LOGINBELLA’S POV
For a second, neither of us moved. He just stood there, holding my underwear, his dark eyes locked on mine. I snatched it from his hand and shoved it behind my back. "I, I'm sorry. My bad." "I'm just going to take this and leave," he said, his voice tight. He grabbed whatever he'd been reaching for in the closet. But his eyes, his eyes weren't on the closet anymore. They were on my chest. I glanced down and realized with horror that my shirt had shifted during the fall. My nipples were clearly visible through the thin fabric, hard and pressing against the material. He didn't look away. He just stood there, staring, his jaw clenched, his breathing slightly heavier. I crossed my arms over my chest. "What?" He cleared his throat. "You have a mark on your chest." "What?" I turned toward the mirror. Sure enough, there was a small scratch just above my collarbone. It was bleeding slightly. I must have gotten it when the bag fell on us in the car. "Sit down," Dominic said, his voice low. He was already moving toward the bathroom. "I'll get the first aid kit." "I can do it myself," I protested. "It's just a little scratch." "Don't be like that." He returned with the kit and sat down on the edge of the bed. "You're my daughter now anyway. Just let me take care of you. After that, you can go clean up and get changed." Daughter. The word made my stomach twist. I sat down reluctantly, and he opened the kit. His hands were steady as he dabbed at the wound with antiseptic. But his eyes… his eyes kept drifting lower. To my chest. To my nipples, still hard beneath my shirt. I tried to cover myself, but he stopped me. "Wait. Stay still. Let me finish taking care of your wound." Every touch felt like fire. His fingers brushed my skin, and I had to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. My body was responding in ways I didn't understand. Heat pooled low in my stomach. My breath came faster. I glanced down. Between his legs, I could see the outline of something hard pressing against his trousers. Oh god. I squeezed my thighs together, trying to ignore the ache building inside me. Is this the magic this man used on my mum? I was losing it. I hadn't felt this way before. Maybe it was because I missed Harry. Maybe it was because I'd held onto my virginity for too long and my body was finally rebelling. It's all about Harry, I told myself. I can't wait for him to return. "I think the wound is fine now," I said quickly, standing up. "The treatment you just gave me will be enough to heal it." He stood as well, his eyes still dark. "All right. Good to hear that. You can change and come down for lunch." I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. He walked toward the door, but just as he reached it, it opened. My mum stepped inside. "Oh, Dominic! You're here?" "Just checking on Bella," he said smoothly. She smiled. "I trust you and Bella are getting along very well." He nodded. I just stood there, silent, staring. "Well, let's leave together," Mum said, linking her arm through his. "Darling, hurry up and come down for lunch." The moment they left, I collapsed onto the bed. This man nearly made me end up in trouble just now. Why hadn't I even noticed the scratch on my chest? I'd been so carried away with my thoughts. I just need to focus. I got up and started to undress, peeling off my clothes until I was completely naked. I was about to grab my towel when there was a knock on my door. Before I could say anything, the door opened. My mum stepped inside. I yelped, grabbing the towel and pressing it against my body. "Oh, you're still here?" she said, completely unbothered. "Go shower quickly, Bella. We're going out soon after lunch, and you're still standing there." "What?" I stared at her. "Where are we going? Mum, haven't you done enough for today? Please, I just want to rest. I'm not interested in going anywhere." "And tell the maid to bring my lunch up here," I added. "No. That's not allowed here, Bella." Her tone was firm. "You just moved in today, and you haven't learned the rules of this house yet. First rule: you can't have your lunch in your room. It must be at the family dining table. Do you understand? And this evening, Mr. Dominic will also tell you the rest of the rules so you can follow them while you live here." I stared at her in disbelief. "If you're not interested in going out with me, then I'll have no choice but to go alone," she continued. "Julie called to remind me it's her birthday, and I almost forgot because I was so excited about my marriage today. But I'll be going, and I'll return tomorrow. Julie and I haven't seen each other in a long time, and we'd like to spend more time together. So I'll be coming back tomorrow." My heart dropped. "What? Mum, you can't just bring me here today and then leave me all alone!" "But you're not alone. Mr. Dominic is here. And the maids." "He's your stepfather now, Bella. Just give him a chance to be a good father to you. Stop being so hard on yourself." "Mum, stop this! I don't like it! He will never be my father, and you know that!" "Stop it now, Bella!" Her voice rose. "You won't be the one to tell me who to be with and who not to be with. He's my husband now, and you're going to respect that." She turned and walked out, slamming the door behind her. I stood there, trembling, tears streaming down my face. Then my phone rang. I wiped my eyes and grabbed it, checking the screen to see who was calling.My mother called on a Wednesday.She called every Wednesday now — not the update call, not the checking-in call. The actual call, the one that went wherever it went, the one that had produced some of the best conversations I had ever had with her.“How is she,” she said.“Opinionated,” I said. “She cried for forty minutes last night because she disagreed with something.”“She’s Thomas’s granddaughter,” my mother said. “Of course she’s opinionated.”“She’s three weeks old,” I said.“Precocious,” my mother said. “Also Thomas.”I looked at the photograph above the fireplace.Thomas Morgan at twenty-six.The stubbornness in the jaw.The attention in the eyes.“How’s Patrick,” I said.A pause.“He’s here actually,” she said. The specific casual quality of a woman mentioning something she has not quite decided how to mention.“He’s there,” I said.“He made dinner,” she said.“Patrick made dinner,” I said.“He cooks,” she said. “I didn’t know he cooked. He arrived with ingredients and just—”
