the imperfections.
He was playing live.
Her voice echoed through the foyer as Brad entered behind her, wiping his shoes on the doormat before handing his trench coat and bag to Harrington, the butler, with a polite nod.
“Living room, babe!” Blaine called back, the riff intensifying.
“Are you… decent?” she called.
Channing’s voice sounded. “He better be, because I don’t wanna look at his pecker.”
“Urgh!” Lauren hissed, but she couldn’t help laughing.
Channing Cameron’s pleasant actor‑trained voice floated back. “In here, come join us!”
Lauren and Brad entered the living room. Both young men looked up.
“Oh, you brought the father‑in‑law,” Blaine said, still plunking away. “Hi Brad, fancy seeing you again. What has it been, three days?”
“Two weeks. Evening, Blaine. Channing.” Brad nodded. “I won’t be staying, don’t worry. Just here for moral support.”
Blaine jerked, botching the last riff as he sat up fast. Channing froze mid‑pour, overfilling his hard iced tea until Lauren pointed sharply.
“Channing!”
“Oh shit!” He panicked, patting at the spill with the artisan table runner until Harrington stepped in with a silent, disapproving efficiency.
“Dad, do you want something to drink?” Lauren asked.
Brad shot a quick look at Blaine, then nodded. “I’ll make something for myself and Blaine. Channing can probably lap up his drink off the table.” Channing grimaced at him. “Some made it in my glass, thank you very much.
“I don’t want booze…” Blaine muttered, suspicious.
“Trust me, son,” Brad said without turning, “you’ll want it.”
Blaine rose, setting his guitar against the side of the chair and stepped toward Lauren. She kissed him — the automatic, grounding gesture she always gave him when coming home.
“Lauren?”
“Don’t worry, it’s not bad. But… you know the tests I was gonna run?”
“What tests?”
“BLAINE! I told you about that.” She gave him the look wives give husbands who forget important things. Again.
His forehead knitted — then realization dawned. “Oh! Right. You weren’t ragging, so you were gonna—”
“BLAINE!”
“Whoa! TMI!” Channing cringed.
Brad, unusually for him, chimed in. “Well, you are in their living room, kid.”
Channing grimaced. “Gee, thanks. Why don’t you rub in how I ended up divorced and homeless?”
“Divorced?! I thought you and Katia were engaged…” Lauren blinked.
“Ha! Yeah, hella storyline, I just found out myself. Our Channing here eloped with his ex because he didn’t want to deal with his daddy‑in‑law’s mafioso bullshit. Now we’re doing the divorce thing.”
“The Orlovs are not mafia! Not even the right nationality for that, you racist idiot!”
“You wanna tell me Russians aren’t known for the same bullshit the mafia pulls? Are you serious right now, Chann‑ster? I’m calling you Sheister.”
“Asshole!”
“I know you are but what am I?” Blaine shot back, sounding eight years old instead of twenty‑eight.
Brad rolled his eyes and busied himself with the drinks.
Lauren had enough.
“Blaine, I’m pregnant!”
Silence. Both men froze. Brad cringed. Blaine and Channing stared.
“What?” Blaine croaked, voice cracking in a way that didn’t sound like him. He looked at Lauren, then at Brad. “Is that true? Is your daughter fucking with me?”
Brad — who never used crudeness — couldn’t resist. “Not right now. That came prior. Very enthusiastic swimmers you have there, Blaine. You should donate sperm and open a fertility clinic with a near‑100% success rate.”
“Dad! Seriously?”
“You’re… pregnant?” Blaine whispered. “But Ash just started acting like a real human instead of a loud, stinky babydoll.”
“Yes, I know. That night after the awards when we both let loose… evidently, I wasn’t just healed well, but also ovulating. We did want several children. And honestly? After the rough pregnancy with Ash, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go through it again. Looks like we’re going to anyway.”
Brad handed Blaine a drink. Blaine downed it like water.
Blaine wasn’t upset — he was overwhelmed. The last pregnancy had carved deep grooves of fear into him, and the idea of doing it again so soon hit him like a tidal wave. His shock wasn’t rejection; it was the weight of love and terror colliding all at once.
“Whoa, son! That was straight bourbon!”
“Yeah, and I need it straight from the bottle now! Harrington! Bring more from storage!”
“Yes, sir,” Harrington said, already moving.
Blaine started drinking from the bottle when Brad pulled it away.
“Listen,” Brad said, calm but firm. “I get the shock. I’ll admit it was rough for a moment for me as well. But we will deal with this. Together. I’ll travel here more. I’ll make sure she and the new baby stay safe. But she needs you now more than ever. Can I count on you?”
“Of course,” Blaine said, voice shaking. “But tonight I need liquid courage. I’m barely over the last pregnancy. And you’re not even sick yet.”
“Nope. Which is why I never would’ve guessed this. But we ran test. I am at about ”
“Every pregnancy is different,” Brad muttered.
Channing raised a hand. “Umm… congrats and holy fuck to all of you, but… am I still allowed to live here or am I looking for a new home?”
“What a silly question, kid!” Brad snapped — shockingly out of character. “This is a mansion, not a log cabin. Blaine and Lauren would never kick you out. You’re family… somehow… Really now, that was a very unnecessary question.”
“Yeah … that.” Blaine confirmed, pointing at Brad.
Blaine smirked and handed Brad the bottle. To everyone’s surprise, Brad took a big sip.
“I’ll call Bri and tell her I’m staying overnight. If that’s okay, sonny‑in‑law?”
Brad rarely stayed overnight anywhere — he hated being away from Bri, hated sleeping in unfamiliar beds. The fact that he volunteered to stay told Lauren everything she needed to know: he wasn’t just concerned. He was committed. He wasn’t leaving her side until she stabilized emotionally.
“Of course it’s okay.” Blaine’s voice still sounded not like his own.
“Sonny‑in‑law…” Channing laughed.
Brad nodded. “Blaine isn’t your average son‑in‑law. He’s a sonnyboy. So — sonny‑in‑law.”
He handed his keys to Harrington, who had already anticipated the request and moved to bring in Brad’s luggage.
Channing flopped onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. “So, just to recap: surprise pregnancy, bourbon, Brad staying over, and I’m still not kicked out while I surf out the shitstorm that will happen once my fans and the press find out about my impending divorce from the secret wedding which even I now see was the dumbest idea ever. Honestly? This is the healthiest family I’ve ever lived with.”
Blaine threw a pillow at him. “You need to learn when to keep your mouth shut if you know what’s healthy for you, dude!”
Lauren laughed — really laughed — for the first time all day. The sound loosened something tight in her chest.
Brad checked his phone. “Bri says congratulations and also that I’m not allowed to drink more bourbon.”
“Too late,” Blaine muttered, handing him another glass on the rocks.
Brad added, almost absently, “She also said to ask Channing if he’s sure his soon‑to‑be ex‑wife isn’t pregnant. Camerons have a reputation, and I do not need another surprise ultrasound in my life.”
Channing choked on his drink. “God, no! Tell her she’s not funny! I’m already drowning in that divorce, mortified about the potential fallout — I don’t need a baby plot twist!”
Lauren snorted. Blaine threw another pillow.
The room warmed with familiar Cameron chaos, and Lauren felt her fear finally start to ebb.
Echoes Of Legacy 