My Stepson's Blackmail Toy - Chapter 8: Chapter 8
You are reading My Stepson's Blackmail Toy, Chapter 8: Chapter 8. Read more chapters of My Stepson's Blackmail Toy.
The damn bedside phone chose that exact moment to blast its ringtone.
Sophia shoved me away with awkward urgency, cocooning herself in the sheets as she grabbed the phone. What happened next was weird as hell—she practically sprinted to the bathroom, slamming the door before saying a word. When she emerged, she dressed faster than a NASCAR pit crew and bolted, muttering something about an emergency.
Left alone in that empty hotel room, I had to take matters into my own hands—literally.
Time wasn't on my side. Since Sophia needed more convincing, I figured I'd rip the bandaid off with Dad about Vanessa's shady business first—at least prep him for the coming storm.
But when I raced home, the place was deserted. Again. I slipped into Dad and Vanessa's bedroom, hunting for more dirt.
Rookie mistake. The shower running at 2 PM? Since when did Vanessa do midday showers?
"AHHH! HELP!"
A blood-curdling scream froze me mid-step. Then—silence.
My stomach dropped. How many news stories had I seen about people cracking their skulls on shower tiles? The last thing I needed was a dead stepmom on my conscience.
I lunged for the door—only for it to swing open before I touched it.
There sat Vanessa, buck naked on the floor, giving me her best damsel-in-distress look. "Ryan, sweetie, I twisted my ankle. Be a dear and help me up?"
Un-fucking-believable. First Sophia blue-balls me, now this? If I hadn't taken care of business earlier, this visual might've given me a stroke.
I extended a hand like some Victorian gentleman, but Vanessa sprang up and full-body tackled me, wailing like a soap opera star. "RICHARD! Your pervert son barged in on me! DO SOMETHING!"
Before I could say "setup," a stinging slap rocked my face.
"Ryan Lowell, you sick bastard!" Dad's voice boomed. "How dare you touch my wife!"
Checkmate. Vanessa had played me perfectly. When seduction failed, she went nuclear—turning Dad against me. Now nothing I said would matter.
"Open your eyes, Dad! She's playing you! She took out a million-dollar accidental death policy on you! And she's screwing around behind your back!"
Vanessa clutched her imaginary pearls. "Ryan, I know you hate me, but this? Richard and I discussed that insurance together. And cheating? Where's your proof?"
Her counterpunch knocked the wind out of me. I'd risked my neck for that policy info, only to learn Dad had willingly signed it. And the cheating? All smoke, no fire.
"You're just lusting after your stepmother, you degenerate. GET OUT! You're dead to me!"
My own father chose gold-digging pussy over blood. After rything I'd done to protect him, I got exiled for my trouble. Fuming, I crashed the nearest bar.
Ethan Crawford materialized like a guardian angel with whiskey. "Dude, why not just call the cops? Why play detective?"
"I wanted to spare Dad the humiliation. Get him to divorce her first, then involve authorities." I knocked back my drink.
Just then, Sophia texted: "So sorry about earlier. Meet me at The Grandelle Inn tonight?"
"Sure," I thumbed without thinking.
The booze only deepened the misery. Within an hour, Ethan and I were face-down on the table.
I came to past eln—shit, Sophia! I Ubered to The Grandelle like my life depended on it.
Room 503's door swung open to ral her waiting inside. But that black dress set off alarm bells—identical to Vanessa's seduction outfit.
"Let's go to my place," I suggested. This room felt... wrong.
"Here's perfect," she purred. "Didn't you promise me a baby? Better put your back into it tonight."
Something was off. Her voice had lost its usual honey—raspier, almost forced. But those curves, that face—undeniably Sophia.
Where she'd been shy before, now she attacked me like a seasoned pro—crushing her lips against mine, guiding my hands with practiced precision.
"Remember your promise, boss," she breathed in my ear. "After tonight, we get married tomorrow."
As if. I was playing the long game.
"I'll marry you. But first—what was Vanessa doing in Room 603?" I pulled back, holding up my phone's recording.
Game over. I couldn't let this charade go further.
Sophia went sheet-white, eyes darting rywhere but at me.
"You and Vanessa ran a honey trap. I've got proof. Turn yourself in, maybe you get probation," I bluffed.
"I don't know what you're—if you're chickening out, I'm leaving."
"Fine. Then explain this—why does Vanessa have marks send money to you first, then you funnel it to her?" Time to plant seeds of doubt.
"Seriously, I don't—"
"Then let's call the cops. I'm sure your other victims will talk."
While digging through Vanessa's phone, I'd discovered most payments went to a "Vincent"—her ex-husband, Vincent Deross.
"You're tight with Vanessa. So you know Vincent Deross?"
At that name, Sophia's whole body convulsed, her mouth opening—
SCREEEECH!
