Legacy & Cameron – Babies Big And Small

The hospital room had settled into a strange rhythm over the past week. Blaine lay propped against pillows, leg elevated, wrist braced, the IV humming quietly beside him. The winter light outside was pale and cold, but inside the room everything felt warm — because Lauren was there.

She arrived bundled in a heavy coat, cheeks flushed from the cold, belly impossibly round now, the boys trailing behind her like ducklings. Ashton clutched a coloring book. Easton carried a stuffed dinosaur that had lost half its stuffing. Briar Rose followed them, sunglasses perched on her head despite the cloudy day, her hair perfect, her outfit far too glamorous for a hospital — but somehow exactly right for her.

Brad walked beside them, one hand on Lauren’s back, the other carrying a bag of toys for the boys. He looked every bit the top‑tier surgeon and hospital owner: calm, controlled, already scanning Blaine’s monitors before he even greeted him.

“Morning,” Lauren said softly, leaning down to kiss Blaine. He winced — his ribs still tender — and she immediately apologized, brushing his cheek with her thumb. “Sorry, baby.”

“It’s okay,” he murmured, squeezing her hand. “You look beautiful.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was warm. “I look like a whale.”

“You look like my wife who is about to give us a daughter, as beautiful and perfect as you are,” he said. “That’s what I see. Argue with me.”

The boys climbed onto the chair beside him, Ashton showing him a scribbled drawing of a horse, Easton proudly presenting the dinosaur. Briar Rose laughed, ruffling their hair, then perched on the windowsill like she owned the place.

Brad checked Blaine’s chart, frowning at the vitals. “Your tremors are worse today.”

Blaine nodded, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

Lauren’s hand tightened around his. She knew what that meant. The detox was coming. The painkillers masked some of it, but not all. The cold sweats had started. The anxiety. The emotional volatility. It was only going to get worse.

Brad watched Blaine for a moment, then quietly said, “I’ll order something to take the edge off.”

Lauren looked up sharply. “Dad—”

“He needs to be present for you now,” Brad said. “Not shaking out of his skin. Especially not with the boys around.”

He stepped out into the hallway, pressed a button on the wall, and spoke into the intercom with the authority of a man who owned the building.

“Bring me a mild sedative protocol for stimulant withdrawal.”

Within seconds, a nurse appeared with a tray — already prepared, already labeled. Brad didn’t even have to repeat himself. They knew who he was. They knew who Lauren was. They knew who Blaine was.

Brad administered the medication himself, adjusting the dosage with practiced precision. “This won’t stop the withdrawal,” he said, “but it will keep you steady.”

Blaine swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

Lauren kissed his forehead. “You’re going to be okay.”

For a moment, everything was peaceful.

The boys played on the floor. Briar Rose hummed a melody under her breath — something from her last album — tapping her foot lightly. Brad stepped out to take a call, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Lauren shifted in her seat, grabbing Blaine’s uninjured hand, pressing it to her belly. “She’s kicking,” she said with a soft laugh. “She’s been doing that all morning.”

Blaine smiled. “She’s a dancer.”

Lauren opened her mouth to respond — and froze.

Her expression changed instantly. Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened.

“Laur?” Blaine asked, voice tightening. Sitting up stiffly, best he could, alarmed.

She inhaled sharply, grabbing the edge of the bed. “Oh—oh God—”

Briar Rose was off the windowsill in a heartbeat. “Lauren?”

Lauren’s face went pale. “I think… I think my water just broke.”

The boys looked up, confused. Ashton blinked. Easton clutched his dinosaur.

Blaine’s heart stopped.

Brad reappeared in the doorway at the exact second Lauren gasped, one hand flying to her belly. He took in the scene in a single glance — the wet sheen on the floor, Lauren’s posture, her breathing — and his entire demeanor shifted.

“Alright,” Brad said, voice calm but commanding. “We’re moving. Now.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t panic. He didn’t hesitate.

He pressed a button on the wall.

Within seconds, two nurses appeared.

“Prep delivery room three,” Brad said. “Page Dr. Hwang. And get anesthesia on standby.”

The nurses vanished down the hall.

Lauren clutched Blaine’s hand, breathing fast. “Dad—”

“I’ve got you,” Brad said, already at her side. “Deep breaths. You’re okay.”

