Safe With You

Secrets, Roast, and Revelations

~ Alyssa ~

If happiness had a scent, it would smell exactly like this house right now—roast potatoes, rosemary, caramelised carrots, and home.

It’s Sunday, and somehow our kitchen has turned into a cheerful war zone. Melissa’s commanding the roast like a general, Savannah’s arguing with Lillian over how long parsnips really need to roast, and Quinn and Poppy are decorating the dining table like they’re on Bake Off Junior. Hope, meanwhile, is in her high chair, clutching a carrot stick like it’s the key to world peace.

Greyson’s behind me, stealing potatoes off the tray.

“Grey,” I warn without turning around, “if you eat one more—”

He pops it in his mouth with a grin. “Worth it.”

Lillian rolls her eyes. “You two are so disgustingly domestic it’s painful.”

Then the front door opens and chaos walks in—in the form of Elle, Kelsi, Triston, and Winston.

Elle waves a bakery box. “We brought dessert!”

Kelsi adds, “And gossip!”

Winston, carrying three laptops and a bag of mysterious cables, mutters, “And curiosity.”

Savannah beams. “Dinner in twenty! Don’t touch anything unless it’s wine.”

~ Kelsi ~

Elle and I exchange a conspiratorial grin. “So, Alyssa,” I begin sweetly, “first day at AQ without you was… memorable.”

Alyssa groans. “Oh no.”

Elle clears her throat dramatically and, in her best Alyssa impression, says,

“I’m going away for a week. You’re in charge. Tray thinks he’s in charge. Don’t burn my building down.”

The room erupts in laughter.

Triston adds, deadpan, “Everything was on fire.”

Without missing a beat, I throw my hand in the air and sing,

“But I’m fine, thanks for asking!”

Everyone howls with laughter. Savannah has to wipe tears from her eyes.

Alyssa’s blushing. “You three are impossible.”

“Maybe,” Elle says, “but we built a winter collection called Ember. You’ll love it.”

Alyssa blinks. “You did what?”

“Textures, sustainability, structure—it’s very AQ, very you,” I say, proud.

She softens instantly. “I’m so proud of you both.”

Greyson leans over to murmur, “You realise you leave for one week and they create an empire?”

~ Winston ~

While everyone’s laughing, my eyes keep darting to that bookshelf. It’s been bothering me for months. Something about the proportions is too precise.

I narrow my eyes. “That bookshelf isn’t just a bookshelf.”

Alyssa laughs from across the room. “You could’ve asked, Winston. You’ve been looking at it like it owes you money.”

“No, no,” I say, already pulling my laptop open. “I know this design. I know it.”

I start typing furiously, scrolling through old projects. “There was a house in this area, years ago. Private commission. Coded client name—JP.”

Triston frowns. “JP?”

I glance up, triumphant. “JP’s house had this exact custom shelving structure. Built by REH, of course.”

Elle leans in. “You’re saying REH built Alyssa’s house?”

“Yep.” I spin the laptop around—there it is: the original blueprint. “From scratch.”

Greyson whistles low. “That’s craftsmanship. Look at these load-bearing points—” He stops. “Hang on. What’s this symbol?”

Before I can answer, his eyes widen. “That wall shouldn’t exist…”

He presses a key. The schematic expands. “There’s a hidden room behind Quinn’s playroom.”

But before anyone can react—

I grin, close the laptop, and stride straight to the infamous bookshelf. “Hold that thought. I’ve got my own discovery first.”

I run a finger along the wood grain, then crouch, tapping at the lower frame. There—a faint click. “Aha.”

The panel pops loose, revealing a hidden keypad. I type in the most obvious code I can think of: 1-9-6-7.

The bookshelf slides open with a hiss.

Behind it? A bar. A glorious, backlit, fully stocked bar. Bottles glinting like jewels.

The room gasps collectively.

Elle squeals. “Is that whiskey?!”

Kelsi claps. “And champagne!”

Triston mutters, “You’ve been sitting on this the whole time?”

Alyssa bursts into laughter. “You could’ve just asked, Winston. You’ve been glaring at that shelf for months like it personally offended you.”

I straighten, smug. “It did offend me. Now I’ve made peace with it.”

Greyson chuckles, looping an arm around Alyssa’s waist. “You’ve built a house full of secrets, haven’t you?”

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” I add, tapping my laptop. “Because now I really want to know what’s behind that playroom on the blueprints.”

