I woke up to sunlight on my face and a dull, heavy throb behind my eyes. For a second, I didn’t know where I was. The ceiling was too white. The room was too quiet. Nothing in it belonged to me. I sat up too quickly, and the room swayed. My mouth was dry, and my skin flushed. My entire body felt heavy and sore, and my stomach turned before I could even understand why. The spot beside me on the mattress was empty, and the sheets were cold to the touch. I pressed a hand to my forehead and tried to piece together the night before. A glass of fruit juice. The room spinning out of control. A voice down the hallway. Strong arms lifting me up. After that, everything dissolved into a fog. Just a strange, burning heat, and the sound of my own voice agreeing to something I couldn’t remember. My graduation dress hung folded over a velvet chair, creased at exactly the right places. I never fold anything. Whoever did this had taken their time. On the nightstand, my phone showed four missed calls: two from my mother, two from Anna. None from the person I’d believed was with me. I told myself that didn’t mean anything. I didn’t believe it. I made myself look. No note. No wallet, no watch, nothing left behind. A faint smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air, though the room had no ashtray and no one I knew smoked. Then I dressed with unsteady hands and stepped into a quiet corridor. A man in a dark uniform appeared almost at once. “Miss Sinclair. Your driver is waiting downstairs.” I hadn’t called for a car. I hadn’t told anyone where I was. And no one had called me that name before. Once, I would have demanded to know how they’d found me. I had believed that asking the right questions got honest answers. I’d learned better in that house. So I asked nothing. I followed him downstairs, letting him think I was too dazed to wonder how they’d found me. If he was reporting back, I wanted to know who was listening. I stepped out into the morning air, weighed down by the secrets of a house I barely understood, with no idea who had put me in that bed. I knew only one thing for sure. Someone had planned last night down to the last detail. And whoever it was, they were nowhere near finished with me.

Roxy Five weeks earlier The first thing I noticed about my new home was that I did not belong in it. The iron gates opened slowly as our car came up the road. Behind them was a driveway so long I could not see the end. Trees lined both sides, all trimmed to the same shape. At the end stood a house that looked more like a palace than a home. "This is where he lives?" I asked quietly. "This is where we live now," my mother said. She was smiling like a girl on her first date. I had not seen her this happy in years. That should have made me feel better. Instead, something low and wordless sat in my stomach, refusing to move. My mother had been Clara Bennett until the wedding. Now she was Clara Sinclair. She had met Dorian at a charity dinner, where she was working a catering shift. She never told me how she got that job. Six months later, he proposed. I had met him only twice, and both times he was polite and said almost nothing. I still didn't understand how it had all happened so fast. "You really think this is going to work?" "Give him a chance," she said, squeezing my hand. "That's all I'm asking." "I'm trying, Mom." I was. But I had seen his face in magazines, next to words like billionaire and ruthless. He was a stranger with too many zeros after his name. The car stopped at the marble steps. The front doors opened before the driver could reach my side. A tall man in a black suit came down to meet us. Silver touched his hair above his ears. He kissed my mother's forehead, and she melted against him. I looked away, then felt someone watching me. Dorian's eyes were already on me. His gaze moved over me slowly, not openly inappropriate, but not quite the way a man should look at his new stepdaughter either. I suddenly became aware of my dress and my hands. I straightened. "Roxy." His voice was deep, smooth, and commanding. I forced myself out of the car and met his gaze. "Mr. Sinclair." A faint smile touched the corner of his lips. "Dad." The word landed strangely. I did not move. I had a dad once. He had died when I was a child, and I was already forgetting the sound of his voice. This man was not him. He was handing me the word like it was already his. "...Dad," I forced out. "Good." He said it too softly, like he was pleased with a test I had passed. He stepped aside and gestured toward the open doors. "Welcome home." "Thank you." I started up the steps after my mother, but his voice stopped me. "One thing before we go in." Dorian's expression was calm, almost friendly. "This house has rules, Roxy. Most of them exist to keep everyone comfortable. You'll learn them as you go." "What kind of rules?" "The kind you don't need to worry about," he said, "as long as you don't go looking for reasons to test them." Something about the way he held my gaze made me feel there was more behind those words than he was saying. My mother laughed, a quick, nervous sound, and hooked her arm through mine. "Oh, Dorian, don't scare her in her first five minutes here. She's going to be on her best behavior. Right, sweetie?" I held his gaze a second longer than I should have. "Sure." He held it right