Briar Rose scooped the boys up, her voice gentle but firm. “Come on, little men. Grandma’s got you.”

“Grandma?” Ashton asked.

“Shh,” Bri said, kissing his forehead. “We’re going to go get snacks.”
Brad came over, whispered something in her ear, she nodded, they kissed and Brad turned away.

Lauren groaned, gripping the bed rail. “Oh God—oh God—”

Brad turned to Blaine. “Wheelchair. Now.”

A nurse rolled one in. Blaine tried to stand — instinct — but pain shot through his leg and he nearly collapsed.

“Don’t,” Brad snapped. “Sit.”

Blaine sat, trembling — withdrawal and adrenaline mixing into something terrifying, but the suppressant already beginning to steady him.

Lauren was already being moved onto a rolling bed, nurses adjusting her position, Brad at her side, issuing orders with surgical precision.

“Let’s go,” Brad said. “Move.”

They rushed down the hallway — Lauren on the bed, Blaine wheeled beside her, nurses clearing the path. Briar Rose carrying the boys the opposite side towards the elevators down to the cafeteria.

Lauren cried out, gripping the rails.

Blaine reached for her hand with his braced wrist, shaking but not collapsing — the medication holding him together just enough.

“I’m here,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I’m right here.”

She squeezed his hand, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” he said. “I swear.”

Brad pushed through the delivery room doors, already gloving up. “Let’s get her settled. Blaine, stay in that wheelchair. Don’t try to stand. Everyone is gonna have their hands full, we cannot babysit you or pick you up. Someone figure out where the heck Dr. Hwang is at!”

Lauren screamed.

Blaine sobbed.

And everything — everything — began.

Birth

The delivery room exploded into motion. Nurses moved with practiced speed, adjusting monitors, lowering the bed, positioning Lauren’s legs. Brad snapped on a second pair of gloves — standard in obstetrics — but his expression carried something that wasn’t standard at all: the calm, razor‑sharp focus of a surgeon who had done this a thousand times, and the terror of a father who hadn’t.

“Lauren, listen to me,” Brad said, voice steady. “You’re progressing fast. Too fast for an epidural. You’re going to have to push through it.”

Lauren cried out, gripping the rails. “Dad—”

Dr. Hwang swept into the room with the calm efficiency of someone who had delivered thousands of babies. She didn’t waste a second.

“Finally! Thought you got lost on the way!” Brad snapped at one of his top OB/Gyns who didn’t let it faze him.

“Lauren, I’m Dr. Hwang,” she said, already snapping on gloves. “You’re progressing very quickly. We’re going to get your daughter out safely.”

Brad stood beside her, assisting — not leading — but his presence changed the entire room. Nurses moved faster. Equipment appeared before anyone asked. Someone adjusted the lights. Someone else brought warm blankets.

Lauren cried out, gripping the rails. “Dad—”

“I’m right here,” Brad said, voice steady. “Deep breaths. You’re safe.”

Blaine reached for her hand, trembling but steady enough to hold her. “I’m here, Laur. I’m right here.”

Another contraction hit. Lauren screamed, arching off the bed. Blaine cried with her, gripping her hand with his braced wrist, his entire body shaking.

Dr. Hwang leaned forward. “Lauren, listen to me. You’re crowning. When I tell you to push, you push.”

Lauren sobbed. “It hurts—”

“I know,” Blaine whispered. “I know, baby. You’re doing so good.”

Dr. Hwang’s voice cut through the chaos. “Lauren — push.”

Lauren screamed, pushing with everything she had.

“Good,” Dr. Hwang said. “Again.”

Lauren pushed again, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“One more,” Brad said, voice low but firm. “She’s right there.”

Lauren screamed — a raw, primal sound — and then suddenly the room shifted.

A cry.

Small. Sharp. New.

Dr. Hwang lifted a tiny, slippery baby girl into the air, her voice loud and furious at the world she’d just entered.

Lauren collapsed back against the bed, sobbing.

Blaine froze.

Everything inside him broke.

Dr. Hwang placed the baby briefly on Lauren’s chest — just long enough for Lauren to touch her daughter’s cheek, just long enough for Blaine to see her tiny face — then nodded to the nurse.

“Warming station,” she said. “Let’s get her checked.”

