I never thought I’d write this down, but perhaps putting it to paper will make sense of it all.

Bethany had never considered herself weak. On the contrary—she was the picture of cold logic, iron will, and razor-sharp reason. Growing up in a children’s home had taught her one unshakeable rule: *You can only rely on yourself.* No one would come to her rescue. No one would save her. In this world, you had to be strong, calculating, like a chess player seeing ten moves ahead. She built her life with the precision of an architect drafting a house—no slips, no impulses, no foolish dreams.

First, teacher training college. Then a modest but steady job—primary school teacher. A small flat of her own. And after that, marriage. Not for passion or youthful infatuation, but deliberately, to a reliable, steady man—someone with whom she could build the family she’d never had. That “basic unit of society” she’d read about in textbooks but never known firsthand.

She despised those who chose recklessness—girls who threw themselves at the first man who smiled at them, got pregnant at sixteen, and ruined their lives in one careless moment. Bethany was different. She was smarter. Stronger. And she was certain—she would never fall.

Until a man tore through her carefully constructed world, stronger than all her plans.

*Jack.*

Tall, with eyes like a midsummer sky—bright, piercing, dangerously beautiful. He worked at a garage near her student digs, laughed too loudly, handed out chocolate bars, and asked her out even when his pockets were empty. He had an old but spotless Ford Fiesta, and he’d drive her around the outskirts of Manchester, blasting music and spinning wild tales of his misadventures. He seemed free, generous, unbreakable. Behind his shoulders, she wanted to hide from the world.

And Bethany—always restrained, always cautious—let herself dissolve in feeling for the first time. Let emotion override cold calculation. The whirlwind of passion swept her up, and everything she’d built crumbled like a house of cards in the wind. She lost control, and just as she’d feared, that was when she crossed the line.

When two pink lines confirmed her worst fear, her heart clenched with icy terror. But a stubborn flicker of hope remained. She went to Jack with trembling hands, a frantic pulse in her chest. She imagined him holding her, saying they’d figure it out together, that they’d marry, that this was the start of their life.

Reality hit like a brick to the ribs.

Jack listened—then laughed. Not warmly. Dryly. Coldly. With a mocking edge that sent chills down her spine.

*”You’re joking, right?”* He leaned back in his chair, lips twisted. *”Beth, come on. I’m not dad material. Got enough problems without a kid. And honestly—you’re not exactly a prize with that baggage.”*

Each word struck like a slap. He spoke as if discussing the weather, as if she were an inconvenience in his carefree life. His eyes didn’t flicker. His pulse didn’t quicken. He didn’t see the woman he’d claimed to love, their future, their child. He saw a problem.

The world she’d just begun to paint in warm hues turned grey again. Empty. Frozen. She walked the streets, numb to the rain, the cold. Tears streaked her face, but inside—nothing. All her plans, ruined. Her future, erased. She was alone, betrayed, doomed. Ahead lay only pain, silence, and the abortion she’d booked for the next day.

But fate had other plans.

That evening, curled on her bed amidst crumpled tissues, staring blankly at the ceiling, the phone rang. Insistent. Relentless. As if it knew—*she couldn’t ignore this.*

She picked up. A man’s voice, crisp and official, introduced himself as a solicitor.

*”Miss Bethany Hart? Regarding an inheritance left by your late aunt, Margaret Elizabeth Hart.”*

*”What aunt?”* she whispered. *”I don’t have an aunt. I don’t have anyone.”*

*”Nevertheless,”* the voice continued, unfazed, *”you’re required to attend the reading of the will. Urgently.”*

The next day, in an office smelling of old paper and wax, Bethany heard words that, for the second time that week, upended her life—but this time, toward light, not darkness.

The elderly solicitor adjusted his glasses and read Margaret Hart’s will. A name Bethany had never heard. According to the documents, she was to inherit: a flat in York, a large countryside cottage with land, and a significant sum in a bank account.

She sat, breath caught. But there was a condition. A strict, unusual one. She would only receive it all if she lived in the cottage for exactly one year… with a man named Samuel James Whitmore, who, under the same will, inherited a garage and an old Land Rover.

*”Who was this woman?”* Bethany asked, voice shaking. *”And who is Samuel?”*

The solicitor sighed deeply, setting the papers aside.

*”Margaret Hart wasn’t just your aunt, Miss Hart. She was your grandmother.”*

The shock hit like a tidal wave.

Her story wasn’t just *”left at a children’s home.”* Her mother—Margaret’s daughter—had had her too young. Her father, a man with a criminal past, had blackmailed Margaret, demanding money, threatening to take the child. To protect her granddaughter, Margaret arranged for her daughter to give Bethany up, intending to reclaim her once the danger passed.

But *”later”* never came. The threats continued, keeping Margaret away. Then Bethany’s trail vanished in the system. All those years, her grandmother had searched. And found her—too late. Ill, she’d never been able to meet her. And Samuel? The son of a close friend she’d taken in as a teenager. To her, he was family.

Everything Bethany knew about her past shattered. She wasn’t *”no one’s.”* She wasn’t abandoned. She’d had a grandmother who loved her, searched for her, grieved for her. And suddenly, the decision she’d made that morning seemed monstrous. Leaving the solicitor’s office, she found the nearest bin and dropped the abortion referral inside.

For the first time in years, something else burned inside her. Not just hope—*light.* Now she had a home. Money. Roots. Family—unexpected, but hers.

*”I’ll manage,”* she whispered into the damp air. *”My baby and I will survive. More than that—we’ll be happy.”*

A week later, she arrived in the village. The cottage stood apart—solid, oak-beamed, with a well-tended garden where, come spring, every flower would bloom. By the gate, a tall man in a worn jacket waited, leaning against the post, watching her with faint amusement.

*”So you’re the long-lost granddaughter,”* he said instead of a greeting, voice low, slightly rough. *”Sam.”*

*”Bethany,”* she replied shortly, dislike flaring. His tone made it sound like she’d come to steal from him.

*”Well, come on in, heiress. Show me how you plan to survive a year here,”* he said, pushing the gate open.

Inside, the cottage was warm, cosy, smelling of wood and herbs. On the table sat a photo of an elderly woman with kind, wise eyes. *Gran Margaret.*

*”She waited for you,”* Sam said quietly, noticing her gaze. *”Kept saying, ‘I’ll find my Beth. I’ll find her and bring her home.’”*

The love and grief in his voice made her realise—he wasn’t just a tenant. He was part of this house by right of heart. She was the stranger here, the one who’d come for paperwork.

*”Listen,”* she said firmly. *”I need this arrangement as much as you do. I won’t get in your way. I just need this year to stand on my feet. Let’s agree—we’ll just tolerate each other.”*

Sam looked startled. He’d expected tantrums, tears. Instead, he got a business proposal.

*”Tolerate, eh?”* He smirked, the edge gone. *”Fine. Deal. My room’s upstairs. Yours is down here, faces the garden. Kitchen’s shared. Don’t get lost.”*

He turned to the window. And in that moment, Bethany saw past the sharp-tongued man to someone tired, lonely. Behind his sarcasm was the same grief. The same loss. And that thought became the first fragile thread between them.

Life began to shift. Bethany took a job as a teaching assistant. It wasn’t much, but it was steady. Every earned pound gave her confidence. She claimed the cottage as her own—tended the garden, planted herbs, filled the borders with marigolds and asters, like she’d loved as a child. The house came alive under