Winning the Heir Who Bullied Me Chapter 177

***Four years later.***

I’ve had the Thanksgiving dream so many times that I mentally prepare for it before I go to bed the night before.

And when eighteen-year-old me stands in front of the door of the two-story house I grew up in, she already knows what’s waiting beyond the rich mahogany door.

My dead parents. Dead June.

But tonight, when I push open that door, I’m not met with cold, eerie stillness. I pause at the entrance, wondering if I’ve stumbled into the wrong dream.

Soft humming floats from inside the house into the foyer, where I hover at the threshold. Along with the sound is the long-forgotten but still achingly familiar scent of lavender and spice.

I step over the threshold.

Usually, I find the bodies in the living room, sprawled on the floor in front of the fireplace, but—

My feet falter, and I stiffen, not comprehending what my mind has conjured.

My mom is sitting on the couch, and the humming abruptly ceases as she turns to face me.

My breath hitches in my throat. Her features are a little blurred, like my brain can no longer clearly picture her face. But I feel the warmth in her eyes, her smile. She’s *alive.*

“Mom,” I choke out.

“Oh, my baby,” she says softly, her arms opening. “Come here.”

I move so fast my feet barely touch the ground.

Sinking into her embrace feels like returning home after being away for a long, long time.

Her familiar scent wraps around me, and my arms tighten around her as she whispers, “Oh, I’ve missed you, my love.”

Emotion clogs my throat. Missing doesn’t even begin to quantify the emptiness in my chest I’ve carried for twenty-seven years.

I have a husband, a sister, two foster moms, and several friends. But the mom-and-dad-shaped hole will forever remain unfilled.

“How have you been?” she asks, pulling back just enough to look at me.

I swallow hard. “Good?”

She laughs. “That’s it? Didn’t you marry that Ashford boy you had the biggest crush on?”

A breathless laugh whooshes out of me. “You remember that?”

“Of course.” She cups my cheek. “You used to doodle *Mrs. April Ashford* on every printable surface.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, I married him. It’s been four years.”

She beams, pride shining through her blurry features. “Tell me everything.”

So I do. I tell my mom about the most amazing four years of my life so far with the love of my life. How I fall in love with him a little more every day, how he makes my world shine a little brighter.

Then I tell her about my fashion house, *House of Spring*. How I’m finally living yet another dream I never thought was possible.

After four years, my fashion house has a distinct style and loyal following, with collections featured online and in boutiques. We’re profitable, growing steadily, and building quite a buzz already—and we’re only just getting started.

Then I tell her how tiny baby June is now a freshman in high school. How frighteningly brilliant, kind, beautiful, and resilient she’s growing up to be.

The room is warm, full of life and hope—a fragile, precious moment carved out from a world I thought I’d lost forever.

It feels like I spend forever in that moment, and for the first time in almost ten years, I don’t want to wake up from a Thanksgiving dream.

“Oh, my baby.”

A tear slides down my cheek when my mother cups my other cheek, her thumb stroking lightly over my cheekbone.

“I’m so, so proud of you,” she whispers. “You’ve done so well for yourself and your sister.”

My eyes close, and I inhale shakily. “It was hard. I needed you and Dad.”

“I know, honey. I know.”

Another tear trails the first. “Did you ever fight? Did you think June and I were more important than your next high?”

Her hand trembles, and her image wavers slightly, like the connection falters. But she doesn’t say anything—because *this is all in my head.*

And I don’t have the answers.

She leans forward and kisses my forehead. “But you’ll be better than us. Stronger.”

She bends lower, pressing her lips to my swollen stomach, stroking the bump tenderly. “When your bundle of joy comes, you’ll be a better mother than me.”

My hand rests over my pregnant belly protectively. “I’ll be there for her,” I whisper fiercely. “The way you weren’t there for me and June.”

My mom nods. “You’re going to be an amazing mother.”

Her image blurs again, but this time, it’s because more tears are gathering in my eyes. “You won’t be there to see.”

“Yes, honey,”—for a split second, her face comes into focus and her eyes sparkle with a shine that died long before she did—“I will.”

Her smile wavers at the edges, and the lavender-and-spice scent begins to thin, replaced by the metallic chill of the original nightmare.

The warmth in the room ebbs, the colors fading to muted grays.

My mother’s outline softens, edges dissolving into the air like smoke.

I clutch her hands, desperate to keep her here, but my fingers close on nothing.

The humming returns faintly, but it’s lower now—slower, as though it’s winding down.

“Mom—” My voice breaks.

She’s already gone.

I jolt awake, my breath sharp and uneven.

But instead of cold sweat and the hollow ache I’m used to, I’m in the safe, solid circle of Nathan’s arms. His chest is warm against my back, his steady heartbeat grounding me.

“Hey,” he murmurs against my hair, his voice rough with sleep. “I’m here.”

His arms tighten around me, and just like he’s done for the last five thanksgivings I’ve woken up in his arms, he murmurs, “It’s all in the past. June lived. You’re safe; you’re fine. I love you. I’ll *never* leave you.”

I exhale, a soft smile pulling at my lips. “Actually…it was different this time.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw my mom.” My voice is hoarse, and I push the remaining words out through the lump of emotion in my throat. “She was alive. We talked.”

Nathan shifts so he can see my face, and I don’t realize I’m crying until he brushes a tear from my cheek with his thumb. “What did she say?”

I swallow the lump. “That she was proud of me. That I’d be a better mother than her.”

His expression softens into that mix of tenderness and fierce devotion that still floors me after all these years. “She’s right about that.”

I smile faintly, my fingers curling in the fabric of his night shirt. Over the last four years, Nathan has been my anchor, my cheerleader, my best friend. The love of my life.

“Four years,” I whisper. “And somehow, I love you more every day.”

“*I* love you more every *second*,” he says, kissing the corner of my mouth. “Keep up, baby. You’re lagging behind.”

The laugh that bubbles out of me is shaky and giddy, quickly muffled as his lips find mine, slow and deep.

I melt into him, all the lingering shadows of the dream evaporating under the heat between us.

We’re just starting to lose ourselves in each other when something warm trickles down my thigh.

I freeze.

Nathan pulls back, frowning. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“I think my water just broke,” I whisper, my eyes wide.

His stunned silence lasts only a second before an incredulous gasp falls out of him. “Seriously?”

“Either that or you just peed on me.”

Nathan throws his head back, his deep, warm laughter filling the room as he gently lifts himself off me. “Guess she’s ready to meet us.”

“Yeah,” I whisper, feeling like I’ve slipped into another dream.

But that dream is gone, replaced by the reality of the life we’ve built—one that’s about to change forever.