The nurse carried Blakely to the radiant warmer. Brad followed, overseeing every step.

Blaine watched through tears as they weighed her, measured her, checked her vitals, wiped her down, placed her ID bands, and took her footprints. She cried the whole time — loud, furious, alive.

Brad glanced back at Blaine. “She’s perfect.”

The nurse wrapped her tightly, then turned.

“Dad?” she asked.

Blaine nodded, shaking violently. “Y‑yes. Please.”

She placed Blakely into his arms, steadying his elbow so he wouldn’t drop her.

Blaine looked down at his daughter — at her tiny nose, her soft cheeks, her dark lashes — and he shattered completely.

He sobbed, loud and uncontrollable, tears falling onto her blanket. His entire body shook, but he held her tight, terrified and overwhelmed and in awe.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “Oh my God… she’s perfect.”

Lauren reached for her, crying. “Let me see her.”

Blaine leaned forward, still holding the baby, and Lauren touched her daughter’s cheek with trembling fingers.

“Blakely Hope Cameron,” Brad said quietly. “Welcome to the world.”

Chaos Through the Glass

The nurses moved Lauren to recovery while Blaine was wheeled beside her, still holding Blakely. They were placed in a private suite — Brad’s doing, of course — with soft lighting, a couch, and enough space for the entire family.

Lauren rested in bed, exhausted but glowing. Blaine sat beside her, daughter in his arms, still trembling but calmer now.

Then—

Raised voices in the hallway.

Lauren closed her eyes. “Oh no.”

Blaine looked up. “Is that—?”

“Yes,” Lauren sighed. “My mother.”

Molly — Margaret, as she insisted — stormed down the hallway, heels clicking, hair perfect, expression furious. She pointed at a nurse, then at the door, then at Brad, who had stepped out to intercept her.

Through the glass, Blaine watched Brad and Molly argue.

Molly gestured wildly. Brad stood still, arms crossed. She pointed at Blaine’s room. Brad shook his head. She pointed at Lauren. Brad stepped closer, lowering his voice. She threw her hands up. Brad said something sharp. She froze. He said something else. She deflated.

Then—

Brad grabbed Molly’s arm and gently guided her down the hall.

After a little while he came back without her.

Bri stared at him. “Braddy‑baby, where is your ex‑wife? You didn’t kill her, did you?”

Brad sat down, adjusting his coat. “I am a doctor, Bri. I do not kill people.”

Lauren raised an eyebrow. “Dad…”

Brad sighed. “I might have tranquilized your mother.”

Lauren groaned. “Dad!”

“Nothing bad,” Brad said, waving a hand. “Just a little dose of midazolam. She’ll wake up in a very comfortable lounge. With a very nice blanket. And a snack. And hopefully a more palatable attitude and demeanor to meet her new granddaughter.”

“Oh Braddy … you are something else.” Bri laughed.

“Am I? I am sorry, Bri, I did not have the bandwidth to deal with her unnecessary drama now, or did you want to explain to Molly – Margaret I mean – what happened to Blaine? Or anyone else in here? No? Well, neither did I. Your mother will meet her granddaughter soon enough. After a nice, relaxing nap.”

Blaine laughed — the first real laugh since the fall — and kissed his daughter’s forehead.

Family Room

Briar Rose arrived first, carrying the boys. Once she placed them down, Ashton ran straight to the bed.

“I’m the big brother!” he announced proudly.

Easton puffed his cheeks. “No! I’m big bwother!”

“But I’m the biggest brother!” Ashton insisted.

Lauren laughed. “You’re both big brothers.”

Blakely fussed — a tiny cry, soft and new.

The boys managed to climb up into Brad’s lap, both leaning on the bed to catch a glimpse of their new sister. Blakely blinked, then wailed.

And then the door opened.

Channing stepped in, holding a bouquet of pale pink roses. He froze when he saw the baby, his expression melting into something soft and reverent.

Blakely stopped crying instantly.

She stared at him — wide‑eyed, silent, mesmerized.

Briar Rose snorted. “Yeah, he has always had that effect on girls.”

Lauren laughed. “She’s already smitten by you, Channing.”

Blaine wiped his eyes, voice hoarse. “Channing, man… cradle‑robbing my daughter already while she’s literally still in a cradle? Really?”

Everyone laughed.