~ Alyssa ~

Triston and I exchange glances—and then burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Greyson blinks, utterly confused. “What’s so funny?”

I wipe a tear from my cheek. “You’ll see. Come on.”

Everyone follows as I lead them down the hall, through the pastel wonderland that is Quinn’s playroom. Greyson looks around, wary. “Lyss, there’s nothing—”

I press my palm flat against the far wall.

A soft click. A seam of light appears. The wall moves.

The door swings open—and a golden glow spills into the playroom.

Everyone gasps.

The hidden room gleams like a page from a fairytale—soft gold wallpaper scattered with stars, crystal chandeliers shaped like flowers, rows of miniature gowns in every pastel shade imaginable. Shelves filled with tiaras, glitter shoes, and fairy wings. And in the centre, a plush pink chaise shaped like a pumpkin carriage.

Quinn’s secret castle.

“Holy…” Greyson can’t even finish.

Triston doubles over laughing. “Told you he was going to lose it.”

I grin. “JP wanted every grandchild to have a secret space. So… I might have gone a little overboard.”

Poppy’s twirling in the centre of the room already. “Mummy, it’s like a princess castle!”

Greyson just stands there, slack-jawed. “You hid this in our house?”

“Technically, your house,” I tease. “I just made it magical. Besides, not hidden, Quinn knew it was here.”

He stares another moment, then laughs and pulls me in close. “You are impossible.”

“Would you have it any other way?”

He kisses my forehead. “Not in a million years.”

~ Savannah ~

By the time we return to the kitchen, the house is filled with noise—laughter, stories, children squealing about tiaras. Charlie’s already decided to install a “castle annex” at their estate. Triston’s telling Elle about how Alyssa once repainted her childhood bedroom three times in one day because “the shade of pink wasn’t royal enough.”

Dinner is loud and perfect—steaming plates of roast chicken, golden potatoes, and honeyed carrots.

Hope’s perched in her high chair, gnawing on carrot sticks like her life depends on it. Even the bodyguards are at the table, plates stacked high, faces relaxed for the first time in weeks.

When Charlie raises his glass—“To family, secrets, and hidden bars!”—everyone cheers.

~ Greyson ~

The laughter fades as plates are cleared away, replaced with the soft clinking of dessert spoons and sleepy kids sprawled across laps.

But Hope—little firecracker that she is—has decided sleep is for the weak.

She’s overtired, red-cheeked, fists balled, and wailing. Alyssa’s gently rocking her, murmuring soft words, but Hope’s having none of it.

Savannah tries. Lillian tries. Even I take a turn—she just shrieks louder.

Then Preston walks through the room, collecting glasses, calm as ever.

Hope’s cries stop mid-sob. She blinks at him. Then, to everyone’s utter shock, stretches out her arms.

Preston freezes. “Uh—me?”

Alyssa sighs. “At this point, why not?”

He takes her, awkward at first—but the moment she’s in his arms, she sighs, snuggles against his chest, and immediately falls asleep.

The entire room goes silent.

Winston whistles. “Well, damn.”

Preston looks up, smug as sin. “Told you, Babies, love me.”

Alyssa drops her head into her hands with a laugh. “Bloody baby whisperer.”

I grin, leaning back in my chair. “Careful, Preston. You’re dangerously close to becoming Hope’s favourite person.”

Preston smirks, shifting the sleeping baby carefully. “Wouldn’t dream of replacing you, sir—but I’ll take runner-up.”

He disappears down the hall to settle her in her cot, leaving the adults staring after him in stunned silence before bursting into laughter again.

~ Preston ~

I’ve walked VIPs through riots with less pressure than a red-cheeked newborn and ten sets of expectant eyes.

But she reached—for me. Not her mum, not her dad. Me.

Warm weight. Milk-sweet breath. The tiniest fingers curling into my shirt. I adjust, palm against the back of her head, and her whole body just… melts. Sleep rolls over her like a tide.

I stand by the cot a beat longer than protocol demands. No threat. No shadows. Just the steady metronome of baby-breathing and the softened echo of family laughter down the hall.

“Sleep well, Little Hope,” I murmur, then step back into the glow of the living room lights, trying not to look as smug as I feel—and failing.

~ Winston (Later) ~

If there’s such a thing as a perfect evening, this is dangerously close. Wine, laughter, a discovered bar, a hidden castle, and now a bodyguard crowned Baby Whisperer. I’d call that a win.

