Alle Kapitel von Wanting His Father; Daddy Dom/ LG Forbidden Romance: Kapitel 61 – Kapitel 70

THOMASFor a long moment after she tells me she’s staying, neither of us speaks. The morning sun continues to shine beyond the windows, soft against the glass, and I sit here, overwhelmed by a relief so profound, it almost feels like grief.I’d spent the entire night preparing myself to lose her. Not because I wanted to, but because I care for her enough to believe that I might have to. I’m still trying to recover from the conversation when she moves.She rises from the bed without a word, her bare feet disappearing into the thick carpet. Morning light catches the red in that thick tumble of hair as she walks over to me, and for a moment I have absolutely no idea what she’s doing.Then she sinks gracefully to her knees… not because I demanded it, and not because I expected it.The breath leaves my lungs. God help me, after everything that happened yesterday, after the funeral and the panic and the tears and the terrible night that followed, the last thing that I expected was this.Yet

IRISMy studio is too quiet today.That’s the first thing I notice when I step inside after breakfast, carrying my coffee in one hand and a roll of charcoal paper beneath my arm. Not peaceful quiet, not the lovely, spacious silence that filled the cottage last week when the workmen finally left and the whole place seemed to exhale around me. This quiet feels different. Thinner. Watchful somehow, though I know that is ridiculous because there’s nobody here except me.My cutting table waits in the center of the room, bolts of fabric stand neatly against the wall. Sketches are pinned in uneven rows above my desk, some finished, most not, all of them bearing evidence of a woman trying to remember how to believe in her own hands again.I set down my coffee, remove my coat, and tell myself this is good, and that work is good, routine is good. Daddy was right about that, for sure. After the funeral, after the terrible night that followed, after waking in his bed with shame still crawling bene

THOMASBy the time I reach Ashcroft, the seemingly-unceasing autumn rain has returned in earnest.It follows me up the long drive in silver sheets, blurring the hedges and turning the windows of the manor into distant squares of gold against the dark. I’m really late, and the fact irritates me more than it should. The delay itself was unavoidable, one of those expensive office crises that begins as a line in an email, and ends with four men speaking too loudly in my conference room, but knowing something is unavoidable does not make it less frustrating when what waits at home matters more.I wanted to be back before dusk. I wanted to walk to the studio and collect Iris myself, not because she requires supervision, not because she’s incapable of crossing my own grounds without me, but because I’ve begun to understand the quiet pleasure of those small returns.Her face lifting when I enter her studio. The faint smudge of charcoal she never notices on her fingers. The way she talks as we

IRISThe moment Daddy falls silent, I know that I’ve failed.Not because he dismisses me, or laughs, or looks at me with that terrible, polite patience people reserve for fragile women and frightened children. In some ways, that would almost be easier, because dismissal would give me something solid to push against, something cleanly cruel enough to resent.Instead, he listens. He listens to every halting word about the shears, the sketchbook, the bubble bath, the shadows near the orchard, and his face remains careful and grave and loving throughout all of it, which somehow makes the shame worse.Because I can hear myself now. I can hear how it sounds.The evidence, such as it is, exists only as feelings and impressions, as small moments of certainty that dissolve the instant I attempt to describe them. None of it is enough, none of it is anything. And beneath all of it sits the much uglier truth: two nights ago, I had a breakdown serious enough for Daddy to call a doctor.That fact c

IRISTwo mornings later, I begin photographing my own studio.The first time I do it, I laugh at myself. Not aloud, because there’s nobody here to hear it, but quietly under my breath as I stand just inside the front door with my handbag still over my shoulder and my phone raised rather self-consciously in front of me.To be honest, the whole thing feels faintly ridiculous. I imagine Daddy walking in to find me solemnly taking photographs of bookshelves and dress forms and rolls of fabric, and I can almost hear the gentle amusement in his voice:"Princess... what on earth are you doing?"I don't know what I would answer. Protecting myself, perhaps. Protecting my memory. The thought sits uncomfortably inside me.I lower the phone for a moment, looking around the studio in the pale morning light. Everything appears exactly as it should. The cutting table occupies the centre of the room, immaculate except for yesterday's pattern pieces weighted carefully beneath smooth brass discs. My ske