I smile, shooting her a grateful look before rounding the kitchen island.
As I slip away to the upstairs bathroom, I huff a sigh as I catch a lonely reflection of myself in the mirror. Even though my own parents passed away ten years ago, I still carry the weight of their loss with me; the burden is hard to bear in times of celebration. Lucas and I have been together for three years. I was twenty-eight when we met, so they never got the chance to meet him. It’s so bittersweet.
Myfather is supposed to be the man walking me down the aisle.
Mymother is supposed to shop with me for my wedding dress.
My parents were killed in a car accident when I was twenty-one. The money I inherited from their estate, along with the sale of their flat in Notting Hill, helped me buy our townhouse in Fulham, securing a future I never thought I’d have so soon. I think about them often, wondering if they’d be proud of the life I’m building and the choices I’ve made. I know they’d love Lucas; they’d recognise in him the qualities they always valued—kindness, loyalty, and a quiet appreciation for life’s simple pleasures.
I’ve always wanted what my parents had—the kind of love that knows no bounds, free of expectations, where joy is found in the little things. My father adored my mother in every way that mattered, and growing up surrounded by that kind of love made me long for a happily ever after of my own.
I’m fortunate to carry those memories with me—precious morsels I’ll treasure forever. And I know how lucky I am to have grown up the way I did, in a way not everyone gets to experience. I’m incredibly grateful for that. We never left the house without saying,“I love you.”It wasn’t just a habit—it was a promise, a way of ensuring no moment passed withoutreminding one another how much we mattered. Christmas Eve was always spent huddled together in their king-size bed, watching Christmas films on the old telly we refused to upgrade. Our joined laughter filling the room felt like the best gift of all.
Even though I grew up without siblings, I never felt like I was missing out, because they were more than just my parents—they were my best friends. The kind of friends who made even the simplest things feel extraordinary.
My mother was an art teacher, so we spent hours every weekend painting in watercolours and making ceramics. Throwing clay was always my favourite. I still hold onto a pair of mugs we sculpted and decorated with vibrant tulips. Since they passed, I haven’t been able to touch my pottery wheel, but I keep it with me, just in case. I know she would be devastated if I ever got rid of it.
And now, when the house is quiet and the lights are low, I can almost feel them here with me, tucked away in the corners, watching over the life I’m building and reminding me that love like theirs never truly leaves.
The inheritance gave us more than a roof over our heads; it gave us freedom. We don’t live extravagantly—no designer clothes and furniture or exotic holidays—but we live comfortably, and that’s enough for me. I’ve never needed much to be happy, just the little things: the smell of freshly brewed coffee, the warmth of Lucas’s hand resting on my leg during a lazy Sunday afternoon, the way sunlight filters through the bedroom window on a quiet morning. Those small, fleeting moments mean more to me than any grand gesture or luxury ever could.
And though Lucas doesn’t earn as much as he’d like working in administration at the local university, that’s never mattered to me. It’s never been about the money. He has his love for helping students and his hobby of writing on the odd occasion too. Whatwe have is simple but good—bills split evenly, a home we made together, with enough left over to indulge now and then. It’s solid, the kind of life I used to dream about when everything felt uncertain. I treasure that stability. It’s not perfect, but it’s ours.
Celebrating this pivotal moment in the house their loss provided feels surreal.
Opening the top drawer of the bathroom counter, I pluck out my lipstick, snapping it open to swipe a fresh layer across my lips. I’m tousling my hair, running my fingers through the waved strands as Lucas steps in. I turn to face him as he places a large hand on my hip.
“Is everything okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, everything’s fine. I was just freshening up.”
“Are you sure?”
I sigh. “It’s times like these when I can’t help but think about my parents. I’m so happy, really, I am … But I wish they were here to share my happiness. I wish they could have met you.”
“I’m so sorry, baby. How can I make you feel better?” he asks, pulling me in closer.
I pause, contemplating momentarily. “I can think of something,” I reply, a hint of mischief in my tone.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” he asks, pressing his index finger underneath my chin to tip my head up.
“We have guests downstairs …,” I say softly.
“They won’t even notice we’re gone.” He pulls up his trouser legs before dropping to his knees before me. A surge of excitement and heat courses through my body, pooling at my centre. Lucas delicately presses the fingertips of both hands to my ankles, the touch sending shivers up my spine as he slowly trails along my calf, gathering the silk of my dress. His palms flatten against the back of my thighs, drawing me closer to him as he continues to push the material of my dress towards my hips.
I part my legs slightly to grant him better access, my heart thundering. He grunts his approval when he sees the wet fabric of my thong before spreading me wider. He hooks his thumb underneath the lace, pushing the flimsy fabric aside and exposing me.
“Fuck, April,” he breathes, running his fingers through my arousal, collecting my wetness. “Look at you.”
Leaning in, he swipes his tongue along me in a single, firm stroke. I arch my back. “Luc.”
His gaze shifts from my core, rising to meet mine. “What do you need?”
A desperate whimper escapes me.
“Have I rendered you speechless?”
Meeting his hungry look, I straighten my posture and say, “I need more, Luc.”
