Their Pretty Little Stepmom

The lace of the wedding dress was a lie. It was intricate, hand-stitched by Parisian seamstresses, and cost more than Sarah’s father, Dawson had earned in the last three years but to Sarah, it felt like a shroud. It was too white, too pure for a transaction this cold.

"Stand still, Sarah. You’re wrinkling the silk," her father, Dawson, snapped. He was pacing the small dressing room of the courthouse, his hands trembling as he adjusted his cufflinks. 

He didn't look like a proud father of the bride; he looked like a man who had just seen the hangman’s noose loosen from around his own neck.

"Is he here?" Sarah’s asked.

"He is. And don't you dare look like you're going to a funeral," Dawson hissed, finally stopping to look at her. 

For a second, a flicker of guilt crossed his face, but it was quickly extinguished by the greed of survival.

"You’re saving us, Sarah. The Voidmere debt… It’s gone the moment you sign that paper. You’ll be the richest woman in the city. You should be thanking me."

Sarah turned back to the mirror. Staring at her face, the bloom on her cheeks came from her makeup and then all of a sudden, a sharp crease of fear started spreading across her forehead. 

No, she shouldn't be succumbing to her own fear now. Should she? But why? Why won't she let that fear sit when she was actually getting married to Mr. Voidmere? 

She tried to relax her brows, there's no need to be nervous. 

But being the price her father has to pay? Being married to a man who had three grown-up sons? 

"He stepped up to save your father, be grateful." A thought sat into her. 

He had stepped up to save her father with a condition; that she become his wife and a stepmother to his three sons. 

How could she? She had only known a simple life around the small city of Ohio, but this...

"I’m ready," she whispered, though every cell in her body urged her to jump through the window and run until her lungs burst. 

The ceremony was not held in a cathedral. There were no flowers, no music, and no guests. It took place in the private, mahogany-row chambers of a high-end judge.

When the doors opened, the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

Standing by the window was Bardulf Voidmere.

The rumours hadn't done him justice. At forty-eight, he was a mountain of a man, his presence so massive it felt as if the walls were leaning inward to accommodate him. 

He wore a charcoal suit that looked like armour. His salt-and-pepper hair, streaked with premature silver at the temples, was slicked back with military precision. 

He didn't turn when she entered. He simply stared out at the city he practically owned, his large hands clasped behind his back.

"Mr. Voidmere," the judge said breathlessly. "The bride has arrived."

Bardulf turned.

His eyes were the color of a winter sea, cold, gray, and impossibly deep. He didn't smile. He didn't offer a greeting. 

He looked at Sarah with an intense gaze. He scanned her from her veil down to her white silk shoes, as if he were inspecting a piece of property he had bought at an auction.

"Sign," was the only word he spoke, a gravelly rumble that vibrated in Sarah’s chest.

The papers were pushed toward her. Her father’s hand was on her shoulder, pushing her down into the chair. 

Sarah’s fingers shook so violently she almost dropped the pen. She looked at the line: Sarah Dawson. With one stroke of ink, she became Sarah Voidmere.

Bardulf signed next. He didn't look at Dawson. He didn't shake his hand. He simply tucked his fountain pen into his breast pocket and looked at Sarah.

"Let’s go."

"Wait.. ." Sarah gasped. "I haven't even said goodbye to my father."

Bardulf’s gaze flicked to Dawson who recoiled immediately those gaze of the mighty man met his. "You sold her," Bardulf said, "Our business is finished. She belongs to the Voidmere name now."

He said before he turned simply walking away. He didn't wait for her, his stride long and purposeful.

Sarah had no choice but to follow, her heavy train rustling against the cold marble floor like a dying breath.

They got into the car quietly, each taking the far end of the space, Sarah looking out the dark car window, counting her own breath. 

Who's she going to meet? Who's she going to see? What's her life now from now on? What about her school? Is this how she's going to live now?  

And he remained seated next to her like a statue.  He didn't touch her. He didn't even look at her. 

He spent the entire forty-minute drive staring at a tablet, reviewing stock tickers and legal briefs.

Sarah stared out the window as the city lights faded into the dark silhouettes of the pine forest. 

When the iron gates of Voidmere Manor finally swung open, her heart dropped. 

The house was a masterpiece of dark stone, glass, and shadows. 

It sat on a cliffside, overlooking a churning gray lake. It looked like a fortress designed to keep the world out or to keep something dangerous in.

"The boys are home for the holidays," Bardulf said suddenly, his first full sentence since they had met.

"You will be respected. If they cross a line, you come to me."

"The... the boys?" Sarah asked, her voice cracking. 

And they're home for the holidays? Didn't she see a news saying that the boys won't be home for the holidays, they're travelling on vacation or what was the news all about again? 

She swallowed feeling the beads of sweat spreading at the back of her neck. 

"Yeah, my sons." 

"You will meet them." He said like he wasn't interested in pursuing this conversation further than this. 

The car stopped. The massive oak doors of the manor were already open. Standing under the portico were three young boys. 

Even from a distance, Sarah could feel the heat of their gaze. She stepped out of the car, the wind catching her veil and whipping it around her face. 

Bardulf walked to her side and placed a heavy palm on the small of her back steering her toward the stairs.

And those boys, they hadn't moved an inch, instead, they stood like a firing squad. They looked exactly like she had always seen in photos, videos on Instagram, and every other social media platform. 

The talk for the girls, boys, everyone, they're living gods, but this close? No, they don't have a very good reputation for anyone to be close to. 

"So," one of the sons started. "The fourth sacrifice has arrived. Tell me, Father, did this one come with a warranty? The last three broke so easily."

Sarah flinched. 

Oh no, it can't be happening already, can it? 

The rumours about the previous wives, the beatings, the cruelty, the screams that echoed through these halls, rushed back into her mind. 

Was she going to be subjected to this sort of treatment too? Can she survive it? She didn't know when her hand wrapped around Barduff's arm. 

And this led Bardulf to divert his eyes from where he kept them towards her, her eyes not meeting his but his had already met hers. 

"What's wrong?" He asked.