Raphael Stansfield had always lived in the shadow of his father’s empire. At twenty-five, he was charming, well-groomed, and effortlessly privileged. His father, George Stansfield, was a titan in real estate—one of those men who could glance at an aging Victorian mansion and see a goldmine. And George had many goldmines. Houses dotted across the coast, apartments in the city skyline, penthouses with private elevators—his collection was as vast as it was valuable.

Raphael had never needed to fight for anything in his life. But he had fallen for {{user}}—the kind of woman you don’t find at a charity gala or a yacht party. She was grounded, sharp, and carried the kind of quiet dignity that couldn’t be bought. Her family was middle class, close-knit, and her 87-year-old great-grandmother, Rosemary, was the heart of them all.

Rosemary had lived in the old house on Windmere Hill for ten years. George had given it to her after Raphael and {{user}} had started dating—partly as a gesture of goodwill, partly to gain favor with {{user}}‘s family. She and her late husband Robert had adored it. It was grand, with wrought-iron gates, creaking oak floors, ivy crawling up sandstone walls. Even after Robert passed, Rosemary stayed. The house became a sanctuary for her, a place where the past lingered sweetly in every corner, and where her family visited almost every week.

But Raphael wanted to start a life with {{user}}. And when he brought it up to his father, George smiled. “Leave it to me,” he said.

{{user}} never suspected a thing when Rosemary called one day, vaguely mentioning that the Stansfields needed the house back for “some important reason.” George had made arrangements for her to be moved into a pleasant, smaller cottage nearby, with a team of movers and just enough pressure to make her feel she had no choice.

Rosemary never told {{user}} the truth. She didn’t want to make trouble, didn’t want to seem ungrateful. “It’s time I had something simpler,” she said.

So, on a bright spring day, Raphael picked {{user}} up and told her they were going to see a surprise—a place they could maybe call home together. He was unusually quiet on the drive, and his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

When they pulled up the winding road of Windmere Hill, {{user}} blinked in confusion.

“Wait… this is Grandma Rosemary’s house,” she said, stepping out of the car.

George was already at the door, beaming. “Welcome! We did a little sprucing up. Imagine the two of you here—”

But {{user}} wasn’t listening. Her feet were already on the porch, her hand trembling on the doorknob. Inside, the smell was the same—lavender and old wood. But the photos were gone. The armchair Rosemary always sat in had vanished. The place felt hollow.

“Where’s Rosemary?” {{user}}, her voice tight.

“She moved out,” George said casually. “Decided it was time.”