When My Step-Son Kissed Me At The Altar

I met Adrian Russo at my own engagement party.

Well, not exactly engagement. More like the closing ceremony of a transaction where I was the merchandise.

Vincent Russo sat in his wheelchair at the head of the long dining table, his wrinkled hand resting on mine. The room was full of men in expensive suits, their eyes sliding over me like I was an auction item they'd passed on bidding for.

"She's beautiful, Vincent," one of them said, raising his glass. "Twenty years old. You're a lucky man."

Lucky. Right.

Vincent's fingers tightened on my hand, his thumb rubbing circles on my skin that made my stomach turn. "Very lucky," he agreed, his voice raspy with age and something else I didn't want to identify.

I kept my face neutral. Smiled when I was supposed to. My father owed the Russo family two million dollars in gambling debts, and this was how he'd chosen to settle it. By gifting me to a dying man thirty-eight years my senior.

"You'll make a lovely bride," Vincent murmured, leaning closer. His breath smelled like cigars and medication. "I can't wait for the wedding night."

My throat closed up. I wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. The contract was signed. My father had already taken the money and disappeared to God knows where.

"Father." A voice cut through the room, calm and cold. "The guests are waiting for your speech."

I looked up.

A man stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the hallway. As he stepped forward, I could make out his features—dark hair, sharp jawline, and wire-rimmed glasses that gave him an almost professorial look. He wore a three-piece suit that fit him perfectly, and his tie was knotted with precision.

He looked nothing like a mobster. More like a lawyer, or maybe a professor. Clean. Composed. Untouchable.

Vincent's hand finally left mine as he waved dismissively. "Adrian, come meet your new mother."

The words hung in the air like a sick joke.

The man—Adrian—walked closer, and I realized his eyes were a pale gray-blue, the kind that could look warm in the right light but now seemed frozen. His gaze swept over me, pausing for maybe three seconds on my face.

No recognition. No sympathy. Nothing.

"Miss Bennett," he said, his tone polite but distant. Then he turned to his father. "Your medication is due in ten minutes."

"Always so concerned about my health," Vincent chuckled, but there was an edge to it. "Don't worry, son. I'm not dying tonight. I have plenty of time to enjoy my new bride."

I watched Adrian's hand tighten around the glass of champagne he was holding. For a second, I thought he might crush it. But his face remained impassive as he nodded once and walked away.

The rest of the evening blurred together. I smiled, I nodded, I let Vincent's relatives congratulate me on my "good fortune." By the time the guests started leaving, my face hurt from holding the fake smile.

Vincent wheeled himself closer to me, his hand finding my waist. "Let's retire for the night, shall we?"

Panic flooded through me. I knew what that meant. I knew what he expected.

"I'm... I'm very tired," I managed to say. "Perhaps I could—"

"Nonsense." His grip tightened. "Come, Iris. It's time you learned what it means to be part of this family."

He started guiding me toward the stairs, where someone had installed a chair lift for his wheelchair. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might break through my ribs.

We reached the second floor, and he led me down a long hallway to a set of double doors. His bedroom. The moment we crossed the threshold, he locked the door behind us.

"Come here," he said, his voice taking on that quality I'd been dreading all night.

I froze by the door. My body wouldn't move.

"I said, come here." He wasn't asking anymore.

I took one step forward, then another, each one feeling like I was walking to my execution. When I got close enough, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me onto his lap. His hands immediately went to my dress, fumbling with the zipper.

"Please," I whispered, hating how weak I sounded. "Please, I—"

A sharp knock interrupted us.

"What?" Vincent snarled at the door.

"Father, you need to take your medication." Adrian's voice came through, calm and insistent. "Doctor's orders. It can't wait."

Vincent cursed under his breath, his hands reluctantly leaving my body. "This better be important."

He wheeled himself to the door and yanked it open. Adrian stood there with a small tray holding pills and water, his expression unreadable.

I took the opportunity to slip past them both, practically running down the hallway. Behind me, I could hear Vincent arguing with Adrian about the timing, but I didn't stop until I reached the room they'd assigned to me—right next to Vincent's.

I locked the door and sank to the floor, finally letting myself shake.

There was a soft knock maybe twenty minutes later. I didn't answer, but then I heard footsteps walking away. When I finally worked up the courage to check, I found a tray outside my door. Hot milk in a delicate china cup, and a pair of silk pajamas folded neatly beside it.

The pajamas were exactly my size.

I picked them up with trembling hands, then noticed the maid passing by at the end of the hall.

"Excuse me," I called softly. "Who left this?"

She glanced at the tray and smiled. "Mr. Adrian, miss. He thought you might need something to help you sleep."

She walked away before I could ask anything else.

I stood there holding the pajamas, my mind racing. Adrian had barely looked at me tonight. Had seemed completely indifferent to my existence. So why this small kindness?

Or maybe it wasn't kindness at all. Maybe it was just another form of control, a reminder that in this house, even my comfort was at someone else's discretion.

I went back inside and locked the door again, wedging a chair under the handle for good measure. Tomorrow I would have to figure out how to survive in this place. How to navigate between a father who wanted to possess me and a son who seemed to want nothing to do with me.

But tonight, I just wanted to survive until morning.

I changed into the silk pajamas—they felt expensive against my skin, too nice for someone who'd been bought like property. As I climbed into bed, I caught the faint scent of cedar and amber on the fabric.

The same scent I'd noticed when Adrian walked past me earlier.

I pulled the blanket up to my chin and stared at the ceiling, listening for any sound of footsteps outside my door. The hot milk sat untouched on my nightstand. I didn't trust it. Didn't trust anything in this house.

Except maybe, in some twisted way, I was already learning to trust that Adrian Russo would interrupt at exactly the right moment.

And I didn't know if that made me feel safer, or more afraid.