4

"I'll give you two some space to get to know each other," Mom said with that bright, oblivious smile, already turning back toward the kitchen like she was doing us a favor. "Be nice, Steph."

The door swung shut behind her. Silence dropped like a brick.

Awkward didn't even cover it. I sat there staring at my plate, fork in hand but not moving, feeling his eyes on me the whole time—slow, heavy, like he was peeling me apart layer by layer.

My skin prickled. Thighs squeezed under the table. No panties still, because yesterday's stunt had me walking around like this all day. Every shift in the chair reminded me of his fingers on my skirt, his voice saying "good girl" like it was a promise.

Before I could bolt or fake a bathroom excuse, he reached into his pocket. Small velvet box. Black. He slid it across the table toward me.

"Here you go," he said, voice low, calm, like this was normal.

I snatched it fast—too fast—fingers trembling. My brain went straight to the gutter: wishing it was something filthy, a piece of him, his dick wrapped up like a gift, or better yet, a vial of his cum labeled "For Steph."

I forced a smile praying—begging—Mom would come back right now and break whatever spell he had on me.

And bam. Like she heard my silent scream, she walked back in, carrying a fresh pitcher of juice.

"Great to see you both getting along!" she chirped, eyes lighting up when she spotted the box. "Wow, he even got you a gift? You are so sweet, Nathan."

He smiled—that slow, dangerous one that made my stomach flip—and leaned toward her as she bent down. She kissed him. Full on the mouth. Softly. Her hand on his cheek, his on her waist.

I stared. Couldn’t look away. Jealousy hit like acid. I wanted to grab the table knife and carve that kiss right off her lips. Off his. Off the whole damn scene.

My grip tightened on the juice glass. Fingers white-knuckled. The glass cracked—sharp and sudden—then shattered in my hand. Orange juice everywhere, shards on the tablecloth, cutting into my palm just enough to sting.

"Oh shit—sorry!" I yelped, jumping up. "It was an accident. Slipped."

Mom gasped. "Steph! Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine—just—clumsy." I shook my hand, blood mixing with juice, already backing toward the stairs. "Gonna clean up upstairs. Sorry."

I didn’t wait for answers. Bolted. Feet pounding the steps, door slamming behind me in my room.

Locked it.

Leaned against it, breathing hard.

The box still clutched in my bloody hand.

Downstairs, I could hear Mom fussing over him, him murmuring something soothing.

I opened the little velvet box again the second my door clicked shut—couldn’t help it. Fingers shaking. Expecting a necklace from him as a gift or maybe something innocent to play the “good stepdad” role.

But no.

It was a pair of my panties.

The exact black lace ones I’d left tucked in his lecture notebook yesterday. Still damp. Still carrying that faint, embarrassing scent of me. Folded neatly like a fucking trophy.

“Oh my God,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Then I heard Mom's footsteps Coming up the stairs again, quickly.

Panic. I shoved the box under my pillow, heart jackhammering so loud I swear she could hear it through the door.

Knock knock.

“Steph?” Her voice, all soft and fake-concerned. “I have something to tell you.”

I didn’t answer. Just sat there frozen, staring at the pillow like it might explode.

She pushed the door open anyway—because of course she did, never waits for permission.

“So… tomorrow, which is Sunday, your new dad and I are tying the knot.”

“What!?”

“Yes, baby.” She smiled like this was the best news ever. “And we’re moving uptown to start a new life with him. Bigger house, better neighborhood. Fresh start. Isn’t that exciting?”

I laughed. Short, sharp, bitter. Then the laugh cracked and turned into something wetter—half cry, half choke.

“Diabolical,” I said, voice shaking. “Wow, Mom. I can’t believe you’re doing this to Dad. To his memory. Four years? You’ve been fucking around for four years while I was still—”

“Shut up, Steph!” she snapped, eyes flashing. “Your dad died four years ago. Move on, baby. Get ready for the big day. I’ve been hiding it as a surprise—for everyone. Now go wash that cut on your hand and pick out something nice to wear tomorrow. We’re doing this.”

She turned and left. Door left open like she owned the place. Which, I guess, she did.

I slammed it shut behind her. Locked it. Twice.

Then I sank onto the bed, knees to my chest, breathing like I’d run up ten flights.

Mom was 45. I knew that. Wrinkles starting at the corners of her eyes, gray sneaking into her hair she dyed every month. And Professor Nathan? I’d stalked his Harvard page hard—way too hard—until I found his graduation year. 2020. He’d been 24 then. That made him… 30 now. Fifteen years younger. Fifteen.

She was marrying a man who could’ve been her student. Who probably had been someone’s student while she was already grieving Dad.

And he’d just handed me my own soaked panties like a secret between us.

Tomorrow.

Wedding.

Him in a tux. Her in white. Me… standing there. Watching him promise forever to her while the box under my pillow held the proof he’d already claimed something from me.

I pulled the box out again. Opened it. Stared at the lace.

My thighs clenched. Hard.

I hated her.

I hated him.

And God help me, I wanted him more than ever.

This was going to be the longest night of my life.

And the shortest wedding day anyone’s ever survived.