Channing grinned. “Hey, don’t blame the innocent here. She started it. But I will say, she has good taste, don’t you sweetie. Goodness, she’s gorgeous. Luckily takes after her mama.”

“Fuck you, asshole,” Blaine blurted out, his hands shaking a lot now, along with the rest of his body. “That the thanks for us naming her Blakely?”

Channing froze, looked at Blaine — who was shaking hard now — then at Lauren, who nodded.

Channing was clearly affected. He nodded, fighting emotions.

“Wow. Nice. Thanks, guys.” His voice softened. “He’d be super‑thrilled.”

Everyone knew he meant his late grandpa Blake.

The room felt full — of warmth, of family, of hope.

Blaine looked down at his daughter, her tiny fingers curled around his thumb, and whispered:

“I’m going to be better. I promise. For you, for your brothers, and especially for your mama.”

Rough Road to Recovery

The days that followed blurred into a strange, tender routine.

Blaine remained in the hospital while Lauren recovered in the maternity wing, and for the first time in their chaotic, public life, everything slowed. Nurses came and went. Brad hovered like a hawk. Briar Rose kept the boys entertained with cafeteria adventures and whispered promises of vending‑machine chocolate. Channing visited daily, always with flowers, always with that soft look he tried to hide.

Blaine’s leg was stabilized, his wrist braced, his pain managed with ruthless precision. The tremors came and went — the last echoes of cocaine withdrawal working their way out of his system. The detox was quiet, clinical, supervised, nothing like the hell of heroin years ago, but his body still shivered through the adjustment. By the time the week ended, the worst of it had passed. He was clean again, even if he didn’t feel steady.

But every time he held Blakely, something in him steadied.

By the end of the week, Brad made the call.

“Home,” he said. “Rosebriar. You’re not cleared to fly, and you won’t be for a long time. You’ll recover there.”

Nobody argued — though several people looked like they wanted to.

Rosebriar Haven and its residents was not built for long‑term Blaine. But Blaine was not built for anything else right now.

So they went.

Lauren discharged with Blakely bundled against her chest. Blaine wheeled beside her, pale but determined, his leg locked straight, his movements slow and careful. The boys ran ahead, shouting about baby sisters and hospital snacks. Briar Rose filmed everything. Brad coordinated the transport like it was a presidential motorcade.

And just like that, the Cunningham and Cameron family left the hospital behind and stepped into the long, quiet beginning of Blaine’s recovery.

The first week at Rosebriar was a lesson in humility — mostly for Blaine, but also for everyone forced to interact with him.

He couldn’t walk. He couldn’t stand. He couldn’t shower alone. He couldn’t dress himself. He couldn’t even get to the toilet without help.

So Brad hired a nurse.

Blaine proved to be a complicated patient — and that was putting it mildly. He wanted nobody but Lauren near him, and every hour she wasn’t at his side felt like abandonment. The pain made him short‑tempered, the concussion made him foggy, and the last remnants of cocaine withdrawal left him irritable, restless, and impossible to satisfy. He cursed without thinking, snapped when frustrated, and his usual raunchy humor — harmless in private — landed badly with nurses who barely knew him.

But the real breaking point came in the shower.

Lauren was in the main house with the newborn, trying to answer work emails with one hand while rocking Blakely with the other. The boys were melting down over crayons on the living room carpet while Mrs. Marwood kept an eye on them. Brad was in his home office down the hall on a call with the West Coast surgical board. Briar Rose was rehearsing for her upcoming tour. Caroline was in the back pasture with the horses.

The nurse wheeled Blaine into the bathroom of the poolhouse where he, Lauren, and the kids were staying until he would be cleared to fly, determined to get him fully washed. He was already tense, already complaining, already insisting Lauren should be doing this, not her.

When she turned on the showerhead and started to remove his underwear, he snapped.

“Don’t touch me there! Lauren does that! Lauren only!”

The nurse tried to stay professional. “Mr. Cameron, I need to wash you properly to prevent infection—”

“No! Stop! Don’t— I said stop! HELP! THIS WOMAN IS TOUCHING ME INAPPROPRIATELY! GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU HORNY HAG!”

