In Love with My Ex's Father

Mary Rose POV

The wrought iron gates of Graystone Manor swung open with a whisper, revealing a world I'd only seen once before in a photograph Henry had carelessly tossed onto my coffee table three years ago. My hands trembled against the steering wheel as I drove up the cobblestone driveway, autumn leaves dancing in my wake like scattered memories I'd tried so hard to bury.

Don't think about him. Don't think about what he did.

But the memories crashed over me anyway, as relentless as Manhattan traffic. Henry's cruel laughter echoing through our engagement party. His voice, sharp as broken glass: "You really think you belong in my world, Mary Rose? With that accent? That limp?" The way he'd looked at me like I was something he'd scraped off his Italian leather shoes.

I parked in front of the manor's entrance, my mother's vintage Leica camera heavy in my lap the only thing of value I owned besides my rebuilt heart and stubborn determination. The Wellington-Morrison wedding would be my biggest break yet, the kind of high-society event that could finally establish my photography business among Manhattan's elite. The fee alone would cover three months of studio rent and maybe, just maybe, let me sleep without nightmares about unpaid bills.

You can do this. You've survived worse.

The manor's limestone facade rose before me like a fairy tale castle, complete with ivy-covered walls and diamond-paned windows that caught the October morning light. Gothic spires pierced the sky while manicured gardens sprawled in every direction, their late-season roses still blooming in defiance of the approaching winter.

I gathered my equipment bags, ignoring the familiar ache in my left leg a souvenir from the car accident that killed my parents and shattered more than just bones. Each step toward the entrance felt like walking through quicksand, but I forced myself forward. I'd learned that courage wasn't the absence of fear; it was doing what needed to be done despite the terror clawing at your chest.

The heavy oak doors opened before I could knock, revealing a ballroom that belonged in a museum. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow prisms across marble floors while floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked gardens that seemed to stretch forever. The opulence hit me like a physical blow, Henry's voice echoing in my memory: "This is what real class looks like, not some trailer park princess pretending to be something she's not."

I set up my equipment with methodical precision, using the familiar routine to anchor myself in the present. The camera settings, the lighting checks, the angle assessments all of it helped quiet the storm in my chest. Photography had saved me after Henry's betrayal, giving me purpose when I thought I'd lost everything.

"The light in here is incredible in the mornings."

The voice, deep and warm with a hint of gravel, made me spin around so fast I nearly knocked over my tripod. A man stood in the doorway, and my breath caught in my throat like a trapped butterfly.

He was tall, easily six-two, with dark hair touched by silver at the temples that caught the morning light streaming through the windows. His steel-blue eyes held intelligence and something else a depth that spoke of pain weathered and wisdom earned. He wore dark jeans and a cream cable-knit sweater that emphasized broad shoulders and a lean build that suggested physical work despite his obvious wealth.

But it was his smile that undid me completely. Gentle. Genuine. Nothing like the practiced charm I'd learned to fear.

"I'm Thomas Gray," he said, crossing the room with confident strides. "You must be Mary Rose Bennett."

When he extended his hand, I stared at it for a heartbeat too long. The last time I'd trusted a handshake from a wealthy, handsome man, he'd destroyed my life six weeks before our wedding. But something in Thomas's eyes a patient kindness that felt foreign after years of guarding my heart made me reach out.

The moment our palms touched, electricity shot up my arm like lightning striking twice in the same place. His hand was warm, calloused from work, and he held mine gently, as if I were something precious rather than damaged goods.

"Miss Bennett," he said, and I loved how my name sounded in his voice like music instead of mockery. "Thank you for taking on the Wellington-Morrison wedding. I know Sarah was particular about finding the right photographer."

"Please, call me Mary Rose," I managed, trying to ignore how my Southern accent thickened when I was nervous. Henry had spent months trying to train it out of me, claiming it made me sound "uneducated."

"Mary Rose," Thomas repeated, as if testing how it felt on his tongue. His smile widened. "Beautiful name for what I suspect is an equally beautiful artist."

Heat flooded my cheeks. When was the last time someone had called me beautiful without wanting something in return? "I... thank you. The manor is stunning. I can see why couples dream of holding their weddings here."

"Catherine my late wife she always said this place was meant for celebrations," Thomas said, his voice catching slightly on her name. "She'd be happy to know it's bringing joy to people again."

The grief in his eyes was unmistakable, raw even after what I assumed were years of loss. I recognized that particular shade of pain the kind that carved hollows in your chest and taught you that love could devastate as completely as it could heal.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I whispered, meaning every word.

"Thank you." His smile turned soft, grateful. "She would have loved your work. I looked at your portfolio online you have a gift for capturing authentic moments."

My heart fluttered like a caged bird. Henry had never looked at my work, dismissing photography as "just a hobby" even when I'd shown him my parents' legacy camera and explained what it meant to me.

"Photography is about finding beauty in truth," I said, then immediately regretted how pretentious that sounded. "I mean"

"No, that's perfect," Thomas interrupted, his eyes lighting up with genuine interest. "Truth is the foundation of everything worthwhile, don't you think?"

The irony wasn't lost on me. Here was a man talking about truth while I stood in his family's manor, hiding secrets that would shatter whatever this moment was becoming.

"The wedding is in three weeks," Thomas continued, moving closer to examine my camera setup. "But I was hoping we could walk through the ceremony timeline together. Sarah has some specific requests about capturing the garden shots, and I'd like your professional opinion on the lighting situation."

Professional opinion. Not demands or dismissals, but actual interest in what I thought. My chest loosened for the first time in months.

"I'd love to see the ceremony space," I said, then caught myself. Love? When had I become so careless with that word again?

Thomas's eyes darkened slightly, and I wondered if he'd heard the same slip. For a moment, the air between us felt charged with something dangerous and impossible.

"Excellent," he said, his voice rougher than before. "The ceremony will be in Catherine's memorial garden. It's..." He paused, running a hand through his hair. "It's special to my family."

My pulse quickened. A memorial garden. The most intimate, sacred space on the property, and he was willing to share it with me. The trust implicit in that gesture made my chest tight with an emotion I couldn't name.

"Lead the way," I whispered.

As Thomas turned toward the French doors that opened onto the terrace, I caught sight of a framed photograph on the mantelpiece a family portrait that made my blood turn to ice.

Thomas stood with his arms around a beautiful blonde woman and two children: a girl with dark hair and hazel eyes, and a boy with golden hair and a familiar, devastating smile.

Henry.

My camera slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering toward the marble floor. But before it could shatter like my composure, strong hands caught it, steadying both the camera and me.

"Careful," Thomas murmured, his face inches from mine as he handed back my mother's precious camera. "We can't have anything happening to something so important to you."

If only you knew, I thought, staring into those kind steel-blue eyes, how much more than a camera is about to break.