But the blueprints still whisper.

Greyson’s beside me at the dining table, sleeves rolled, brow furrowed, tracing each line of the schematic like a man in love. “This is genius,” he murmurs. “Whoever designed this had a structural mind like no other.”

“That’d be REH,” I remind him. “And whoever this ‘JP’ was clearly had money—and taste.”

Alyssa, cross-legged on the sofa with an empty high chair beside her, smirks. “JP was my grandfather. Johnathan Pierce. He was eccentric, generous, and believed houses should be alive.”

Greyson glances up, eyes widening. “Pierce… as in the Pierce? The philanthropist who funded half of London’s restoration projects?”

She nods, smiling softly. “That’s him.”

Savannah whistles. “Well, that explains a lot.”

But I’m already zooming in on the corner of the digital blueprint. “Hold up. Greyson, look at this.”

He leans closer. “That’s… another schematic layer.”

A few clicks and the design expands, revealing a faint overlay of hidden partitions and crawl spaces.

“Oh my God,” Greyson breathes. “She’s sitting on a labyrinth.”

“Technically, we’re sitting on it,” Alyssa says, laughing.

“No, seriously,” he traces with his pen. “Here’s the library, here’s the studio—and there’s a hollow wall leading to… something. Two, maybe three meters wide.”

“Another bar?” I offer.

He shakes his head. “No, bigger. It has ventilation. Electrical. Even its own panel access.”

Lillian leans over the back of the sofa, eyes wide. “You’re telling me there’s more secret rooms in this place?”

“Several,” Greyson mutters, flipping to another sheet. “And…” He pauses. “Winston, am I seeing this right?”

There, tucked beneath the main blueprint set, is another file. Smaller, hand-drawn, ink faded with time.

Greyson opens the file and zooms in.

Everyone leans in.

Not a renovation plan. A duplicate design.

Three floors. A compact version of the house. Every level drawn with loving precision—kitchen, reading nook, bedrooms, even tiny bathrooms—complete with plumbing, lighting, and electrical schematics.

Kelsi tilts her head. “Wait… is that another house?”

“Not exactly,” Greyson murmurs, reverent. “It’s… a playhouse.”

Silence.

Elle blinks. “A playhouse? Like, for kids?”

Greyson looks at Alyssa. “Lyss… this thing has three floors, a spiral staircase, and a conservatory. It’s got heating and running water.”

Triston whistles low. “So basically, a mansion for miniature people.”

Alyssa’s laugh is instant, full-bodied. “Oh, that. Yeah, that’s in the garden.”

Greyson nearly drops the paper. “What?”

“JP built it for me when I was five,” she says, trying not to smile too hard. “Said every child needs a kingdom of their own.”

Greyson turns to me, jaw slack. “She’s been living next to an architectural marvel for years and didn’t mention it.”

“I thought everyone had one,” she teases.

Kelsi groans. “I can’t even afford a shed that doesn’t leak, and you’ve got a mini Versailles out back.”

Alyssa pushes to her feet. “Come on, then. Let’s make a night of it. You want to see all the secrets? I’ll give you the full Pierce Tour.”

~ Alyssa (The Pierce Tour) ~

I grab a torch—not because we need one (the house is smart-wired with motion lights)—but because dramatic effect pleases me. A ragtag parade of designers, bodyguards, and relatives trails behind, still holding wine glasses.

First stop: The Gallery Corridor.

“JP loved art,” I say, gesturing to the gilded frames lining the hall. “These are on a mechanical track. If you press this panel—”

I push a hidden button in the skirting board. The paintings slide aside, revealing a closet lined with ledgers and blueprint scrolls.

Savannah gasps. “It’s like walking through history.”

“JP kept every record,” I say, pulling one open. “Every renovation, every material. He even catalogued where each tree on the grounds came from.”

“Who does that?” Elle whispers.

“My grandfather,” I reply with fond exasperation. “The man once argued with a royal landscaper over the ethics of pruning.”

Laughter ripples.

The Library. Greyson opens a mahogany cabinet to reveal a narrow, curved stair descending into darkness.

“That leads to the wine cellar,” I say. “And the security room.”

“The what?” Winston perks up instantly.

“JP was paranoid about thieves. CCTV, backups, a panic line to local authorities. The tech’s ancient, but it still works.”