He grabbed whatever he could reach — a shampoo bottle, a rolled towel, a plastic cup — and threw them. His aim was terrible, more insult than threat, but the panic was real. The last remnants of the stimulant in his system, combined with the fog of pain and prescribed medications, sent him into an unwarranted spiral. The noise echoed through the poolhouse and summoned everyone on the property.

“Brad!” he shouted. “BRI! Lauren! ANYONE!? HELP! HELLLLLLP! Get away from me!”

The nurse backed away, shaken. “Sir, please—”

But Blaine was already spiraling, voice cracking, leg trembling, breath too fast. He tried to stand, the wheelchair tipped, and he crashed to the hard tiles, seeing stars from the impact, still screaming like someone was trying to skin him alive.

Brad arrived first, irritation sharp in his posture — clearly pulled from work. Briar Rose appeared next, hair still pinned from rehearsal. Caroline jogged in from outside, boots muddy. And finally Lauren rushed in, baby on her hip, eyes wide.

“Oh dear Lord!” she exclaimed, handing the baby to her father, who immediately handed her to Bri, who then handed her to Caroline, who froze. “Guys? I don’t really do… babies… hello?”

Brad and Lauren lifted Blaine back into his wheelchair, him groaning and yelping in pain. Brad was already doing a quick checkover, murmuring with Lauren like two physicians triaging at the scene of an accident.

“I’m sorry,” Lauren said immediately, guiding the nurse out of the bathroom with gentle hands. “It’s okay, I’ve got him. Blaine, calm down, okay? I’m here. I’ll wash you. Everything is alright. Dad?”

Brad nodded, ushering everyone into the main part of the poolhouse and closing the bathroom door behind him. He tried to apologize to the nurse, but she was already shaking her head.

“Dr. Cunningham, I have nothing but respect for you and Dr. Cameron,” she said, voice trembling. “But I can’t. Not like this. Not with him. That man is not a patient — he’s a trial by fire on a good day.”

She grabbed her bag and left without waiting for a reply.

Nurse number two arrived the next morning — older, calmer, clearly someone Brad had pulled from a more seasoned roster. She introduced herself as Marlene, spoke in a steady voice, and didn’t flinch when Blaine cursed under his breath during her intake questions. Brad looked relieved. Lauren looked hopeful.

Marlene was competent, unbothered by foul language, and immune to Blaine’s raunchy humor. She handled his medications with precision, kept his leg elevated, monitored his vitals, and even managed to coax him through a few assisted transfers without incident.

But she underestimated one thing: Blaine’s emotional dependence. Detox had stripped him raw — no chemical buffer, no false confidence, no numbness. Even with Brad administering every safe pharmacological buffer he could justify, even with the stabilizers meant to blunt the crash, even with the pain management he needed for the femur rod, the wrist sprain, the rib contusions, the facial trauma — none of it touched the emotional fallout. His body was medicated; his nerves were not. What was left was a man whose moods swung without warning, who clung too tightly and panicked too easily, who cried at nothing and everything. The remnants of cocaine withdrawal didn’t make him violent; they made him needy. Terribly needy. A crybaby in the most exhausting sense — overwhelmed, impossible to soothe, and hard to tolerate for more than a few minutes at a time.

He wanted Lauren for everything — every adjustment of the blanket, every sip of water, every repositioning of his leg, every moment of reassurance. And when she wasn’t there, he wanted Brad. Or Bri. Or Caroline. Or anyone he trusted. Anyone except Marlene.

By day three, he had developed a habit of calling out for Lauren every time Marlene entered the room.

“Lauren! Lauren, where are you? LAAAUUUUREEEEEN, I need you!”

“She’s feeding the baby,” Marlene would say patiently. “I’m here. What do you need?”

“I need Lauren.”

“She’ll be back soon.”

“I need her NOW.”

By day four, he had escalated.

“Lauren! LAUREN! LAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUREEEEEN!”

“Mr. Cameron, please—”

“Lauren! Lauren! Lauren!”

“Sir, she’s bathing the little ones.”

“You go do that!”

“Sir, that is not my job. I was hired to take care of you, not the children.”

“Then get Brad!”

“He’s busy as well.”

“Then get someone, anyone!”

“Blaine—”

“Don’t call me that! I don’t know you and I don’t want to know you! Get me more pain pills.”

“I can’t do that. You’ve already maxed out for now. Maybe later tonight, if one of the doctors approves.”

