Chapter Seventeen: The Stepmother’s Blessing

The afternoon air in the Reynolds gardens is heavy with the scent of blooming jasmine and damp earth. 

After the suffocating tension of the lunch table, the wide-open space should feel like a relief, but as Althea links her arm through mine, it feels like another set of chains.

She is a vision in the sunlight, her cream dress fluttering around her legs. She looks so wholesome, so untainted by the filth of the secrets I carry.

"It’s so beautiful out here, isn't it, Zola?" Althea sighs, her eyes swept over the manicured hedges. "Arthur told me he had the rose garden redesigned just for you. He really does adore you."

"He’s... he’s very generous," I manage to say, my voice still a bit breathless. My inner thighs still feel sensitized, the ghost of Ethan’s toes lingering on my skin like a brand.

Althea stops walking and turns to face me, taking both of my hands in hers. Her palms are soft and warm. "I wanted to get you alone for a moment. I know I’m practically part of the family already, but I wanted to ask for your blessing. Formally."

I blink, stunned. "My blessing?"

"Yes," she says with a sincere, wide-eyed smile. "You’re the mistress of this house now. You’re Ethan’s stepmother. It’s important to me that you approve of our union. I want us to be more than just in-laws, Zola. I want us to be friends. The Reynolds wives... we have to stick together, don't we?"

The guilt hits me like a physical blow to the stomach. Here she is, offering me sisterhood and respect, while I spent the last hour trying not to climax in front of her.

"Althea, you don't need my blessing," I say, my voice trembling slightly. "Ethan is his own man. And you’re... you’re perfect for him. Truly."

"Thank you," she whispers, leaning in to give my cheek a soft, affectionate squeeze. "You’re so lucky, you know. Arthur is such a pillar of strength. He’s so stable, so kind. And Ethan... well, Ethan can be difficult. He’s intense. He has this darkness in him sometimes, a temper that scares people. But I know I’m the only one who can truly ground him."

I forced a smile, the irony of her words taste like vinegar. You don't know him at all, I wanted to scream. You don't know the monster he becomes when the sun goes down.

"He’s lucky to have someone who understands him," I lie, the words feeling like jagged glass in my throat.

"We’re both lucky," Althea laughs, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "We’ve both landed the most powerful men in the city. I can already see us hosting galas together, spending summers at the lake house. We're going to be a formidable team, Zola."

She looks at me with such genuine warmth that for a moment, I actually believe in the fantasy. I see the version of my life where I am just a happy wife, where Ethan is just a stepson, and where this garden is a sanctuary instead of a prison.

"I’d like that, Althea," I say, and for the first time today, a small part of my smile is real. I want to be her friend. I want to be the woman she thinks I am.

"Good," she beams, hooking her arm back into mine. "Now, tell me everything. Does Ethan talk about me when I'm gone? I want to know if he’s been pining for me as much as he says he has."

As we walk deeper into the garden, I have to weave a web of beautiful lies, describing a version of Ethan that doesn't exist. 

I tell her he’s devoted. I tell her he’s loyal. All the while, I can feel the weight of the Reynolds diamonds at my throat, and the secret, pulsing ache between my legs, reminding me that Althea is building her future on a foundation of my sins.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Althea finally leaves, her silver convertible disappearing down the long, winding driveway of the estate. I stand on the gravel path for a moment, my lungs finally expanding with a full breath of air. The "sisterhood" she offered still feels like a lead weight in my chest.

"She has a beautiful soul, doesn't she?"

The voice drops from above, cold and jagged. I whirl around. Ethan is leaning against the stone railing of the second-floor balcony, his tie loosened, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He’s been watching us the entire time.

"She’s a good person, Ethan," I say, my voice trembling with a sudden surge of protectiveness for the girl I’m helping him betray. "She’s kind. She’s innocent. Why are you doing this to her?"

He doesn't answer. He simply turns and disappears into the house.

Seconds later, the heavy oak doors to the garden fly open. Ethan strides out, his presence swallowing the sunlight. He doesn't stop until he’s inches from me, his shadow towering over my smaller frame.

"You looked so cozy out there," he sneers, his fingers reaching out to grip my chin, forcing my head back. "Bonding over the Reynolds legacy? Planning your little shopping trips? You almost looked like you belonged in her world."

"She wants to be my friend, Ethan. She asked for my blessing!" I hiss, trying to wrench my face away.

His grip tightens, his thumb digging into the soft flesh of my jaw. "And did you give it? Did you tell her that while she was at the lake house, her fiancé was busy reclaiming the 'tax' from his stepmother’s throat?"

"Stop it," I sob, the shame finally breaking through.

"I saw the way you smiled at her," he growls, his face contorting with a sudden, irrational fury. He slams me back against the trunk of a willow tree, the low-hanging branches concealing us from the house. 

"Don't you ever pretend to be her equal. You aren't her friend, Zola. You're the secret she’ll never know. You're the filth that keeps her hands clean."

He rips the front of my dress open, the buttons scattering into the grass like lost pearls.

"Ethan, no! Not here, the staff will see!"

"Let them look," he rasps, his mouth crashing against mine.

This isn't the hunger from the bedroom. This is a territorial, ugly rage. 

He’s jealous - not of Althea, but of the fact that I could find a moment of peace with someone other than him. He wants me to be as miserable and as tainted as he feels.

He hikes my skirt up, his hand moving with a violent, frantic speed. Because I’m still not wearing any underwear, his fingers find me instantly. I’m still wet from his lunch-time torture, still aching from the friction of his shoe.

"You're still weeping for me," he mocks, his voice a low vibration against my neck. 

"Even while you're holding her hand and playing 'Mother', your body is screaming for mine."

He doesn't use his fingers for pleasure. He uses them to claim, to hurt, to remind. He thrusts into me with a brutal rhythm, his other hand fisting in my hair and pulling until my eyes water.

"Say it," he commands, his teeth grazing my ear. "Say you’re nothing like her."

"I'm... I'm nothing like her," I moan, my resistance crumbling under the sheer, dark force of his presence.

"You’re a sinner, Sapphire. My sinner."

He unzips his trousers, his breathing coming in heavy, jagged hitches. He doesn't lay me down. He lifts me, pinning my back against the rough bark of the tree, and drives into me with a singular, punishing lunge.

Nnnh-ah! The air is punched out of me. The contrast is agonizing; the beautiful, serene rose garden all around us, and this raw, violent desecration happening in the shadows. 

He moves with a frantic, piston-like speed, his body hitting mine with a rhythmic thud, thud, thud.

"Please... Ethan... someone is coming..." I plead, my eyes darting toward the mansion windows.

"Let them see what Arthur bought for himself," he growls, his pace reaching a fever pitch.

He isn't being gentle. He’s marking me from the inside out. The pleasure is sharp, dangerous, and overwhelming. I find myself clinging to him, my legs locked around his waist, my nails digging into the expensive fabric of his suit. 

I am drowning in him, lost in the very darkness Althea said she could "ground."

When the climax hits, it’s a violent, messy explosion that leaves me shaking and sobbing against his chest. Ethan roars, his body stiffening as he spills himself into me, his grip on my hair so tight I think he might pull it out.

He lets me down slowly, his eyes dark with a terrifying, obsessive triumph. He looks at my ruined dress, my swollen lips, and the way I’m clinging to the tree for support.

"Clean yourself up," he says, his voice returning to that cold, distant mask. "And get ready for dinner. My father wants to discuss my wedding. I expect you to have lots of ideas for the decorations."

He turns and walks away, leaving me alone in the garden, the scent of crushed roses and my own betrayal clinging to me like a shroud.