We pack up the brushes, and Lucky trots next to me with his uneven but determined gait as I settle onto the sofa. Lucky immediately claims the spot beside me, resting his head on my thigh with complete trust.
Draco leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, and I can’t help but notice how the position emphasizes the lean muscle of his forearms. There’s something almost predatory in his stillness, like he’s always ready to move, to fight, to run.
"He’s going to be spoiled rotten," I say, scratching behind Lucky’s ears.
"Good. He deserves it after whatever he’s been through."
I watch Draco’s face as he studies us—me and Lucky curled together on the expensive sofa. There’ssomething almost reverent in his expression, like he’s seeing something precious that he’s afraid to disturb.
"You’re good with him," I observe.
"I like underdogs." He glances at me with a slight smile. "Literally, in this case."
"Is that what I am? An underdog?"
"You've been kept safe," he says. "But safe isn't the same as alive." His dark eyes meet mine across the small room. "Yeah, I'd say that makes you something of an underdog."
Something about the way he says it—without pity, without judgment—makes my chest tight.
"What would happen if I stopped being safe?" I ask quietly.
"You’d find out who Charity Pembroke really is when nobody’s watching. When nobody’s telling you who to be or how to behave or what’s appropriate for someone of your station." His voice drops lower, more intense. "You’d discover what it feels like to make choices based on what you want instead of what everyone else expects."
What I want. The concept is so foreign it makes my head spin. I've spent so long focusing on what I should want, what I'm supposed to want, that I've never stopped to consider what actually calls to me.
But sitting here with Draco and Lucky, I'm beginning to understand. I wantthis—this sense of purpose, of being needed, of making my own choices. I want to feel alive instead of preserved.
Draco’s gaze sharpens. "Grace and Charity," he murmurs. "No wonder they tried to turn you into a saint."
"There’s something almost no one knows," I say suddenly, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess them.
Draco straightens, giving me his complete attention. "Yeah?"
"I have a workshop. Out in the old carriage house." I gesture toward the window that faces the converted building. "I make art. Sculptures. Large-scale pieces using welded steel."
His eyebrows rise. "Welding? That doesn’t exactly fit the sheltered princess image."
"My physics tutor introduced me to metalwork when I was fourteen. Said it would help me understand stress and tension in materials." I can’t help but smile at the memory. "I think he expected me to make small decorative pieces. Instead, I fell in love with creating something big and powerful and permanent."
"What kind of sculptures?"
“I spent a long time frozen,” I admit. “Maybe that’s why your work feels alive to me.”The observation hits me like a physical blow. How did he see that so clearly when I’ve never even articulated it to myself?
"Maybe that’s who I really am," I whisper. "Maybe that’s who I’m supposed to be."
"Maybe it’s time to find out."
Lucky yawns and settles more comfortably against me, utterly relaxed. But neither Draco nor I move to break the moment. We look at each other across the small room, and I feel something shifting inside my chest—something fundamental and irreversible.
I can feel it in the way Draco looks at me, like he’s seeing Charity instead of just the Pembroke heiress. And I feel it in my own growing certainty that I don’t want to go back to being the perfect daughter who never causes any trouble.
I want to cause trouble. I want to make choices that matter. To discover what it feels like to live authentically instead of as someone else’s carefully constructed legacy.
"Draco?" I say quietly.
"Yeah?"
"When you said it was time to start figuring out who I am… did you mean it? Would you help me?"