back. Then he took my mother's hand and led her inside. I followed a few paces behind them. The front hall was bigger than our whole old apartment. Staff stood in two neat lines and bowed together. "Welcome home, Madam. Welcome home, young miss." Young miss. No one had ever called me that before. My mother's hand rose to her chest, her breath catching. I watched twenty years of double shifts and worn shoe soles dissolve into something like disbelief. "Thank you for your warm welcome," she said, her voice trembling slightly. Dorian turned her gently to face him, one arm settling around her waist. "From today," he said to the room, his voice carrying easily across the marble, "she is the lady of this house. My wife." She pressed her face into his chest. He stroked her hair once. Seeing her so happy in his arms, some of the tightness in my shoulders eased. "Mary." He didn't raise his voice, yet a woman stepped forward instantly, head bowed. "Sir." "This is Roxy," he said, his gaze shifting back to me. "She'll need attending to." "Thank you, Dad." The word came easier the second time. "Take her up," Dorian said to Mary, already turning back to my mother. I followed Mary upstairs, past hallways lined with art I didn't recognize. "Your room, Miss," Mary said. "Ring the bell if you need anything." "Thank you." The door clicked shut behind her, and only then did the air in my chest let go. My room was pale pink and cream, like a hotel suite in a magazine. Nothing looked used. I walked to the window. Outside, the gates had already shut. I thought about Dorian's words. As long as you don't go looking for reasons to test them. It had sounded polite, but I knew a warning when I heard one. A knock came at the door. "Roxy." My mother's gentle voice came from the hallway. I opened the door and found her standing there with a soft, hesitant expression. "Mom. Is anything wrong?" "No." She stepped inside. "I just came to check on you." I looked at her closely. "Roxy, darling," she whispered, taking my hands in hers. "I'm so sorry for everything." "What are you talking about?" "I know you didn't want to come here." Her gaze softened. "But I couldn't leave you alone in that tiny apartment." "Mom, I love it here," I blurted out. "You don't have to worry about me. I'm completely fine." "No, you're not." She squeezed my hand. "I noticed how uncomfortable you were downstairs. You are my daughter, Roxy. I know when something isn't right." I forced a smile. "I'm going to try my best to be happy here with you and your husband. I'm sure he's a good man." Before she could answer, Dorian's deep voice echoed from the hallway. "Darling?" My mother glanced toward the door. "You should go." "I will come back later, honey." She kissed my forehead before slipping out. Mom had noticed. Somehow, that made me feel worse. By dinner, I'd almost convinced myself I was overreacting. Mary came to call me from my room. "Young miss, dinner is served. The Master and Madam are waiting." "Okay." I followed her downstairs. Mom and Dorian were already seated at the foot of the long dining table. Dozens of dishes covered the table, but my attention went to the two of them. Mom was giggling like a blushing schoolgirl. Dorian noticed me first. "You're here." "Yes, Dad." "Please take your seat." "Thank you." I pulled out a chair and sat down. Throughout dinner, Mom and Dorian never stopped displaying their affection for one another. He kept her glass filled and leaned toward her occasionally to whisper things that made her smile. I tried to focus on my food, but now and then, I caught Dorian looking at me. Each time, he looked away after a few seconds. After dinner, we moved to the living room. I was about to excuse myself and go upstairs when Dorian asked me a question. "So, Roxy. Which university are you attending?" "Crestmont University. I'm in my final year." Something changed in his expression. "My son went to Crestmont as well." I looked up. His son. "Your son?" Mother asked. "Yes. Evander." The moment I heard the name, everything in me went still. Evander. No. It couldn't be him. My Evander? The same Evander who had broken my heart? I stared at Dorian, hoping he would say another name, but he didn't. "He left the country to complete his studies abroad," he continued. "He'll be coming home soon." My Evander had been a regular guy. He came from a poor background, just like me. He never told me he was rich, much less that he was Dorian Sinclair's son. It had to be a coincidence. "Roxy? Roxy?" I snapped back to reality. "Yes...?" "What's on your mind?" Dorian asked. "Nothing." He studied me for a few seconds before continuing. "Evander has always wanted a sister. He'll be happy when he comes home and meets you." A sister. My stomach tightened. If this was really my Evander, the man who had broken my heart was going to become my new stepbrother. "Dad, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go to my room. I'm tired." "Of course. Goodnight, Roxy." "Goodnight." I quickly went upstairs. As soon as I closed my bedroom door, I leaned against it and pressed a hand to my chest. I walked to my nightstand and picked up my phone. I opened my old photo gallery and searched until I found the picture I wanted. I still had an old picture of Evander saved in a hidden folder. It had been taken when we were still together, back when I believed he loved me. I swallowed hard. There was only one way to find out. I pressed the call bell. A few seconds later, Mary appeared. "Young miss?" "Mary," I said, turning the phone toward her. "The young master... Evander. Do you know what he looks like?" "Yes, Miss Roxy." I showed her the picture. Mary leaned closer. For a second, something strange crossed her face. She looked surprised, but the expression vanished almost immediately. "No, Miss Roxy. That isn't the young master." I frowned. "Are you sure?" "Yes." Her answer came too quickly. "Okay. Thank you, Mary. You may leave." She bowed and walked toward the door. I watched her until she left. Something wasn't right. Maybe I was wrong about Evander, but Mary's reaction bothered me. My phone suddenly buzzed. It was Anna. 