“Then what good are you?!”

By day five, Marlene tried to set boundaries.

“Mr. Cameron, you need to let me help you. Your wife cannot be here every second. That is why I am here. I’ve been doing this for over twenty‑five years.”

Blaine’s eyes filled, his voice cracking. “Then go do it somewhere else. I don’t want you. I want her. My wife doesn’t like other women touching me, so get bent, bitch!”

“Mr. Cameron, I understand, but—”

“No you don’t! You don’t understand anything! You don’t know me, I don’t know you, and you don’t know what I’ve been through! I want Lauren!”

Marlene exhaled, steady but tired. “Mr. Cameron, I am trying to help you.”

“You’re not helping! You’re making it worse! You’re stressing me out! You’re— you’re— you’re—” He gestured wildly, unable to find the word. “You’re not what I need! You’re a disruption and you are terrible at your job!”

That was the moment she broke.

She stepped out of the room, closed the door gently, and found Brad in the hallway reviewing surgical notes on his tablet.

“Dr. Cunningham,” she said, voice calm but final. “I’m resigning.”

Brad looked up, weary. “Of course you are. May I ask why?”

Marlene folded her hands. “Your son‑in‑law is… emotionally volatile. He refuses care from anyone but your daughter in the most agitated way. He calls for her constantly. He panics when she’s gone. He rejects every intervention I attempt. I cannot do my job under these conditions. I’ve had late‑stage dementia patients who were easier than him.”

Brad sighed. “I understand.”

“I respect you,” she added. “And Dr. Cameron. But this is not sustainable. He needs someone far more specialized than I am. Therapy would be my suggestion, if you don’t mind me saying that. His issues run much deeper than his physical injuries and limitations. Good luck with him — you will need it.”

She nodded once and walked out the front door.

Lauren found Brad standing in the hallway, rubbing his forehead.

“Another one, Dad?” she asked softly.

Brad nodded. “Another one.”

Lauren looked toward the poolhouse, where Blaine was calling her name again.

Finally, they found Nurse Ludmila — sixty‑something, Russian, built like a retired Olympic shot‑putter, and absolutely unshakeable.

She arrived at Rosebriar with a clipboard, a bun so tight it could cut glass, and the aura of a woman who had seen everything and judged all of it.

Blaine took one look at her and whispered, “Oh no.”

Ludmila did not believe in coddling. She was unshaken and unimpressed by Blaine’s antics, just plowed him into submission whether he liked it or not.

“Up,” she barked.

“I can’t,” Blaine protested.

“You can,” she said, already lifting him by the armpits. “You complain too much. You are strong boy. Move.”

Blaine whimpered. Lauren hid a laugh behind Blakely’s blanket. Brad pretended to read a chart.

By day two, Blaine was terrified of her. He tried to scream for Lauren, but Ludmilla stuck lemon slices in his mouth every time till he didn’t dare to anymore.

Ludmila lasted longer than any nurse before her — almost two full weeks — but only because she was built like a retired Soviet tank and had the bedside manner of a drill sergeant.

She didn’t ask politely, she barked orders at Blaine and if he tried to ignore her, she just made him. She scrubbed Blaine’s face with a peeling glove “for to make soft skin for wife.” She undressed him against his will and made him shower with cold water because “warm water is for real men”, not “little disobedient boy.” She called him “boohoo boy.”

One day Blaine tried to escape another forced shower by wheeling himself outside, made it as far as the hallway to the dining room where Mrs. Marwood was polishing the wood furniture when the drama unleashed, as Ludmila caught up with him and tried to turn him around to roll him back to the pool house for his shower and he clung to the doorframe for dear life, screaming.
Mrs. Marwood tried to mediate and Ludmila called her “dumb cleaning lady with unqualified opinion on patient.”

In over thirty years Brad had never heard Mrs. Marwood raise her voice, but that night — when he put his briefcase down in his office — she followed him in and unleashed a breathless, uninterrupted tirade about “the terrible insult by the awful nuclear fallout woman.”

Brad gave a stern talking-to to Ludmila about not involving the housekeeper in her rants again.

Brad came home early the next afternoon and found Blaine wheeling himself out the side entrance of Rosebriar Haven, leg locked straight, wrist braced, sweat pouring down his face, trying to roll himself down the sandy path toward the beach.

