Chapter Seven
Charity
We’ve finished breakfast and washed the dishes and I still can’t stop staring at him.
Lucky lies sprawled across the cottage floor like he owns the place, one hind leg stretched out at that awkward angle, his newly clean fur catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows.
Every few minutes, his tail gives a soft swish against the hardwood, and my heart does this ridiculous little flutter.
I have a dog. We have a dog.
Decades of begging, of carefully worded requests during family dinners, of subtle hints dropped around birthdays and Christmas. Twenty-five years of "pets are too messy," and "what if you get attached and something happens," and "you’re not ready for that kind of responsibility, sweetheart."
And now I’m sitting cross-legged on my cottage floor, watching a limping stray mutt drink water from one of Mother’s good china bowls after feeding him cured breakfast ham. Nobody can take this away from me.
"He’s really ours?" I ask Draco for probably the tenth time in the past hour.
Draco looks up from where he’s examining Lucky’s injured leg with gentle fingers. "He’s really yours, Charity. I found him, but he’s your responsibility now, if you want him."
Your responsibility. The words should terrify me. I’ve never been responsible for anything more complicated than remembering to water the orchids in my room. But instead of fear, I feel this warm spreading sensation in my chest, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Something alive needs me. Not my money, not my family’s connections, not what I can do for charity events. Me.
"He needs proper grooming," I say, standing and brushing dog hair off my jeans. "I mean, you did an amazing job cleaning him this morning, but look at his coat. We could make it really shine with the right brushes. Some of those mats need more careful attention."
"Do you have any brushes?" Draco asks. "I thought about buying some professional ones, but I was out of cash."
"I’ll get my hairbrushes. They should work."
I hurry to my bathroom and return with two silver-backed brushes—part of a vanity set my aunt gave me for my birthday.
We settle on the living room floor with Lucky sprawled between us, each armed with a brush.
The soft rasp of bristles and the steady tap…
tap of his tail turn the room into a metronome.
What starts as practical grooming quickly becomes more intimate. Working on Lucky forces us close—our knees bumping as we work from opposite sides, my shoulder grazing his when we both lean in to tackle a difficult mat behind Lucky’s ear.
"Like this," Draco murmurs when I struggle with a tangle. His hand covers mine, guiding the brush through the fur with gentle care. His breath is warm against my cheek as he leans closer, and I catch his scent—leather and something outdoorsy that makes my pulse quicken. A shiver skips along my jaw; my next breath isn’t as steady as the last.
I steal a glance at him while he works, noting how his dark t-shirt pulls across his shoulders when he reaches for a difficult spot. There’s a lean strength to his movements that speaks of physical work, real work, nothing like the soft-handed men at Mother’s charity luncheons.
"You smell like the city," I say without thinking, then immediately flush. "I mean—"
"You smell like expensive flowers," he says quietly, not pulling away. "But underneath that, something else. Something that’s just you."
The air between us feels charged as we work, heads bent close together, hands occasionally touching as we navigate around Lucky’s patient form.
When Draco reaches across me for a mat near Lucky’s tail, his forearm brushes mine, and electricity shoots through my system.
I’m aware of everything—the way his voice drops when he murmurs encouragement to Lucky, how his fingers move with impossible precision, the small scar I notice along his knuckles.
"He’s been on his own for who knows how long," Draco says. "Finally having people who care about him… that’s probably new."
The weight in his voice suggests personal experience with being alone, with needing care but not knowing how to accept it.
"Tell me about your family," I say impulsively. "Before… whatever happened."
His hands pause for just a moment before continuing their gentle work. "Not much to tell. Lost them young, been on my own since."
"That must have been terrifying."
"You adapt." The automatic response, delivered in that neutral tone people use when they don’t want to talk about something. But then he glances at me, and whatever he sees in my face must convince him to try again. "Yeah, it was terrifying. But also… freeing in a way. Nobody’s expectations to live up to. Nobody’s disappointment to carry. "
"I can’t imagine that kind of freedom." The admission tumbles out before I can reel it back in.
"What do you mean?"
I focus on working through a tough tangle, buying myself time to find the right words.
I should be careful. He's practically a stranger—someone I found hiding in my cottage just days ago.
But the patience in his gaze makes me feel safe enough to tell the truth.
Or maybe I'm just desperate to finally say these things out loud to someone who might actually understand.
"I’ve never made a decision that was entirely my own. Where I live, what I study, who I spend time with, what I wear to dinner—everything gets filtered through what my parents think is appropriate or safe or beneficial to the family image."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It’s suffocating." The word comes out sharp, filled with years of carefully suppressed frustration. "Sometimes I feel like I’m living someone else’s life instead of my own."
Draco goes very still beside me. "Whose life?"
The question hits like a slap. I’ve never put it into words before, never admitted even to myself what I’ve always known on some level.
"My sister’s," I whisper.
Lucky shifts between us, but neither of us stops our gentle brushing. We’re frozen in this moment of truth that feels too big for the cozy room.
"Tell me about her."
I close my eyes, seeing Grace’s bedroom exactly as it’s been preserved for twenty-seven years.
The white canopy bed with its perfect coverlet, the bookshelf lined with classics and Harry Potter, the silver hairbrush set—almost identical to the one I’m holding—still waiting on her vanity as if she might return at any moment.
"Grace. According to everyone who knew her, she was perfect.
Beautiful, brilliant, charming. She was supposed to take over the family foundation, marry someone appropriate, carry on the Pembroke legacy.
" My voice gets smaller with each word. "But she died in a car accident when she was sixteen. My mother was driving." The silver brush in my hand feels foreign, as if I’m holding Grace’s instead of mine.
"How old were you?"
"Not even born yet. My parents had me two years later." I open my eyes and find Draco watching me with an expression I can’t read. "They named me Charity because… because they said after losing Grace, they needed to remember the virtue of giving. Of hope after devastating loss."
"Goddess, Charity."
"I think they’ve been trying to turn me into her replacement ever since. Same education, same expectations, same careful cultivation for the same life she was supposed to live. The only difference is they’re more protective now, more afraid of losing another daughter."
The words hang in the air between us, and I'm shocked I said them out loud.
I've never told anyone this. Not my therapist when I was younger, not even the few girls my parents allowed me to see during shared tutoring sessions.
But somehow, sitting here with dog hair all over us and Lucky sighing contentedly between us, it feels safe to say the truth.
Draco sets down his brush and studies my face. "You want to know what I think?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"I think Grace was probably wonderful. But she’s been gone for twenty-seven years, and you’re here now, and you deserve to live your own life instead of the ghost of hers. That isn’t rebellion,” he adds. "It’s justice."
The words hit me with startling clarity. For the first time in my life, someone is suggesting that being myself might be more valuable than being a pale imitation of someone else.
"But I don’t know how," I admit. "I don’t know who I am when I’m not being the perfect daughter or the replacement child or the charity heiress.
I’ve never even been to a movie by myself, never chosen my own clothes without considering whether Mother would approve, never had a conversation with someone who wasn’t carefully vetted first."
"Then maybe it’s time to figure it out."
There’s challenge in his voice, and something else. Possibility. Like he’s offering to show me a world I’ve only imagined.
Lucky chooses that moment to stretch luxuriously, showing off his now-gleaming coat. Our grooming session has transformed him from a bedraggled stray into something beautiful.
"There," I say, running my hand through his silky fur. "Much better."
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’s something almost reverent in his expression, like he’s seeing something precious that he’s afraid to disturb.
"You’re good with him," I observe.