Chapter 19
WILLOW
“Santa won’t come if you’re awake,” I whisper, tucking Elise’s blanket up to her chin. Her eyes—wide, caramel-colored, and far too knowing for a four-year-old—peek up at me through lashes that flutter like she’s pretending to be sleepy.
“That’s not true,” Rose announces from the other side of the room, where her own blanket has become a fort. “I stayed up last year, remember? I saw Daddy carrying the presents in the middle of the night.”
I turn my head slowly toward her, narrowing my eyes in mock accusation. “And that,” I murmur, lowering my voice like I’m telling a grave secret, “is why your presents were delayed.”
Rose gasps, her mouth falling open. “Nooo.”
“Yes,” I say solemnly, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “Santa had to go deliver to all the other well-behaved children first, and when he came back, you were finally asleep.”
Elise giggles, hiding her smile under the blanket. Rose crosses her arms, but the corners of her lips twitch, and I know I’ve won—for now. She’s too smart for her own good.
“Go to sleep,” I say softly, leaning down to kiss each of them. Elise first, her skin warm and milk-sweet, then Rose, who immediately wipes her cheek dramatically and whispers, “Ew, mom kisses.”
“You love my kisses,” I whisper back, grinning.
She hides her face, still smiling, and I linger there for a moment—just watching them breathe, listening to the faint wind rattling the windows.
The tree lights downstairs flicker faintly up the stairwell.
I rub my hand through my hair, my hand brushing against the almost gone bruise throbbing faintly at my temple.
And when I move my wrist, the bandage catches against the sleeve of my sweater—a reminder of how easily peace can tear.
I pull the door almost shut, leaving it cracked just enough for the hall light to spill in, and make my way down the hall.
The faint laughter from downstairs makes me pause on the landing.
I can picture them all there without even looking—Damien with his sleeves rolled up, dusting powdered sugar across the hardwood to make “Santa footprints.” Cast probably bossing everyone around, insisting that the angles of the cookie bites look realistic, while Vincent rolls his eyes and pours whiskey into his cocoa.
Christmas magic, Beaumont-Sterling-Castillo style and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
For a second, I almost want to go down there, to see them all smiling again. But the weight in my pocket reminds me I can’t, because despite me being seven weeks late now I still don’t know until I see it for real.
I turn quietly toward the room Damien and I share. The other two being Vincent and Cast’s respectfully, because after three years of sharing a bed we all decided it should only be on special occasions.
The moment the door closes behind me, the noise softens. The lights on the nightstand are still dimmed from earlier—Damien must’ve been reading before going down. He’s careful like that, always leaving things how I like them.
My bag sits half-unzipped in the corner, a silent little confession waiting to be discovered.
Beneath a folded sweater, the white box I bought yesterday presses against the fabric like a heartbeat I’ve been avoiding.
I sit on the edge of the bed and pull it out, the faint crinkle of the packaging loud in the hush of the room.
My hands tremble—not from fear exactly, but from that restless swirl of emotion that has no clear name, something that lives between dread and longing.
I glance toward the door, half expecting a knock, though I know Damien would respect my privacy the best.
If this were Cast’s room, I wouldn’t have made it this far. He notices everything, and I swear he could probably sense it if I even thought about opening this box. Sometimes I think he’s one more heartbeat away from planting another chip in me. The thought tightens my jaw.
The chip.
I still don’t know when he did it, but it was some time in the last three years because he said it needed to be changed out every three years.
But when could he have possibly chipped all of us?
How would I have not felt a whole incision at the nape of my neck?
I’m pissed because what the hell, but it saved me.
Every time I brush the back of my neck, I feel the small ridge beneath my skin and want to scream. He had no right, but truly I should thank him. I never will, but he knows I am more grateful than upset.
I swallow the anger down. Tomorrow. I’ll yell at him later, not during the holidays, or I’ll use it against him as a bargaining chip for a later argument.
The floor is cold beneath my bare feet as I move to the bathroom, flicking the light on.
