33. Shiloh

Chapter thirty-three

Shiloh

I didn’t think I would ever come back to this house.

The last time I crossed this threshold, Chris had made sure to mark the occasion with humiliation served cold. But that's not what sticks in my memory—it was the same night Liam and I shared our first kiss, a secret branded into the shadows of the past.

Now I'm back, hand adorned with the evidence of commitment, ready to face whatever this evening throws at me. My lover—no, my fiancé—Liam has his hand on the car door. The thought alone, the word 'fiancé,' sends a thrill through me. It's only been a few days, and I’m still reeling from the pregnancy… his proposal.

Our decision to move to Dublin together so I can go to Trinity and chase my dreams.

"Shiloh," he calls softly, pulling me from the grip of recollection.

I blink away the haze of memories, and Liam opens the car door for me to climb out. The autumn air greets me, forgiving in its touch, absent of the chill that once bit at my bones. It's different now; the sky is clear, a canvas of dark velvet with stars stitched across its expanse, witnesses to our silent vows.

"Are you ready?" Liam asks, his voice steady as his eyes lock onto mine.

"More than ready," I affirm, squeezing his hand for an extra dose of courage. I want to show them—his family—that we're united, that what once was a tangle of forbidden moments has woven into something strong and true.

We stride up the sidewalk together, leaves crunching underfoot in the quiet symphony of fall. The porch light spills out onto the path, painting our way in gold as we approach the looming door of the Walton household—the same door that used to intimidate me.

But not tonight.

Not with Liam by my side.

Liam's knock resonates, a bold declaration of our arrival. My pulse quickens and my stomach tightens with nerves, but I stand tall. I am Shiloh Sanders, and I belong here, ring on my finger, Liam's love wrapped around me like a cloak.

Chris will be furious—we both know it. He can't help himself, but his anger is no match for our love. I glance at Liam, whose jaw sets with determination. He's ready to face his family and introduce me not as the girl Chris tossed aside but as Liam’s future wife.

"Remember," he whispers, "we're in this together."

I nod, anchoring myself in his words. This is our moment of triumph, and nothing Chris or anyone else says can take that from us.

The door swings open, and Chris’s mom, Darla, stands there, her eyes wide as she takes in the sight of us. Her gaze hones in on my hand, clasped in Liam's, the engagement ring a glinting promise of our future.

For a second, time hovers, suspended—the moment before realization crashes in.

"Hi, Darla—you remember Shiloh?" Liam's voice is steady, almost mocking.

Darla's lips part but no sound escapes; it's like the sight of the ring has stolen her breath away. She steps back robotically, granting us passage without a word, her stare never leaving the symbol of our commitment.

We step into the warmth of the house, the scent of roasting turkey mingling with tension. Chris and his dad, Rick, are perched in the living room. They don't see us at first—lost in some trivial conversation—but as we approach, it's Chris who notices me.

His reaction is immediate and visceral, his eyes flashing with anger and betrayal. The air is thick with unsaid words, heavy with the weight of our shared history. He shoots up from his seat, a finger jabbed in my direction like an accusation made flesh.

"I knew it," he spits out, voice dripping with venom. "You fucking—"

"Christopher!" His father's voice slices through the room, sharp enough to cut the tension into ribbons. "Watch your language in this house." His stern gaze shifts from Chris to me, then to Liam. There's an unspoken question there, a father's demand for an explanation.

Liam steps forward, chin held high, the embodiment of resolve. He takes my hand in his, a silent show of solidarity that sends warmth flooding through me despite the chill of confrontation.

"Dad," Liam says, glancing at me before returning his unwavering gaze to his father. "I wanted to introduce you to my fiancée."

Silence claws at the room, thick and suffocating. Darla sucks in a breath, splintering the quiet. Chris's face flames red, his eyes dark thunderclouds ready to burst.

No one moves. The turkey might as well be cardboard for all the appetite left.

"Let's talk outside," Rick finally grinds out, voice low like gravel on pavement.

Liam's grip tightens around my hand. We turn and step into the night, our backs to the gaping mouths and wide eyes. The door closes with a thud that seems to echo the finality of a chapter closing.

"Why, Liam? Why do you have to ruin every family moment we have?" Rick's voice cuts through the crisp air, sharp enough to draw blood.

"Because we're done pretending," Liam retorts, fire in his tone, but his fingers don't let go of mine. "We're done here, Dad. I won't be coming back."

“Liam—”

"Let's just go," Liam urges, pulling at my hand as he strides toward the car, his body a rigid line of tension.

But I can't move. I can't leave it like this. There's something I have to say for us, for our future. Planting my feet, I let go of Liam's hand and face Rick squarely, meeting his glare with one of my own.

"You abandoned Liam when he was just a kid." My voice is steady, fueled by a mix of daring and determination. "That stops now. Because if you ever want to meet your grandchild, you're not going to do that again."

Stunned silence.

Rick's eyes widen, and his mouth opens and closes with no sound coming out. He looks helpless, like a robot that's suddenly lost power.

"Grandchild?" he finally manages to croak out. For the first time, I see something other than anger in those depths—confusion, regret, maybe even fear.

Liam, who had taken a few steps away, pauses and returns to stand beside me. His presence is solid and reassuring.

"Yeah, Dad," Liam adds softly, his voice carrying a weight that wasn't there before. "We just found out."

"Shiloh..." Rick begins, his usual bluster deflated, leaving behind a man I barely recognize—one who seems small and uncertain. "I had no idea."

His gaze flickers between Liam and me, and for a moment, the tough, uncompromising exterior falls away, revealing a glimpse of the father Liam must have once known. A father who might still care beneath all the pride and stubbornness.

“We just found out ourselves,” Liam says, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “And I thought we were keeping it to ourselves.”

I shake my head, unable to let this moment pass. "No, he needs to know the harm he's caused." The words spill from me, raw and unfiltered. "Liam is a good man, an exceptional attorney, and a businessman, and he's going to be an incredible father." My eyes lock onto Rick's, willing him to understand the gravity of my words. "You've been wrong to reject him all these years."

There’s a flash in Rick’s eyes, like the first spark of a firework before it explodes into rage. He shakes his head, lips pressed tight, and for a second, I fear he might lash out again and cut Liam off for good.

But then something shifts. His gaze lifts to meet Liam's, and he takes a step forward. He reaches out, placing a firm hand on Liam's shoulder.

"Congratulations," Rick says, his voice gruff with unspoken emotion. "You don’t have to come to these dinners anymore… not with Darla and Chris. We can get dinner on our own if you’d… forgive me." His eyes search Liam's face, seeking some kind of absolution.

Then, with a deliberate motion, Rick extends his hand—a peace offering hanging in the cold Thanksgiving air.

Liam's eyes meet mine, and in them, I see the hurt child overlaid with the strong man he's become. I nod slightly, a silent nudge. His lips press into a thin line, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow.

"Thank you," Liam says, voice barely above a whisper. He reaches out, his hand enveloping Rick's. "I'll have to think about it."

The handshake lingers, filled with a heavy mix of hope and history. Liam lets go and steps back, looking once more at me. I offer him a small smile, my heart aching for him—hoping this is a step toward healing those deep wounds.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Dad," Liam adds. There’s a weight to that word—‘Dad’—like it's both an anchor and a life preserver tossed into turbulent waters.

We turn together, walking away from the house that holds so many shadows. The crisp air bites at our cheeks as we make our way to the car parked under a streetlight's halo. The engine hums to life, a soft purr against the silence of the night.

As Liam drives us away from the Walton household, I reach over and lace my fingers through his. We don't need words; the squeeze of his hand says everything.

We're going home.