Blurred lines in a forbidden fairytale [Taylor x OC]

{50} and if history's clear, someone always ends up in ruins

Taylor's POV:

I wake up to sunlight streaming through the unfamiliar curtains of my new bedroom. The first few seconds are disorienting—the walls are bare, and everything smells faintly of fresh paint and cardboard. Then it hits me: the move, the new house, the fresh start I so desperately need.

And Aurora.

My lips curve into a soft smile as memories from last night flood in. The way her laughter and then her whimpers echoed in the empty house, the way her lips felt against mine, the way she whispered my name like it meant something sacred. I stretch lazily, the ache in my muscles a small price to pay for the intimacy we shared.

But reality doesn't wait. Felicia.

The thought slices through the warmth of my morning, grounding me immediately. I sit up, running a hand through my hair, and glance at the clock. It's already late. There's no time to linger in bed. Today has to count.
By the time I'm showered and dressed, my nerves have caught up to me. I keep pacing back and forth in the kitchen, my phone sitting on the counter like it's mocking me. I know I need to call Maria Lopez, but the fear of rejection coils tightly in my chest.
What if she says no? What if she doesn't even let me try?
But I can't let the fear win. Not this time. My daughter deserves better than that. I grab the phone, taking a deep breath before dialing her number.

It rings twice before she answers. "Maria Lopez speaking."

"Hi, Ms. Lopez," I say quickly, my voice wavering just enough to betray my nerves. "It's Taylor Swift."

There's a pause, and I can almost hear her shuffling papers on her desk. "Ms. Swift," she says finally. "How can I help you?"

"I—uh—I wanted to let you know I've moved," I say, pushing the words out in a rush. "To a house. A bigger place, with space for Felicia. I... I was wondering if there's any chance I could have a second home visit. To prove things are different now."

There's another pause, longer this time, and I feel like I might faint from the suspense.

"You've moved already?" she asks, her tone unreadable.

"Yes," I say, straightening up even though she can't see me. "I've been working nonstop—part-time at a bookstore and... and doing whatever I can to make this happen. Felicia deserves to be somewhere stable, with someone who loves her."

"I see," she says, and I can't tell if that's a good thing or not.

I grip the phone tighter, swallowing down the lump forming in my throat. "Please," I add softly. "Just give me one more chance. I'll do whatever it takes."

Ms. Lopez sighs on the other end of the line, and I brace myself for the worst.

"All right," she says finally, and the relief nearly knocks me off my feet. "We can schedule another visit. But, Ms. Swift, understand this: I'll be looking closely. If anything isn't up to standard, this will be the last chance."

"Of course," I say quickly. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

We settle on a date for the visit next week, and as soon as I hang up, I let out a shaky breath. The nerves haven't completely left me, but there's a spark of hope now, small but bright.
I glance at the boxes stacked in the corner of the living room. There's still so much to do—assembling furniture, making this house a home.
I decide to start immediately since
there's no time to waste—Felicia's room needs to be perfect. She deserves something magical, a space where she can feel safe and loved. I grab my toolbox and unpack the furniture I bought weeks ago, the moment I learned I could have this house.

I open the first box, revealing the lavender bed frame. I take my time assembling it, ensuring every screw is tight and every piece fits perfectly.
Next, I open the box with the bedding. The comforter is a light purple, almost identical to the walls I've already painted. I smooth it out on the mattress, stepping back to admire how it matches the vision I had in my head.
I move on to the shelves. They're white and sturdy, and I position them right above where the bed will sit, just like the picture I've been referencing. Carefully, I arrange the small decorations I've picked out—a tiny moon lamp, some fairy lights, and a few pastel-colored books. It feels cozy, whimsical—something Felicia might smile at, if she ever gets to see it.
By the time I hang the starry lampshade above the room, the space feels almost alive. I stand in the middle of it all, my hands on my hips, picturing the little girl here. I imagine her running her fingers over the shelves, choosing a book to read. I imagine her curling up under the comforter, her sleepy face tucked into the pillow.