All Chapters of Wanting His Father; Daddy Dom/ LG Forbidden Romance: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

HELENMy weekends used to belong to my sweet, lovely boy Edward. They belonged to his careless voice on the phone, to his habit of calling later than we agreed and talking as though time was something that could always be bought back later, to his easy, almost infuriating certainty that life would continue in a straight line simply because he expected it to. Now the weekends are a vacancy, a shape with no body inside it, two days that arrive anyway, indifferent to the fact that my world has stopped agreeing to calendars.On this Sunday afternoon, I arrive at the restaurant twenty minutes early. Not because I’m overly punctual, but because waiting at home has become unbearable. The rooms have begun to feel like they’re swallowing me, and I refuse to let grief make me small. I sit by the restaurant window, back straight, hands folded, and watch the world outside move past in a blur of money and purpose. People carry shopping bags and drink coffee and laugh as if nothing has ended.They d

MARGARETI’ve been inside the Ashcroft house longer than anyone likes to remember.Longer than the paint on the walls, longer than the locks on the doors, longer even than Helen’s marriage, though she likes to pretend otherwise. I arrived at the age of twenty-five – young enough to be useful, old enough to know better – and I've stayed because I learned early that the most powerful position in any home is not ownership, but proximity.You see everything when people forget you’re there.I watched Helen become Mrs. Ashcroft with a smile that never reached her eyes, watched her sweep through rooms like she was performing for an audience that had already grown bored. She was truly beautiful then, but in a hard, brittle way, all angles and ambition. I hated her immediately, instinctively, because she never once looked at Thomas the way I did.She wanted his name. His money. His position. I wanted him.Not in a foolish, romantic way....no fantasies, no delusions that I would ever be chosen.

THOMASI watched her all day. Not openly, not the way men do when they want to be seen wanting. I watched her the way I watch markets, systems, fault lines: attentively, without interference, letting patterns reveal themselves.She did everything I asked. Not eventually. Not approximately. Exactly.Each instruction landed cleanly, each boundary sharpened her rather than dulled her. She moved through the house with an awareness that wasn’t fear anymore, but focus, her body tuned to mine, even when we weren't in the same room. I felt it when she paused before entering a space, when she waited for confirmation that never came because she already knew the answer.Obedience suits her.Not because she lacks will – she actually has more of that than most– but because she's spent her life braced against chaos, making decisions that cost her something every time. Structure doesn't diminish her, it steadies her. The relief of it registers in her body before it reaches her mind.I didn't touch he

THOMASThe house always announces my return in small, obedient ways – the shift of air, the quiet click of doors settling – but Iris feels it more keenly than most. When I step into my bedroom, she's already standing, already attentive, her body turning toward me like it has learned my gravity.“Kneel, princess,” I say.She does.The movement is fluid, unthinking, her knees pressing into the rug. She settles there easily, chin lifted, eyes bright with something that catches my gaze, holds it. The sight of her like this, pliant, warm, waiting, tightens something in my chest that goes deep.I sit down in my large leather armchair and place my hands in her hair, fingers spreading at her scalp, thumbs resting lightly along her jaw. She leans into the contact instinctively, a small sound leaving her before she can stop it.“Did you obey me today?” I ask. "Are all your tasks done to a high standard?"She smiles, a teasing little smile.“Mostly,” she says lightly, almost carelessly. “I mean..

THOMASThe next day, I wake before she does. My bedroom is quiet in the way only early morning allows, light still pale, the world beyond the windows not yet fully committed to movement. For a moment I remain still, listening. Not to the house, not to the city beyond the grounds, but to the slow, even rhythm of my little princess asleep beside me, wearing her bra and panties.She lies on her side, facing away from me, the sheet tangled low at her hips, her body uncovered in the careless, unguarded way of someone who has finally slept without fear. Her glorious hair spills across the pillow in soft disarray, one arm tucked beneath it, the other resting loosely against the mattress as though she forgot, sometime in the night, that she was meant to remain composed even in rest.She looks younger like this. Not fragile, definitely not weak – simply unarmored. The sight settles something deep and possessive in my chest.I don’t move immediately. Instead, I watch her breathing, the subtle r