On My Stepfather's Bed

Bia's POV

I had never hated roses as much as I did that day. Their sickly sweet scent and the overwhelming blush of their petals felt like a taunt, mocking me from every vase and boutonnière. The fragrance clung to everything – my carefully chosen navy dress, the loose strands of hair escaping my braid, even the back of my throat tasted of that nauseating perfume and unspoken resentment. This wedding. Her wedding. It was an assault on my senses, a vivid reminder of a reality I desperately wanted to escape.

My mother, completely unaware, stood at the front of the chapel, glowing in a way that felt utterly foreign. She looked like a teenager, not a woman in her late forties, dressed in a white silk gown that hugged her figure too closely. Her laugh, usually so controlled, was breathless; her eyes, typically practical, sparkled with an excitement that felt inappropriate for someone who was supposed to be a stable parent. And on her arm… him. The man she had chosen to marry after just three whirlwind months.

My stepfather.

Even in my own thoughts, the word felt like a painful scratch, an uncomfortable label I was forced to accept. It tasted like ashes. It tasted like defeat.

He stood tall, a dark figure against the chapel’s stained-glass. Self-assured didn’t even begin to cover it. He was a monument of confidence, his suit impeccably tailored, a crisp white shirt beneath, and his tie perfectly knotted. His hair, dark as midnight, was slicked back just enough to look formal while still hinting at something wild beneath the polished exterior. He showed no signs of nerves, holding my mother’s hand with steady assurance, his gaze unwavering. If anything, he seemed amused, a slight smirk playing at the corners of his lips, as if he found the entire spectacle – the roses, the vows, my mother – to be just another deal he had expertly closed.

Then, his gaze locked onto mine. It wasn’t a casual glance; it was deliberate, almost predatory. I was tucked away in the last row, trying to disappear into the pew, but when his eyes met mine – sharp and unyielding – something cold and electric tightened in my chest. It felt like a challenge, an unspoken question passing between us, a recognition of something unsettling in that shared moment. A tremor began to hum beneath my skin.

Afterward, the reception was a chaotic mix of forced smiles and hollow congratulations. It was worse than the ceremony. The air buzzed with the high-pitched chatter of champagne-fueled conversations, each insincere compliment a fresh prick to my already frayed nerves. I retreated to the buffet table, clutching a can of soda, nursing it like it was my last lifeline. I turned my back to the room, hoping my rigid posture would shield me from the crowd.

“You looked like you wanted to throw something up there,” a low voice murmured close to my ear, sending a jolt through me.

I jumped, nearly spilling my soda, and turned to find him standing there. He hadn’t changed from his wedding suit, still impeccably dressed, still exuding that infuriating air of confidence.

His smirk was as maddening as I remembered, a slow, deliberate curve that suggested he found my discomfort amusing.

“I’m fine,” I replied flatly, crossing my arms defensively. My voice felt tight, almost foreign.

“You don’t look fine,” he teased, his tone playful yet quiet, as if we shared a secret joke that no one else could understand. He had a way of making me feel exposed, both unnerved and, dare I admit, a little thrilled. “You look like you’ve been plotting my demise all night.”

“You’d deserve it,” I muttered, the words slipping out before I could stop them. My cheeks flushed, betraying my inner turmoil. Why couldn’t I just stay silent? Why did he provoke such a strong reaction in me?

His laughter was warm and rich, a sound that vibrated through the air, unlike the polite chuckles of the other guests. He leaned casually against the buffet table, his gaze fixed on my face, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement. His fingers toyed with the stem of his champagne glass, circling the rim in a hypnotic way.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, lowering his voice so only I could hear him over the noise. It felt intimate, and despite myself, I leaned in, drawn by the allure of his whisper. “I’m not here to ruin anything for you.”

I shot him a sharp glare. “You already did.” My voice dripped with venom. The truth hung heavy between us. He had disrupted my mother’s life, and by extension, mine. He was an intruder.

That maddening grin spread across his face again. He straightened, adjusting the cuff of his jacket with a casual flick of his wrist, as if my anger meant nothing to him. Or perhaps it meant something entirely different.

“Guess we’ll have to learn to get along then,” he said, his voice confident, yet still laced with amusement. “It’s your house too now, princess.”

I hated the way he said “princess.” It felt condescending, as if he saw me as something delicate to be protected or possessed. Despite my simmering anger, the word sent an unwelcome heat creeping up my neck and across my cheeks. I knew he noticed. His gaze lingered on my face for just a moment too long, and I could tell he registered my blush, the involuntary shiver that ran down my spine.

“Princess,” I repeated, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “How charming. I suppose you think that makes you a prince?”

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, and I felt a strange mix of irritation and intrigue. “I don’t need a title to know my worth,” he replied smoothly, his eyes glinting with mischief. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

I rolled my eyes, trying to mask the way his confidence unnerved me. “You’re insufferable.”

“Only when provoked,” he shot back, his smirk widening. “And you seem to be doing a great job of that.”

I took a deep breath, trying to regain my composure. “You think this is funny? You think it’s amusing to come into my life and disrupt everything?”

His expression shifted slightly, the amusement fading just enough for me to see a flicker of something else in his eyes—perhaps understanding, or maybe even a hint of regret. “I didn’t ask for this either, you know. But here we are.”

I stared at him, taken aback by the unexpected honesty. “You think I care about your feelings?”

“Maybe not,” he replied, his tone steady. “But it doesn’t change the fact that we’re both stuck in this situation. You can either fight me on it or find a way to coexist.”

“Coexist?” I echoed incredulously. “You think we can just pretend everything is fine?”

“Why not?” he challenged, raising an eyebrow. “It’s either that or make each other’s lives miserable. And I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer to avoid unnecessary drama.”

I wanted to argue, to push back against his calm demeanor, but a part of me was intrigued by his perspective. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Nothing worth having is easy,” he replied, his gaze unwavering. “But it’s a choice we have to make. You can either embrace this new reality or let it consume you.”

I looked away, feeling the weight of his words settle in my chest. “And what if I choose to fight?”

“Then we’ll both lose,” he said simply, his voice low and steady. “And I don’t think either of us wants that.”

I felt a flicker of something—was it respect?—for his willingness to engage with me on this level. “You really think you can just waltz into my life and make everything okay?”

“I’m not here to make everything okay,” he replied, his tone serious. “I’m here to make it work. For your mother’s sake, if nothing else.”

I sighed, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Then let’s take it one step at a time,” he suggested, his expression softening. “We don’t have to be friends, but we can at least be civil.”

“Civil,” I repeated, testing the word on my tongue. “That sounds… manageable.”

“Good,” he said, a hint of satisfaction creeping into his voice. “Now, how about we grab a drink and pretend we’re enjoying this lovely wedding?”

I hesitated, but something in his demeanor made me consider it. “Fine. But don’t think this means I’m on your side.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, his smirk returning. “But I’ll take what I can get.”

As we made our way to the bar, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of something complicated. The tension between us was palpable, a mix of animosity and an unexpected connection that I couldn’t quite understand. But for now, I was willing to play along, if only to see where this strange new dynamic would lead.

As the night wore on, I found myself stealing glances at him, trying to decipher the enigma that was my new stepfather. There was something magnetic about him, a confidence that drew people in, and despite my best efforts to resist, I felt myself being pulled closer to him.

Maybe this wouldn’t be as unbearable as I had initially thought. Maybe, just maybe, we could find a way to navigate this new reality together. But as I looked into his dark, knowing eyes, I couldn't.