“Blaine,” Brad said, deadpan, “now where do you think you are going?”

“Away from the Amazon you hired to torture me.” Blaine called back, attempted to wheel himself over a lump of grass towards the sandy path.

“I’m sure she’s trying to help.” Brad had rushed over and stopped his effort, turning him back towards the front of the estate, away from the path.

“She wants to kill me!” Blaine looked up at him with real fear in his eyes.

Brad sighed, closing his eyes, like a father who was at his wit’s end with his disobedient child. “Let’s get you back inside.” He started pushing the wheelchair towards the front door with the newly added ramp, but Blaine, pulled the brakes.

“No!”

“Blaine!”

“She made me shower with cold water again!”

“I’ll talk to her about that again. You’re going to hurt yourself. You cannot go off property without assistance. Not yet.”

“I’d rather die in the sand! Tell Lauren and my kids that I love them.”

Ludmila appeared behind Brad like a horror movie villain.

“Mr. Cameron,” she said, voice low and ominous, “it is time for exercises.”

Blaine screamed. Ludmila grabbed the wheelchair handles from Brad and rolled Blaine back inside like she was towing a misbehaving toddler.

Brad followed. “Now Miss Ludmila, when you say exercises, you do remember I gave strict ordered regarding mobility control. He can’t do anything I would consider even light exercises. His entire right side is impaired.”

“He has left side. Left side need be stronger.”

Brad’s jaw tightened.

“Ludmila,” he said, “we need to talk about your methods.”

She didn’t even turn around. “Your son‑in‑law is weak. He must be strong. I make him strong.”

Brad’s eye twitched. “I have reason to believe that you are doing things I explicitly told you not to do. I am a doctor.”

She scoffed. “You are surgeon. I am nurse. I know what body needs.”

Brad inhaled sharply. “I own several medical centers around the world. I wrote the protocol for each of them.”

Ludmila turned, squared her shoulders, and jabbed a finger at him.

“You are too soft. Big softie. You and that kid of yours. Men must not have curls. You must shave head, so people respect you and your son.”

“What have my and my son Nathaniel’s curls to do with Blaine’s care and recovery?!”

And that — that — was the moment Briar Rose entered the room.

She froze. She blinked. She processed the scene: Brad being scolded, Blaine trembling in his wheelchair.

“Oh, hell no!”

Briar Rose stepped forward.
And unleashed hell.

“Excuse me,” Bri said, voice dangerously sweet, “I know you did not just speak to my man like that?!”

Ludmila frowned. “Your man?”

“Yes,” Bri snapped. “My man. My husband. Brad. Dr. Cunningham. The man who was so kind to hire you and vastly overpay you. The man who owns this entire medical empire. The man who is too polite to tell you you’re acting like the bionic woman from Tchernobyl.”

Ludmila blinked. “I do not understand.”

“Oh, you will,” Bri said, stepping closer. “You do not talk to him like that. EVER. You do not ignore his medical orders. EVER. You do not terrorize my son‑in‑law. And you do not call my son, or anyone else in this family soft. EVER. And if you ever – EVER – suggest Braddy or Nate shave their heads, I will come after you with a shotgun! I adore their curls. You gotta be kidding me, woman!”

Ludmila opened her mouth.
Bri cut her off.

“No. No more. You know what? I am SO over you, woman. Tired of your bullshit. Brad has told you several times what he wants you to do and what he explicitly does not want you to do and you bolldozed his wishes. We’re not doing that. Pack your things. You’re done.”

Ludmila bristled. “I do not take orders from—”

“Oh, yes, sugartits, you are taking orders from me if you know what’s good for you. PACK. YOUR. THINGS. If your ass isn’t moving in a sec, I am helping you and trust me, it will be nothing like you have ever experienced.”

The room went silent.

Ludmila looked around — at Brad, at Blaine.

She huffed, muttered something in Russian that probably wasn’t flattering, and stomped out.
The front door slammed so hard in her wake that some wall art wobbled on its hooks.

Silence.

Everyone stared at Briar Rose like she had just detonated a small tactical nuke in the living room.

Blaine’s eyes were huge. Mrs. Marwood had to sit down. Lauren appeared, clearly had caught the tail end of it, judging by her wide-eyed stare.

Brad was the first to dare to move.

