Chapter Four

Chapter 4: The Return of the Tide

The northern coast in April was still cold enough to sting the lungs, but the sun had begun to linger longer each day, painting the sea in hesitant shades of silver and pale gold. Veronica’s cottage sat on a low bluff, whitewashed walls peeling at the edges like old secrets. Inside, everything was small and deliberate: one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen barely wide enough for two people to stand side by side, and a living room that doubled as dining space. She had furnished it with second-hand pieces—nothing that carried memories, nothing that asked questions.

She was twenty-two weeks pregnant now. The bump was no longer something she could hide beneath loose sweaters. It curved gently beneath the soft gray tunic she wore most days, a constant, living reminder of the night she had chosen recklessness over reason.

Every morning she walked the narrow path down to the pebbled beach, let the wind slap her cheeks until they burned, and talked to the child growing inside her.

“You’ll like the sea,” she murmured today, one hand cradling the swell. “It doesn’t judge. It just keeps coming back.”

She had stopped checking her phone months ago. The number she’d used to send that final message to Ethan had been deactivated the same day. She’d bought a cheap burner for emergencies only—emergencies that hadn’t arrived.

Yet.

She told herself she was safe here. Anonymous. Forgotten.

She was wrong.

At 10:47 a.m. on the ninth of April, a black Range Rover eased to a stop at the top of the bluff road. The engine idled for almost two full minutes before the driver cut it. The door opened. Closed.

Veronica didn’t hear it at first. She was inside, boiling water for tea, humming an old lullaby her mother used to sing.

Then came the knock.

Three soft, deliberate raps.

Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she thought it might bruise them.

She set the kettle down with trembling fingers.

Another knock. Patient. Unhurried.

She moved to the window beside the door, peeked through the sheer curtain.

Sandra Lawson stood on the tiny porch.

Alone.

She wore a charcoal wool coat that reached mid-calf, hair pulled into a low knot, sunglasses perched on her head even though the day was overcast. She looked smaller than Veronica remembered—less like the untouchable CEO and more like a woman who had spent too many nights awake.

Veronica’s hand hovered over the lock.

She could pretend she wasn’t home.

She could slip out the back door, disappear again.

But the child inside her chose that moment to kick—sharp, insistent, almost reproachful.

Veronica closed her eyes.

Then she opened the door.

Sandra didn’t speak immediately. She simply looked at Veronica—really looked—taking in the rounded belly, the loose hair, the faint shadows beneath her eyes.

Finally she said, very quietly, “May I come in?”

Veronica stepped aside.

The two women stood in the cramped living room, less than six feet apart, separated by sixteen years of silence, one betrayal, one secret, and now one unborn child.

Sandra’s gaze dropped to Veronica’s stomach. Held.

“How far along?” she asked.

“Twenty-two weeks.”

Sandra nodded once. “And… healthy?”

“Yes.”

Another nod. “Good.”

The silence stretched thin, fragile.

Then Sandra spoke again, voice cracking on the first syllable. “I didn’t come to fight.”

Veronica crossed her arms over her chest. Protective. “Then why did you come?”

“Because he’s falling apart.”

The words landed like stones in still water.

Veronica felt her throat close. “Ethan?”

Sandra’s eyes glistened. “He hasn’t been the same since you left. Barely eats. Barely sleeps. He’s stopped going to classes. He just… searches. Every day. Every night. For three months he looked. Then he stopped looking and started drinking. Then he stopped drinking and started staring at walls.” She took a shaky breath. “He thinks you hate him. He thinks he ruined your life.”

Veronica felt the room tilt. “I don’t hate him.”

“I know.” Sandra’s voice dropped to a whisper. “But he doesn’t.”

Veronica turned away, walked to the window, stared out at the gray sea. “You told me to stay away.”

“I was wrong.”

The admission hung between them—simple, devastating.

Sandra continued, softer now. “I was humiliated. Furious. Terrified that the world would see my son as some foolish boy chasing an older woman, that they’d see you as… opportunistic. I thought if I could control the story, I could control the damage. I was wrong about that too.”

Veronica pressed her palm to the glass. Cold seeped into her skin.

“I kept the footage,” Sandra said. “Deleted every copy from the server. Paid the security company extra to make sure no one else ever saw it. I tried to bury it. I tried to bury you.”

Veronica turned slowly. “And now?”

“Now I’m here.” Sandra took one careful step forward. “Because three weeks ago my son came into my office at four in the morning, sat in the chair across from my desk, and told me he was going to spend the rest of his life looking for the woman he loves and the child he didn’t know existed. He said if I tried to stop him again, he would walk away from Lawson Luxe. From me. From everything.”

Veronica’s breath caught.

“He doesn’t know I’m here,” Sandra added quickly. “He thinks I’m in Milan for a fabric sourcing trip. I came alone because… because this part has to be mine to fix first.”

Veronica studied the older woman’s face—the lines that had deepened around her eyes, the faint tremor in her lower lip.

“You’re asking me to come back,” Veronica said.

“I’m asking you to let him know the truth. That you didn’t leave because you stopped loving him. That you left because you were scared. That the child is his. And that you’re both still breathing.”

Veronica laughed—a small, broken sound. “You make it sound simple.”

“It’s not.” Sandra’s eyes were wet now. “But it’s necessary.”

Veronica looked down at her belly. The baby moved again—slow, rolling, as if listening.

