(Lilac's POV)
I've loved him for as long as I can remember.
It sounds ridiculous, I know. I was just a girl when it first began, barely thirteen, when I saw Tom for the first time. I was innocent then, a child who didn't understand the intricacies of desire or the complicated weight of love. But when I looked at him, something deep inside me shifted, something I couldn't explain or ignore.
He was everything I wanted—strong, intelligent, handsome in a way that didn't scream for attention, but still commanded it. A quiet power. I'd often catch glimpses of him when he came over to visit my uncle James. I'd sit at the far edge of the room, watching him as he moved—his confident stride, the way his hands gripped his glass when he drank, the subtle play of emotions in his dark eyes. He wasn't a man who spoke much, but when he did, his voice sent chills down my spine.
Tom had a kind of sadness to him, a weariness that spoke of untold stories, of loss, and I could feel it every time he looked at me—like he was seeing something he didn't want to acknowledge. He was a man burdened by his own thoughts, his own demons.
And I loved him for it.
But it wasn't just the man he was that drew me in—it was the way he treated me.
He never saw me as a little girl, not in the way others did. He looked at me like an equal, like someone capable of understanding things beyond my age. It was the way he always acknowledged my presence, the quiet moments when his gaze lingered just a little too long, as if he was searching for something in me.
I knew then that I wasn't just another kid in the room to him. He saw me as a woman, or at least, that's how I chose to see it.
But of course, nothing ever happened. He was married to Emma—beautiful, elegant Emma. She was the one he would hold close, the one whose laughter filled the room and whose presence brightened the darkest corners. I never wanted to come between them. I just wanted to stay close to him, to be in his orbit, to experience him in whatever way I could.
But fate, as cruel as it often is, had other plans.
I remember the day I found out Emma died. It felt like the earth beneath my feet had cracked open. A week before, I had overheard Tom speaking to my uncle, his voice rough and raw, and I had known then that something was wrong. It was only a few days later that the news came, like a storm, ripping through everything I had known about him, about his world.
I remember sitting in the back of the room at the funeral, watching him as he stood beside Emma's casket, his face unreadable. I saw the pain, the way he carried it, and I realized, for the first time, how much of him was unreachable, how much of him had been hers.
But as I sat there, watching him stand in the shadow of his loss, I felt something stir inside me—something darker, something that shouldn't have been there.
Because in the back of my mind, there was a quiet voice that whispered, "Now it's your turn."
It wasn't something I was proud of. It felt like a betrayal to the woman who had once been the love of his life. But as the days passed, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was it. This was the moment I had been waiting for, the moment when his grief would make him see me—not as his best friend's niece, not as the little girl I had been—but as the woman I had always known I could be for him.
So, I waited.
I had been biding my time for years, watching, learning, waiting for the right moment to make my move. I was patient. I knew that the age difference, the history between us, would always be a barrier. But I also knew that the one thing neither of us could control was fate.
And fate had just opened the door for me.
When I started visiting him, it wasn't out of pity or kindness—it was because I knew he was vulnerable. I knew that his grief would make him want to reach out, and when he did, I would be there. Not as the naive girl he had known me to be, but as the woman I had become.
At first, it was just a casual drop-by, the excuse of checking on him or delivering dinner. But every time I was near him, I felt the pull—stronger, deeper, more consuming.
I had kept my virginity all these years, not because I was naive or innocent, but because I had always known that I would give it to him. I would give him everything.
And when his grief reached its peak, I would be there, waiting, ready to step into the role that I had secretly prepared for all my life: the woman who would finally take his heart, and his body, and replace the memory of his late wife with the memory of me.
This was my chance.
And I was going to make sure I didn't let it slip away.