BELLA’S POVShe arrived on a Tuesday in September.Of course she did.September — the month the whole thing had started, the entrance hall and the assembled version of a man who had been losing the battle against it from the first morning. September, one year exactly from the arrival at the estate with the bag and the book and no plan to become what I had apparently become.She arrived at four in the afternoon, which Dr. Hargreaves described as efficient, and she was — as advertised, as predicted by everyone from Marcus to my mother to the twenty-week scan — a girl.Thomasina.Thomas’s daughter’s daughter.The room changed when she arrived.Every room she was ever going to be in.She had his eyes.Not Dominic’s — though she had those too, the dark intensity of them, the looking quality. My father’s eyes. The specific shape of them, the attentiveness already present in a person who had been in the world for approximately forty minutes.My mother cried.Not the controlled brief cry of t
BELLA’S POV We got married in June. Not the estate — that had been the first conversation, the one that happened the morning after the proposal over eggs that nobody burnt for once, which felt significant. “Not the estate,” I had said. “No,” he had agreed, immediately, which told me he had already thought about it. The estate was the house where the arrangement had happened and the back stairs and the managed distances and all of it. It was also home — genuinely, fully home — but a wedding needed to be somewhere that was only the wedding. Not layered with everything the house had been before. My mother had suggested the enclosed garden. We had both looked at her. “Too small,” she said. “Obviously. But the spirit of it.” The spirit of it — the forty-year space, the bench at the correct angle, the rosemary in its corner, the space made by a woman who had loved something properly for a long time and had left it in good bones. We found a place in May. A garden — not a
BELLA’S POVThe baby became visible in March.Not dramatically — not the overnight transformation of film pregnancies. The slow arrival of a fact that had been internal becoming external, the body deciding that the thing it had been doing quietly was now going to be apparent to anyone who looked.I looked in the mirror on a Tuesday morning in March and thought: there it is.Twenty weeks.The halfway point.Dr. Hargreaves had done the scan the previous week — the room, the screen, the specific unreality of watching something move that was also somehow yours. Dominic had been in the chair beside me, the person in the chair beside me, exactly as he had said he would be.He had looked at the screen with the full attention.The genuine noticing quality. The real looking.He had said nothing for a long time.Then: “She moves like you.”I had looked at the screen.“You can’t possibly know that,” I said.“She’s impatient,” he said. “Look at her.”I had looked at the screen.The thing that was
BELLA’S POVUniversity started on a Wednesday.I took the train in from the estate — forty minutes, the November countryside now January grey, the bare hedgerows doing their patient thing. I had the bag with the books and the enrollment letter and the specific feeling of a person returning to something they had left and finding it both the same and entirely different.The campus was smaller than I remembered.Or I was larger.One of the two.My course director — Dr. Emmeline Walsh, fifties, the kind of academic who wore interesting scarves and had no patience for imprecise language — had met me at enrollment. She had looked at me over her glasses and said: “You’ve had a year.”“Yes,” I said.“Good,” she said. “It’ll be in the writing.”She was not wrong.I saw a therapist on Thursdays.Her name was Dr. Adaeze Okonkwo and she worked from an office in the city that had two plants, one of which was clearly struggling, and she had the quality of someone who had heard everything and had de
Week five.The university sent the enrollment confirmation.Jennifer made dinner to celebrate — something ambitious that produced three separate disasters and one genuinely excellent result and required the evacuation of the kitchen at one point due to smoke.We ate the excellent result at the kitchen table and Jennifer said: “To Thomas Morgan’s daughter. Who is going back to university. Who is going to be extraordinary.”I looked at the glass of water I was drinking.“To Thomas Morgan’s daughter,” I said.We drank.The kitchen.The November evening.The yellow walls.I pressed both hands on my stomach.Thirteen weeks.The thing real and present and mine and not mine simultaneously, the thing that was its own person already, with its own schedule and its own certainty, arriving because it was time.“What are you thinking,” Jennifer said.I looked at the window.“That I’m ready,” I said.“For university,” she said.“For all of it,” I said.She looked at me.“Two more days,” she said.“
The front door slammed open with such force that the walls shook.I looked up from my laptop, heart hammering, as my mother stumbled inside like something was chasing her. Her eyes were wild, her chest heaving, her designer handbag, when did she get a designer handbag?—hanging crooked from her shou
BELLA'S POVI should have walked away the moment I heard the sound.That was the smart thing to do. The right thing. The thing any normal person would have done, turned around, gone back to their room, closed the door, pretended they'd heard nothing.But I have never, apparently, been particularly
I looked at my phone. It was Jennifer, my friend. But Jennifer wasn't hearing me, in fact, the call kept cutting out. Neither of us could hear each other properly.The call ended.I dropped the phone in frustration and headed to the bathroom to take a bath.The bathroom was absolutely gorgeous. Mar
BELLA’S POVHis hands were still on my waist. His breath was warm against my neck.And for one insane, terrifying second, I wondered what it would feel like if he didn't let go.I forced myself to sit up straighter, pulling away from him."Sorry," I mumbled.He didn't respond.The car kept moving.