Triston mutters, “She’s got a Bond villain lair.”

“Correction,” Greyson grins, “my fiancée has a Bond villain lair.”

A Reading Nook hides behind the guest hallway—slanted glass ceiling, sunlight like honey, shelves of children’s books with my scribbles in the margins.

A Conservatory Passage lined with ivy and glass butterflies, lemon-leaf scent clinging to the air.

The Attic, where hundreds of miniature model homes—REH prototypes—sit perfectly preserved.

“These are all REH prototypes,” Greyson murmurs, crouching. “Your grandfather must’ve commissioned every trial model.”

“He let me decorate them with stickers,” I admit. “Mum nearly combusted when I painted one bright purple.”

“Remind me never to underestimate your artistic influence,” he teases.

“Too late,” I say, flashing a wicked grin.

~ Winston ~

By the time we reach the garden, I’m convinced Johnathan Pierce was part mad genius, part magician.

And then I see it.

Nestled among the trees, glowing softly in the dusk light, stands a child’s dream rendered in timber and glass. Three stories. Cream-white panelling trimmed with gold. Little balconies overflowing with flowers. Twinkling fairy lights along the roofline.

Elle gapes. “That’s… that’s not a playhouse. That’s a manor.”

Greyson walks forward slowly, eyes wide. “It’s structurally sound. Full insulation. Double-glazed windows. Look at the pipework—that’s copper.”

Alyssa opens the small gate with a flourish. “Welcome to Quinn’s kingdom.”

~ Alyssa ~

Inside, it’s a scaled-down replica of our home—only more magical.

A fully fitted miniature kitchen—marble counters, brass fixtures, a tiny pantry with glass jars of sweets—on the ground floor. Two bedrooms on the second—one pink, one lilac—with canopies and fairy lights. The top floor is a secret loft with a star projector built into the ceiling.

“I used to sleep up here when storms scared me,” I admit softly. “JP said the stars would chase the dark away.”

Elle’s eyes glisten. “He sounds amazing.”

“He was,” I whisper. “And a little crazy. He even plumbed in hot water so I could have tea parties with real tea.”

Greyson runs his hand along the miniature banister, awestruck. “Alyssa, this is… unbelievable. The precision, the detail… he didn’t just build a playhouse. He built a legacy.”

Kelsi’s already taking photos. “I’m pitching this to Architectural Digest as The World’s Most Extra Playhouse.”

Triston snorts. “You’ll crash their website.”

The kids, drawn by laughter, come racing across the grass—Quinn shrieking when she sees everyone inside her space.

“Mummy! Daddy! You found my castle!”

Poppy grabs Greyson’s hand. “Can we show them the secret slide?”

“Secret slide?” Greyson echoes, bewildered.

Before I can warn him, Quinn hits a hidden latch. The bookshelf swings open—and two small girls grab his hands and whoosh him down a spiral chute.

A thud from the garden below.

I’m laughing too hard to breathe. “Welcome to my childhood!”

Winston claps. “Ten out of ten. Five-star tour.”

~ Greyson (Later That Night) ~

Back inside, after the laughter fades and the kids are tucked into bed, I find myself staring again at the old blueprints spread across the dining table. Lines and layers, hidden nooks and sly passages—the work of someone who saw buildings not as walls, but as living hearts.

Alyssa slips in beside me, threading her arm through mine. “He’d have liked you, you know.”

“Your grandfather?”

She nods. “He’d have adored you. You think the way he did—in layers and purpose.”

I smile. “He gave you magic, Alyss. Real magic. And you’ve kept it alive.”

She rests her head on my shoulder. “Maybe that’s why he built it all—so I’d always have somewhere safe to start again.”

Winston wanders past with a whiskey from the secret bar, raises his glass. “To JP—the mad genius who built fairytales out of floor plans.”

Everyone echoes the toast.

As I look around—at Alyssa, at our girls, at our people; at blueprints, tiaras, and the wink of a hidden bar—I think:

Some legacies aren’t written in stone or steel.

They’re tucked behind bookshelves, threaded with fairy lights, and carried forward by the ones who live inside them.

~ Winston (One Last Note) ~

As we clear the table, a tiny inscription on the margin of the oldest sheet catches my eye—handwriting almost faded away:

For A.R.—may this house always hold laughter.

I close the laptop, smile up at the ceiling.

“Mission accomplished, JP.”