A deafening noise from the window cut her off.
Sophia shoved me away with awkward urgency, cocooning herself in the sheets as she grabbed the phone. What happened next was weird as hell—she practically sprinted to the bathroom, slamming the door before saying a word. When she emerged, she dressed faster than a NASCAR pit crew and bolted, muttering something about an emergency.
Left alone in that empty hotel room, I had to take matters into my own hands—literally.
Time wasn't on my side. Since Sophia needed more convincing, I figured I'd rip the bandaid off with Dad about Vanessa's shady business first—at least prep him for the coming storm.
But when I raced home, the place was deserted. Again. I slipped into Dad and Vanessa's bedroom, hunting for more dirt.
Rookie mistake. The shower running at 2 PM? Since when did Vanessa do midday showers?
"AHHH! HELP!"
A blood-curdling scream froze me mid-step. Then—silence.
My stomach dropped. How many news stories had I seen about people cracking their skulls on shower tiles? The last thing I needed was a dead stepmom on my conscience.
I lunged for the door—only for it to swing open before I touched it.
There sat Vanessa, buck naked on the floor, giving me her best damsel-in-distress look. "Ryan, sweetie, I twisted my ankle. Be a dear and help me up?"
Un-fucking-believable. First Sophia blue-balls me, now this? If I hadn't taken care of business earlier, this visual might've given me a stroke.
I extended a hand like some Victorian gentleman, but Vanessa sprang up and full-body tackled me, wailing like a soap opera star. "RICHARD! Your pervert son barged in on me! DO SOMETHING!"
Before I could say "setup," a stinging slap rocked my face.
"Ryan Lowell, you sick bastard!" Dad's voice boomed. "How dare you touch my wife!"
Checkmate. Vanessa had played me perfectly. When seduction failed, she went nuclear—turning Dad against me. Now nothing I said would matter.
"Open your eyes, Dad! She's playing you! She took out a million-dollar accidental death policy on you! And she's screwing around behind your back!"
Vanessa clutched her imaginary pearls. "Ryan, I know you hate me, but this? Richard and I discussed that insurance together. And cheating? Where's your proof?"
Her counterpunch knocked the wind out of me. I'd risked my neck for that policy info, only to learn Dad had willingly signed it. And the cheating? All smoke, no fire.
"You're just lusting after your stepmother, you degenerate. GET OUT! You're dead to me!"
My own father chose gold-digging pussy over blood. After rything I'd done to protect him, I got exiled for my trouble. Fuming, I crashed the nearest bar.
Ethan Crawford materialized like a guardian angel with whiskey. "Dude, why not just call the cops? Why play detective?"
"I wanted to spare Dad the humiliation. Get him to divorce her first, then involve authorities." I knocked back my drink.
Just then, Sophia texted: "So sorry about earlier. Meet me at The Grandelle Inn tonight?"
"Sure," I thumbed without thinking.
The booze only deepened the misery. Within an hour, Ethan and I were face-down on the table.
I came to past eln—shit, Sophia! I Ubered to The Grandelle like my life depended on it.
Room 503's door swung open to ral her waiting inside. But that black dress set off alarm bells—identical to Vanessa's seduction outfit.
"Let's go to my place," I suggested. This room felt... wrong.
"Here's perfect," she purred. "Didn't you promise me a baby? Better put your back into it tonight."
Something was off. Her voice had lost its usual honey—raspier, almost forced. But those curves, that face—undeniably Sophia.
Where she'd been shy before, now she attacked me like a seasoned pro—crushing her lips against mine, guiding my hands with practiced precision.
"Remember your promise, boss," she breathed in my ear. "After tonight, we get married tomorrow."
As if. I was playing the long game.
"I'll marry you. But first—what was Vanessa doing in Room 603?" I pulled back, holding up my phone's recording.
Game over. I couldn't let this charade go further.
Sophia went sheet-white, eyes darting rywhere but at me.
"You and Vanessa ran a honey trap. I've got proof. Turn yourself in, maybe you get probation," I bluffed.
"I don't know what you're—if you're chickening out, I'm leaving."
"Fine. Then explain this—why does Vanessa have marks send money to you first, then you funnel it to her?" Time to plant seeds of doubt.
"Seriously, I don't—"
"Then let's call the cops. I'm sure your other victims will talk."
While digging through Vanessa's phone, I'd discovered most payments went to a "Vincent"—her ex-husband, Vincent Deross.
"You're tight with Vanessa. So you know Vincent Deross?"
At that name, Sophia's whole body convulsed, her mouth opening—
SCREEEECH!
A deafening noise from the window cut her off.
End of My Stepson's Blackmail Toy Chapter 8. Continue reading Chapter 9 or return to My Stepson's Blackmail Toy book page.