Chapter Sixteen: The Stepmother’s Ruin

The dining room is a cathedral of sunlight and polished silver, but to me, it feels like a courtroom.

Arthur sits at the head of the long table, beaming with a pride that feels like a weight on my chest. To his right sits Ethan, looking devastatingly handsome in a charcoal suit. And beside Ethan sits Althea.

She is breathtaking. Her hair is a cascade of honey-blonde silk, and her skin glows with the health of someone who has never known a day of true desperation. She wears a cream-colored dress that screams old money: elegant, modest, and perfect.

I sit beside Arthur. I feel like a smudge of charcoal on a white canvas. 

Under the table, I am acutely aware of the draft on my skin; I am wearing nothing but the silk of my dress, just as Ethan commanded after the "Tax" last night: 'If I find a single scrap of lace between your legs again, I’ll strip you in front of him.'

As promised, for the past week, Ethan has personally tasted every morsel and water that enters my mouth. He is my taster, my warden, and my tormentor.

Suddenly, I hear a soft, rhythmic friction. Ethan has kicked off his loafers.

"It’s just wonderful to have you back, Althea," Arthur says, oblivious as he cuts into his steak.

Then I feel a sensation that rips my focus away.

The sudden, searing heat of a bare foot.

Ethan’s toes find the arch of my foot, sliding up my ankle with a slow, predatory grace. His skin is rougher than mine, calloused and hot.

The contact is electric; a silent scream in the middle of a polite conversation.

"It’s good to be home, Arthur," Althea chirps, her voice like a silver bell. She reaches over and squeezes Ethan’s hand. "I’ve missed this one terribly."

Ethan offers her a smile, a soft, gentle expression I’ve never seen. "I told you, baby, if you need to see me more often, let’s just get married."

Under the table, he is anything but gentle. 

His toes spread, gripping my calf, the hair on his leg brushing my skin as he slides higher. He finds the hem of my dress and hooks it, dragging the silk upward. The cool air hits my bare thighs, immediately replaced by the furnace of his sole.

"So, Althea," Arthur says, "Ethan mentioned the merger with your father’s firm. It will be the most powerful union in the city’s history."

Ethan’s foot reaches the apex. He doesn't just touch me; he explores. His big toe finds the sensitive, swollen fold of my labia, pressing firmly.

I gasp, the sound catching in my throat as a sharp, unwanted spark of pleasure lances through me. 

Ethan’s gaze never leaves mine. While he holds Althea’s hand above the table, he is desecrating me below it.

He begins to work his toes with terrifying, clinical precision. He curls them, hooking into me, his rough nail grazing my clitoris with deliberate, rhythmic friction. 

Squish.

The sound of my own slickness is deafening in my ears. I am already wet, my body betraying me to the man who is about to marry another woman. He rubs in deep, heavy circles, the heat of his skin melting into mine.

Oh my goodness

"Zola, dear? Don't you agree?" Arthur asks.

I jump, my glass rattling against the table. "I... yes. A merger is... it's a brilliant move."

My voice is a breathy octave higher, trembling with the effort of not arching into his touch. Ethan knows. He can feel the way my body is pulsing against him.

“I heard about the poisoning, Mrs Reynolds. Are you better now? You look a bit flushed,” Althea says, looking straight into my eyes, her worry genuine.

“I’m better now. It’s been almost a week,” I reply, forcing a smile.

Ethan leans toward Althea, picking up a piece of sliced pear and feeding it to her. "Try this, darling. It’s perfectly ripe."

As she bites into the fruit, giggling, Ethan’s foot becomes more aggressive. He pushes his heel against my opening, the pressure heavy and blunt, while his toes continue to tease and pull at my center. 

The sensation is maddening: a mix of sharp, electric pulses and a deep, aching throb.

"Mmm," Althea purrs, leaning her head on Ethan’s shoulder. "You’re so sweet to me, Ethan."

"Because I love you," Ethan murmurs. He looks at me, his eyes dark with a cruel, mocking triumph. He increases the pace, his toes flicking against my clitoris with a speed that makes my vision blur.

I let out a soft, involuntary hitch of breath, my fingers digging into my chair.

"Are you alright, Zola?" Althea asks, her eyes full of concern. "Is it too warm in here?"

"I'm... I'm fine," I stammer, my body on the very edge of a ruined, silent climax. I can feel the first ripples of a contraction. "Just... a bit of a headache."

"I hope it’s not another allergic reaction," Arthur says, reaching over to pat my hand.

It’s a reaction, alright. Just one I’m not allergic to.

Under the table, Ethan’s toes give one final, brutal curl - pinching the sensitive bud of my pleasure and holding it. I bite my tongue until it bleeds, my body stiffening in a silent, agonizing peak that leaves me shaking and hollow.

Only then does he slowly, agonizingly, withdraw his foot. He slides his damp foot back into his loafer with a smirk that is pure, unadulterated malice.

"I think you should rest, Mother," Ethan says, his voice smooth as silk. "You look like you’re about to pass out."

He smiles at me - a flash of white teeth that promises the "Tax" tonight will be paid in blood and salt. 

 I sit there, ruined and wet, watching the man I love to hate plan a wedding with a woman who has no idea she’s sharing his bed with his stepmother.