The mirror reflects someone almost familiar again—color slowly returning to her skin, the bruise at her temple fading to the soft lavender of healing.
Her hair falls in loose, glossy waves that catch the light instead of clinging to her face, and her eyes—though ringed with fatigue—look clearer, steadier.
I am starting to feel like myself again, even now.
I open the box, unfold the instructions, and stare at the small plastic test in my palm, absurdly delicate, like something holy and cruel at once.
I shouldn’t be nervous. I’ve done this before.
I know what it means, what the signs feel like.
I probably am, and this is just a precaution, totally unnecessary.
And yet I stand there, frozen, suspended in the fragile space between hope and disaster.
What if I’m wrong? What if it’s just the exhaustion, the stress, the way my body’s still trying to learn what safety feels like after so long surviving on adrenaline? What if the universe isn’t generous enough to hand me another miracle when I still don’t know how to breathe?
I close my eyes, whisper, “Come on, Willow. Just do it.” The plastic clicks open.
Minutes stretch and blur. I set the test on the counter and sink down onto the edge of the tub, arms folded around myself, the sound of the light’s hum loud enough to drown out thought.
I think of Damien—how gentle he’s been since I came home, how he never asks what I can’t explain, how he makes tea before I even realize I need it.
He’s steady, patient, the kind of man who waits in the doorway until I nod, who keeps his distance not out of disinterest but respect.
He’d be a good father again. He already is.
But would he want another? Would any of them, though?
Cast has said he wants another, but we haven’t talked about it as a family yet—and it would have to be a family discussion.
Damien wouldn’t mind; he never thought he’d have kids at all, so he’s just grateful for every one of them.
He’d have as many—or as few—as I wanted.
If it were up to Cast, we’d have a football team by now. He’d probably repopulate the earth if I let him.
But Vincent… I’m not sure. He was never close to his own siblings. He’s never said he wanted more after Rose. Still, he loves her with everything he has, but that doesn’t mean he wants another baby.
My palm rests over my stomach. Not fear—something else, something quieter and heavier, like guilt wearing the shape of wonder.
I glance at the timer on my phone. Thirty seconds left.
I breathe in. Out.
And wait.
Outside, I hear a faint laugh—Cast’s, low and sharp. Then Damien’s quiet voice, soothing as always. Vincent’s muttered curse after dropping something heavy. It wouldn’t be bad having another baby. Another girl with a toothy smile and bright eyes. Another boy to rough house with Theo.
It almost feels right. The timer buzzes. My heart stutters.
I reach for the test, pulse hammering so hard it shakes my hand.
And then I see it.
Two lines.
My throat tightens. Shit.
I press a hand over my mouth, a half-laugh, half-sob catching in my chest. For a moment, I can’t move. The air feels heavy with everything I can’t say—fear, love, disbelief.
I don’t know if I should cry or smile. Maybe both.
A knock sounds softly on the door.
I freeze.
“Will?” Damien’s voice, low, hesitant. “You okay in there?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah,” I manage, though my voice sounds thin, too bright. “Just—uh—washing up.”
“Well hurry up! You’re on carrot munching duty!” He calls, the door closing roughly behind him.
I linger in front of the mirror a moment longer, before hiding the pregnancy test in my bra, and tucking the box and instructions into the bottom of the trash can in the bathroom. Then I shut the light off and step quietly into the hall.
Downstairs, Cast’s carefully crafted “Santa tracks” trail through the living room—footsteps dusted in confectioner’s sugar leading from the fireplace to the tree . Half a cookie lies on the plate, an artful bite missing, and a few stray crumbs glint like stars against the wood floor.
I smile to myself and reach for one of the carrots left out for the reindeer.
“You’re supposed to leave some for Rudolph,” Damien’s voice murmurs behind me, low and teasing.
I turn, chewing, and find him leaning against the doorway, sleeves rolled up, his hair mussed from hours of sneaky decorating. There’s a faint dusting of powdered sugar on his forearm, and the sight makes me want to laugh.
“He’ll survive,” I say, setting the carrot down.
