My Stepson's Blackmail Toy - Chapter 5: Chapter 5
You are reading My Stepson's Blackmail Toy, Chapter 5: Chapter 5. Read more chapters of My Stepson's Blackmail Toy.
Vanessa Lombardi's face drained of color, her eyes widening in shock as they locked onto mine.
"Sweetheart, this is my son, Ryan Lowell. I realize we haven't had proper introductions yet."
"Ryan! You must be starving. Let me fix you some oatmeal," Vanessa chirped, suddenly all false smiles and manufactured concern as she tried to shift the conversation.
"I'm good," I said flatly, not bothering to mask my disdain.
"Oh come now—growing boys like you need their meals. No need to be shy around family," she purred, taking a deliberate step closer.
Family? Since when did gold-digging con artists qualify? If Dad weren't in the picture, I'd have had her arrested already.
"Speaking of your father," she continued, her voice laced with warning, "his blood pressure's been unstable and he's not sleeping well. As his son, you should be mindful of what you say around him." With that not-so-subtle threat, she vanished into the kitchen.
No shit he wasn't sleeping—she was the reason. The hotel incident must be eating her alive.
At dinner, Dad couldn't stop gushing about Vanessa—how her magic hands made his creaky joints feel twenty years younger, how they were soulmates destined to be together. I wanted to shake some sense into the old fool, but he was still my father. When he reached for his wine glass, I noticed his hand trembling violently. Some fountain of youth—she was draining him dry.
"Oatmeal's ready, Ryan. Best eat it hot."
Vanessa reappeared with a steaming bowl, her artfully tousled hair framing a face that radiated fake warmth. No wonder Dad was hooked.
Against my better judgment, I took a bite. Damn. The woman could cook, I'll give her that.
They say food's the way to a man's heart. With Mom gone years ago and me working out of state, I got why a lonely widower would crave company. But Jesus, did he have to pick this viper?
"Ryan, get some rest. Your father and I are turning in early."
Dad gave Vanessa that lovesick look before they disappeared down the hall.
The walls might as well have been made of paper—their bedroom antics were unmistakable. The old man was going to give himself a heart attack trying to keep up with her.
Next morning, I found Vanessa in a barely-there sundress, breakfast spread like some domestic fantasy.
"Ryan! Just in time—I made your favorite."
Her Stepford Wife routine was Oscar-worthy. If I hadn't seen her true colors, I might've bought the act.
"Where's Dad?"
"Still resting—poor thing had a rough night." Her smug grin told me rything.
As I sat, she slid a bowl of oatmeal in front of me. "Your father mentioned it's your favorite. Woke up at dawn to make it special."
The unspoken bargain hung between us. I ate in stony silence until she sidled up beside me.
"Ryan," she whispered, her fingers trailing up my thigh, "what happens in this house stays in this house. I could make it worth your while." Then I felt her bare foot creeping up my calf.
I damn near spit out my oatmeal. In my childhood home? The woman had no shame.
"Vanessa," I growled, shoving my bowl away, "you're married to my father. Have some fucking decency."
I bolted to my room, but her touch lingered like a brand.
Playing it cool, I left for "work" that afternoon—only to find Vanessa perched on Dad's lap like some lovesick teenager when I returned briefly.
"Back to the office. Take care, Dad."
He barely grunted in response, too busy being hand-fed grapes like some Roman emperor.
That night, I finally checked the hotel surveillance footage I'd been too busy to review.
My room change from 503 to 603 hadn't been accidental.
At 1:33 AM sharp, there she was—same outfit, same mask, walking straight into Room 603 like she owned the place.
"Sweetheart, this is my son, Ryan Lowell. I realize we haven't had proper introductions yet."
"Ryan! You must be starving. Let me fix you some oatmeal," Vanessa chirped, suddenly all false smiles and manufactured concern as she tried to shift the conversation.
"I'm good," I said flatly, not bothering to mask my disdain.
"Oh come now—growing boys like you need their meals. No need to be shy around family," she purred, taking a deliberate step closer.
Family? Since when did gold-digging con artists qualify? If Dad weren't in the picture, I'd have had her arrested already.
"Speaking of your father," she continued, her voice laced with warning, "his blood pressure's been unstable and he's not sleeping well. As his son, you should be mindful of what you say around him." With that not-so-subtle threat, she vanished into the kitchen.
No shit he wasn't sleeping—she was the reason. The hotel incident must be eating her alive.
At dinner, Dad couldn't stop gushing about Vanessa—how her magic hands made his creaky joints feel twenty years younger, how they were soulmates destined to be together. I wanted to shake some sense into the old fool, but he was still my father. When he reached for his wine glass, I noticed his hand trembling violently. Some fountain of youth—she was draining him dry.
"Oatmeal's ready, Ryan. Best eat it hot."
Vanessa reappeared with a steaming bowl, her artfully tousled hair framing a face that radiated fake warmth. No wonder Dad was hooked.
Against my better judgment, I took a bite. Damn. The woman could cook, I'll give her that.
They say food's the way to a man's heart. With Mom gone years ago and me working out of state, I got why a lonely widower would crave company. But Jesus, did he have to pick this viper?
"Ryan, get some rest. Your father and I are turning in early."
Dad gave Vanessa that lovesick look before they disappeared down the hall.
The walls might as well have been made of paper—their bedroom antics were unmistakable. The old man was going to give himself a heart attack trying to keep up with her.
Next morning, I found Vanessa in a barely-there sundress, breakfast spread like some domestic fantasy.
"Ryan! Just in time—I made your favorite."
Her Stepford Wife routine was Oscar-worthy. If I hadn't seen her true colors, I might've bought the act.
"Where's Dad?"
"Still resting—poor thing had a rough night." Her smug grin told me rything.
As I sat, she slid a bowl of oatmeal in front of me. "Your father mentioned it's your favorite. Woke up at dawn to make it special."
The unspoken bargain hung between us. I ate in stony silence until she sidled up beside me.
"Ryan," she whispered, her fingers trailing up my thigh, "what happens in this house stays in this house. I could make it worth your while." Then I felt her bare foot creeping up my calf.
I damn near spit out my oatmeal. In my childhood home? The woman had no shame.
"Vanessa," I growled, shoving my bowl away, "you're married to my father. Have some fucking decency."
I bolted to my room, but her touch lingered like a brand.
Playing it cool, I left for "work" that afternoon—only to find Vanessa perched on Dad's lap like some lovesick teenager when I returned briefly.
"Back to the office. Take care, Dad."
He barely grunted in response, too busy being hand-fed grapes like some Roman emperor.
That night, I finally checked the hotel surveillance footage I'd been too busy to review.
My room change from 503 to 603 hadn't been accidental.
At 1:33 AM sharp, there she was—same outfit, same mask, walking straight into Room 603 like she owned the place.
End of My Stepson's Blackmail Toy Chapter 5. Continue reading Chapter 6 or return to My Stepson's Blackmail Toy book page.