“I can’t just walk back into that life,” she whispered. “The headlines. The gossip. The judgment. I’m forty-one, Sandra. Carrying my best friend’s grandchild. The world won’t be kind.”

“Then we make them be kind,” Sandra said fiercely. “We control the narrative this time. We protect you. Both of you. All three of you.”

Veronica shook her head. “I don’t want protection. I want peace.”

“You won’t find it here forever.” Sandra gestured at the small room, the quiet view. “You’re already lonely. I can see it. And when that baby comes, loneliness becomes something heavier. Something dangerous.”

Veronica’s eyes filled.

Sandra stepped closer—slowly, carefully. “I’m not asking you to forgive me today. I’m asking you to let me help carry some of the weight. Let me be the grandmother this child deserves. Let me be the friend I should have been sixteen years ago.”

A tear slipped down Veronica’s cheek.

She didn’t wipe it away.

Sandra reached out, hesitated, then gently took Veronica’s hand.

The touch was warm. Steady.

Veronica didn’t pull back.

They stood like that for a long time—two women who had once shared everything, then nothing, now reaching across the wreckage toward something new.

Finally Veronica spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “He doesn’t know where I am?”

“Not yet.”

Veronica closed her eyes. “I need time.”

“You can have it,” Sandra said. “But not too much. He’s… fragile, Vee. More than he’ll ever admit.”

Veronica nodded once.

Sandra squeezed her hand before letting go.

“I’m staying at the inn in town tonight. The Seaside. Room twelve. If you want to talk more… I’ll be there until tomorrow evening. After that, I’ll go home. And I’ll tell him whatever you want me to tell him.”

She turned toward the door.

“Sandra.”

Sandra paused.

Veronica swallowed. “Thank you. For coming.”

Sandra gave a small, sad smile. “I should have come months ago.”

Then she left.

The door closed softly.

Veronica stood in the center of the room, arms wrapped around herself, listening to the Range Rover start, then pull away.

The silence that followed was deafening.

She sank onto the couch, buried her face in her hands, and cried—for the girl she used to be, for the woman she had become, for the man she still loved, for the child who deserved more than secrets and shadows.

When the tears slowed, she reached for her phone—the burner she’d sworn never to use.

She stared at the blank screen for almost ten minutes.

Then she typed one message.

To a number she had memorized even after deleting it.

*Tomorrow. 3 p.m. The bluff above the cottage. Come alone.*

She hit send before she could talk herself out of it.

Then she turned the phone off again.

And waited.

The next afternoon was brighter than the previous one. The sky had cleared to a hard, cold blue. The wind carried salt and the faint cry of gulls.

Veronica waited at the top of the bluff path, wearing a cream coat that didn’t quite close over her belly anymore. She had pulled her hair into a loose braid. Her hands shook inside her pockets.

At 2:58 she heard the engine.

At 3:01 the black Range Rover appeared at the crest of the road.

The door opened.

Ethan stepped out.

He looked different thinner, sharper, shadows carved beneath his eyes. His hair was longer than she remembered, curling slightly at the nape. He wore a black sweater and dark jeans, no coat despite the wind.

He saw her.

Froze.

For a moment neither moved.

Then he started walking fast, almost running.

He stopped five feet away, breathing hard.

“Veronica.”

His voice cracked on her name.

She felt it in her bones.

He looked at her face. Then lower. Then back to her face.

His eyes filled.

“You’re…” He couldn’t finish.

“Pregnant,” she said quietly. “Yes.”

He took one step closer. Then another. Then he was right in front of her.

He lifted a hand slow, trembling toward her stomach.

He stopped just short.

“May I?”

She nodded.

He placed his palm gently against the curve.

The baby kicked once, hard.

Ethan’s breath left him in a harsh, broken sound.

He dropped to his knees on the grass, pressed his forehead to her belly, and began to cry.

Great, silent sobs that shook his shoulders.

Veronica threaded her fingers through his hair, tears streaming down her own face.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry. I should have protected you. I should have”

“Shhh,” she whispered. “Not now.”

He looked up at her eyes red, desperate. “I never stopped loving you. Not for one second.”

“I know.”

“I looked everywhere.”

“I know.”

He rose slowly, hands sliding to her face, thumbs brushing away her tears.

“I’m not letting you go again,” he said, voice raw. “Not ever.”

She searched his face saw the boy he still was, the man he was becoming.

Then she leaned forward and kissed him.

It was soft at first. Careful. Then deeper. Hungrier. Years of grief and longing poured into one moment on a windswept bluff.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, he whispered against her mouth:

“Marry me.”

She laughed through her tears. “You haven’t even asked properly.”

He dropped to one knee again this time deliberately.

“Veronica Hale. I love you. I love our child. I want to build a life with you messy, complicated, judged, beautiful. All of it. Will you marry me?”

She looked down at him the man who had once been forbidden, who was now the only future she could imagine.

“Yes,” she breathed.

He surged up, kissed her again fierce, claiming, triumphant.

Behind them the sea roared its approval.

But in the distance, unnoticed by either of them, a black sedan idled at the far end of the bluff road.

The window cracked open just enough for a long-lens camera to focus.

The shutter clicked once.

Twice.

Then the car eased away, silent as smoke.

Somewhere in the city, a story was already being written.

A story that would soon explode across every gossip site, every society page, every inbox.

A story about betrayal. Scandal. Age. Power.

And love that refused to die.