'Are you planning to ditch me now that you're a rich young miss?' A smile finally appeared on my face. 'No way in hell.' She replied almost immediately. 'I know! I'm just teasing. How is the mansion? I'm dying to know! Spill EVERYTHING!' 'What the heck, Anna? There's nothing to spill yet. I'm completely exhausted. Let's talk tomorrow.' 'As you wish, princess. Bye, rest well!' I put my phone down and went into the bathroom. After taking a hot shower, I changed into my silk nightgown and climbed into bed. I didn't realize how tired I was until I fell asleep. Hours later, I woke up thirsty. I reached for the glass beside my bed, but it was empty. The hallway was pitch black and silent. I was heading toward the stairs when a muffled sound stopped me. It came again. I followed it until I saw a thin line of warm light spilling from the cracked door of my mother's bedroom. I shouldn't. I knew I shouldn't. But I stepped closer anyway.

Roxy I should have turned around the second I saw the light. I told myself that even as I stood there, my hand hovering an inch from the wood. I would look for a second, just long enough to understand what I was hearing, and then I would leave. That was the story I told myself. It lasted only a few seconds. Through the gap in the door, I saw my mother. Her face was flushed, her eyes closed, completely lost in whatever was happening inside that room. I had never seen her like that before. A thread of saliva slid from the corner of her mouth. She wasn’t enduring this. She was drowning in it. Every part of me told me to turn around, walk back to my room, and bury my head under the pillow until morning made this stop being real. Watching my mother like this wasn’t just crossing a line. It was crossing a line I could never come back from. I stayed anyway. Heat built low in my body until it stopped being bearable. My knees gave out first, folding me down onto the cold floor without deciding to, my eyes still fixed on the gap in the door. My breathing matched theirs before I noticed it happening. My hands moved on their own, into my top, freeing myself to the cool air, my nipples already aching before I touched them. I circled my thumbs over them, watching the flex and bunch of Dorian’s back with every thrust, and a sound climbed my throat that I bit down before it could escape. I slid a hand lower and found myself already soaked. I wish it were me. The thought looped inside my head. Ugly, forbidden, and viciously insistent. I wanted to be the one pinned under that rhythm. My mother’s cries kept time with the wet, rhythmic slap of skin, and underneath it, Dorian’s low groans didn’t sound like a man in love. They sounded like a predator taking inventory of something he already owned. I added a second finger, then a third, chasing his pace, my vision starting to blur at the edges. A moan slipped out of me, louder than I meant it to be. I froze. Bit my lip hard enough to taste copper. Silent. I have to be silent. “Yes, Dorian.” My mother’s voice cracked against the headboard, lost to whatever was happening to her. “Fuck me harder. Please.” The plea went straight through me. I wanted that, wanted to know what it felt like to be undone the same way she was being undone. He pulled back for one suspended second, the room going quiet, before slamming in again hard enough to groan the bed frame. “I’m cumming,” he growled, low enough that I felt it in my sternum more than heard it. My own release hit a moment later, hard enough that I slumped back against the wall, shaking, gasping at nothing. Inside the room, the quiet settled. Dorian withdrew, still and powerful in the low light. My mother’s eyes fluttered shut almost instantly, pulled under by exhaustion. I stayed on the floor another second, catching my breath, watching my own hand in the dark before I made myself move. That was when I felt it: a prickle at the back of my neck, a weight settling over me that had nothing to do with what I’d just done. I looked up. Through the crack in the door, it wasn’t my mother’s eyes on me anymore. It was his. I was up and moving before I’d decided to move, bare feet silent on the runner, my pulse a drumbeat in my ears the whole sprint back to my room. I threw myself inside and shut the door, leaning my full weight against it like wood could undo what had already happened. There was no lie I could tell myself. No version of this where he hadn’t caught me. I slid down until I was sitting against the door, arms wrapped around my knees, and let the one thought I couldn’t outrun finally land. He knows.