“Bri‑baby,” he said carefully, “uh, thank you for … umm … that. But now we have a problem. We don’t have a nurse again.”

Briar Rose tossed her hair. “I don’t care. No woman speaks to my man like that. And as much as I think Blaine had it coming, this was decidedly too much. I am about to leave for my tour, no way am I leaving you alone with that monstrosity. We’ll hire a new one, until then, we’ll all pitch in. Fuck, I’ll wipe Blaine’s ass if I must, I am not shy, I’ll just pretend he is a really large infant considering he already acts like one. And next time we hire an actual human nurse, not something that sprung from nuclear waste.”

Lauren lifted her phone. “I have an idea… Dad, you’re not using your jet today are you?”
Brad shook his head.
She was already dialing.

The next scene unfolded like a movie.

Channing arrived at Rosebriar Haven hours later all tan, blonde, handsome, and full of himself — sunglasses on, shirt half‑unbuttoned, smelling like expensive cologne and sunshine. He had already been at the East Coast for a meeting, so it only took a couple hours to get him to Brindleton Bay.

He kissed all the girls. He hugged Brad. He hugged Lauren gently. He kissed Blakely’s head.

Then he spotted Mrs. Marwood — middle‑aged, dignified, still rattled from Ludmila’s verbal assault.

Channing gasped dramatically.

“Mrs. Marwood,” he declared, “my queen.”

Before she could react, he swept her into a theatrical dip — one arm around her waist, the other supporting her back — and kissed her cheek like he was greeting royalty on a red carpet.

Mrs. Marwood let out a startled squeak.

Caroline clapped. Charlotte giggled. Nate whispered, “Oh my God.” Lauren nearly dropped her phone. Brad blinked twice, unsure if he should intervene or applaud.

Channing lifted Mrs. Marwood upright again with a flourish.

She stood frozen, cheeks pink, clutching her pearls.

“I— I need to check the guestroom linens. Need to make sure everything is ready for you, Mr. Cameron,” she whispered. Channing leaned in, took her hand and breathed a kiss in it. “Oh, please, that’s Channing for you, not like we are strangers around here.”

She blushed deeper and floated out of the room like a woman twenty years younger wearing a smile.

Channing winked. “Still got it.”

Brad gave him a weary smile. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. But if you could keep it a bit more… restrained around my housekeeper, I’d appreciate it. I’m rather fond of her, and I’d prefer not to have her bolting for the door because you decided to turn her afternoon into a red‑carpet stunt. She’s irreplaceable, Channing. Please don’t make me test that theory.”

“No worries, Brad, that’s just how I say hello.” Channing gave his best toothpaste grin and turned towards Caroline and Charlotte, when Brad turned him back around to face Blaine.

“No need to say hello to my girls, dear, it was already implied and they too welcome you with open arms. This guy is desperate for someone to help him get through his days.”

“Bro,” he said, grinning, bro‑shaking Blaine’s good hand, “you look like hammered dogshit.”

Blaine laughed. “No false advertising, I feel like it. I have seen things, man… terrible things. They hired nurses, one worse than the next. I got things to tell you …”

Channing looked at the back of the wheelchair, kicked the brakes free.

“Where are we going?” Blaine asked.

Channing spun the wheelchair around and started wheeling him off.

“You stink. Either you’re taking a nice long shower or I toss you in the pool.”

“Oh, been there, done that,” Blaine said. “Prefer shower. As long as you promise it will be at least lukewarm and you stay away from my twig and berries.”

“It’ll be as lukewarm as that hug you gave me. I feel unloved. No worries about your below-the-belt situation, I didn’t pack tweezers or a magnifying glass anyway.”

“Then how to you go pee?”

“I’ll hug you really close in the shower and show you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of…”

They disappeared into the pool house, laughing.

Brad cringed on the inside but felt a lot of relief. This was the right call. And Lauren would finally get a moment to breathe.

Channing stayed, he took care of Blaine, both of them laughing like college boys up to no good. And for the first time in weeks, the entire family exhaled. Channing didn’t seem bothered by Blaine or any of the tasks he needed help with at all. Blaine lit up under his care and his mood improved, while some clinginess towards Lauren remained, she was able to leave him for an hour or two now. And everyone else finally — blessedly — got to go about their usual tasks.