He smiles, the corners of his mouth softening, and crosses the room. “Come with me. I’ve got something for you.”
My brows lift. “It’s after midnight, Damien.”
“I know.” His voice dips quieter. “But I didn’t want to wait until morning.”
He takes my hand—warm, calloused, steady—and leads me toward the back of the house, past the quiet hum of the kitchen and through the glass doors that open to the covered porch.
Outside, the night smells like pine and frost, the kind of cold that bites gently before settling into calm.
Fairy lights that Cast must’ve strung up earlier shimmer along the beams, painting everything in soft gold.
Damien stops by the small table near the railing. There’s a folder there, tied with a ribbon, my name written across the front in his handwriting.
I glance from it to him, wary and curious. “What is this?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he steps closer, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His touch is careful, reverent. “Open it. It’s from all of us. I just won the right to tell you.”
I undo the ribbon and lift the flap. Inside are printed documents, official-looking pages with seals and signatures. My eyes scan the first line—and my breath catches.
The Willow Arts Scholarship Endowment Fund.
Located in Austin, Texas.
For young artists from low-income families.
Full tuition and housing coverage for up to four years.
My throat tightens. “Damien… what is this?”
He exhales, hands sliding into his pockets.
“It’s yours,” he says softly. “Or rather—it’s for you.
I wanted to do something that lasts. You’ve spent so much of yourself giving other people a chance to see beauty when you didn’t always have the time to chase it yourself.
This—” He gestures toward the folder. “—is a way to make sure others get to. Kids who paint the way you used to in that tiny studio apartment, with nothing but a brush and a dream.”
I blink, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. “You set up a scholarship fund in my name?”
“In your honor,” he corrects gently. “The Willow Arts Scholarship. It’ll support younger artists who want to study fine arts in college—kids who couldn’t afford it otherwise. I already spoke to the university about it; it launches next semester.”
For a long moment, I can’t speak. The papers tremble slightly in my hands.
“You did this…” I start, then falter, my voice catching. “You did this for me?”
He nods. “For you. And for them. For everyone who believes art saves people, because it saved you—and it sure as hell saved me.”
My vision blurs. The night tilts warm and unreal. “Damien, I don’t even know what to say.”
“Say you’ll let yourself be proud of it,” he murmurs, reaching out to brush a tear from my cheek.
“You’ve spent years supporting everyone else—me, Cast, Vincent, the kids—and I don’t tell you enough how much that means.
I love you for that. For how you make space for everyone’s dreams, even when yours have to wait. ”
I shake my head, overwhelmed. “You don’t have to do this—”
“I want to.” His tone deepens, earnest. “And I want to make sure you get to chase yours, too. The gallery, the installations, whatever you want to build next—I’ll make the time. I’m done putting my world ahead of yours.”
He cups my face in his hands, thumbs tracing softly along my jaw. “I love you, Willow. For what you’ve survived, for what you’ve given, for how you still find beauty in everything—even in me.”
The words hit somewhere deep, somewhere I’ve kept guarded for too long. I lean forward, pressing my forehead against his chest, breathing in the familiar warmth of cedar and smoke. His arms fold around me instantly, strong and sure.
The cold air seeps around us, but it doesn’t matter. The lights glow gold, the papers flutter faintly in my hand, and for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel like a ghost in my own life.
I tilt my head back to look at him, smiling through the tears. “You realize this means I have to get you something equally impossible next year.”
He laughs, low and rough, pressing a kiss to my temple where the bruise has begun to fade. “Good luck topping a scholarship fund, Mrs. Beaumont.”
I let out a quiet laugh and shake my head, the corner of my mouth tugging despite myself.
He’s still smiling—that small, certain smile that always gets to me—and before I can stop it, I grab his shirt and pull him in.
Our mouths meet, slow and sure. His hand settles at my waist, the warmth of his skin cutting through the chill.
For a few seconds, there’s nothing else—just the solid press of him, the faint taste of sugar on his lips, and the steady pulse that reminds me I’m home.