Chapter 2
I woke up the next morning still wearing the silk pajamas Adrian had left for me. The fabric clung to my skin, and I couldn't shake the feeling that he'd known exactly what size to get. Had he looked at me that carefully?
The thought made my stomach flutter in a way I didn't want to examine.
Vincent's voice echoed down the hallway before I even left my room. "Iris! Come down for breakfast, darling."
Darling. The word made bile rise in my throat.
I found him in the sunroom, newspapers spread across the table. The morning light made him look even older, more skeletal. He patted the chair beside him.
"Sit with me."
I sat, keeping as much distance as the chair would allow. It wasn't enough.
His hand immediately found my thigh, fingers tracing circles over my dress. "Did you sleep well?"
"Yes." My voice came out strangled.
"Good." His grip tightened. "You'll need your energy for the wedding preparations."
The door opened. Adrian walked in with his morning coffee, looking like he'd stepped out of a business magazine—crisp white shirt, vest, those wire-rimmed glasses catching the light. He didn't glance our way as he moved to the window.
Vincent's hand slid higher.
I heard something crack. Adrian's coffee cup. Dark liquid dripped onto the carpet, but he didn't move to clean it up. Just stood there, back rigid, staring out at nothing.
"Adrian," Vincent called out, his hand still on me. "What do you think of your new mother's figure? Quite something, isn't it?"
My face burned with humiliation. Adrian's shoulders tensed.
"I wouldn't know," he said flatly, setting down the broken cup. "I have work to do."
He walked out without looking back.
Vincent laughed, dark and pleased. "He'll warm up to you eventually."
That became the pattern. Every day, Vincent would call me to sit with him. Every day, his hands would wander. And every day, Adrian would be somewhere nearby, seemingly indifferent, while something in the room would break.
A glass. A book spine. The handle of a door.
He was destroying things instead of Vincent. I didn't know whether to be grateful or terrified.
Dinner was the worst.
Vincent insisted I sit beside him at the long dining table. Adrian sat across from us, cutting his steak with surgical precision. I tried to focus on my own plate, but Vincent's hand was under the table again, kneading my thigh through my skirt.
I went rigid, fork frozen halfway to my mouth.
When I finally dared to look up, I met Adrian's eyes.
He was watching. Not me—Vincent's hand. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
I tried to shift away. Vincent's fingers dug in harder. "Stay still, sweetheart."
Adrian set down his silverware with deliberate care.
"I'm finished."
Vincent smirked. "Already? Seeing your new mother takes away your appetite?"
Adrian stood, adjusting his cuffs with methodical movements. When he spoke, his voice was silk over steel. "Yes. Your 'table manners' are particularly appetizing tonight, Dad."
His eyes flicked to me for just a second. Something in that glance made heat crawl up my spine.
Then he was gone.
I couldn't sleep. Again.
The nightmare was always the same—Vincent's hands, the locked bedroom door, no one coming to interrupt this time. I woke up gasping, sheets tangled around my legs.
I needed water. Air. Anything.
The house was dark as I crept downstairs, but light spilled from beneath the study door. I should have kept walking. Should have gone straight to the kitchen.
Instead, I stopped. Listened.
Nothing. Just silence.
I pushed the door open.
Adrian was sprawled on the leather sofa, glasses discarded on the side table, rubbing his temples. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat in front of him.
"Can't sleep?" He didn't look up.
"I..." How did he know I was there? "No."
"Come in." He gestured vaguely. "Don't lurk in doorways."
I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. He poured amber liquid into a glass and slid it across the coffee table.
"Drink. It helps."
I picked it up, took a small sip. The whiskey burned down my throat, making me cough.
Adrian finally looked at me, and without his glasses, his eyes seemed darker. Unfocused.
"You want to know what I was thinking tonight?"
My heart started hammering. "What?"
"I was thinking about cutting off that hand." His voice was conversational, almost casual. "The one touching you."
The glass nearly slipped from my fingers.
"But," he continued with a bitter smile, "that's my father's hand."
"Adrian..."
"Don't." His eyes snapped shut. "Don't say my name like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're calling a lover." He opened his eyes, and there was something raw in them. "You're my stepmother, Iris."
First time he'd used my name. It sounded wrong and right all at once.
"I'm not married to him yet," I blurted out.
Adrian went still. Then he stood, crossing to where I sat in three long strides. He loomed over me, close enough that I could smell cedar and whiskey.
"What are you implying?" His voice dropped to something rough, dangerous.
"I'm not—I didn't mean—"
His hand came up, fingers tracing my cheek, thumb brushing my lower lip. "Liar."
I couldn't breathe.
"You're trying to seduce me," he murmured, leaning down. His breath ghosted over my face. "You're trying to seduce your stepson."
"I'm not!"
"Then why," his fingers gripped my chin, tilting my face up, "did you come here dressed like that?"
I looked down. My thin nightgown left little to imagination in the lamplight.
My face exploded with heat.
Adrian released me, stepping back sharply. He grabbed his glasses, sliding them on like armor. When he looked at me again, he was the composed, untouchable man from the engagement party.
"Go back to bed, Iris."
"But—"
"Go." He turned away. "Before I stop being a gentleman."
I fled.
At breakfast the next morning, Vincent was in rare form, practically glowing. Adrian arrived late, looking like he hadn't slept at all.
"I have wonderful news," Vincent announced, reaching for my hand. "I've moved up our timeline. The wedding will be in one week."
My coffee cup clattered against the saucer.
Across the table, Adrian's knuckles went white around his fork.
One week. Seven days before I became Mrs. Vincent Russo.
Before I became Adrian's stepmother forever.
Vincent kissed my hand, his lips dry against my skin. "I can't wait any longer to make you mine, darling."
I couldn't look at Adrian. Couldn't bear to see indifference in his eyes.
But I felt his stare burning into me like a brand.
One week.
