Chapter 4

The morning sunlight slanted through the curtains, painting the room in soft golden streaks, but the air between us was colder than ice. My eyes were barely open when a soft knock came at the door, followed by the creak of it opening.

“Good morning, Stepmom,” Jackson’s voice sliced through the silence like a blade. I turned toward him slowly, still groggy from sleep. He stood there, tall and confident, holding a tray. “You didn’t come down for breakfast, so I thought I’d bring it to you.”

I stared at him, unsure of what to make of this sudden change. The same man who had mocked me just yesterday now stood in front of me, offering kindness? My eyes moved from his face to the tray—coffee, toast, a small bowl of fruits. Everything looked warm and fresh.

He stepped into the room carefully, like someone entering a fragile space, and placed the tray on the bedside table. Then he pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down, his posture surprisingly relaxed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the words made me blink in surprise. “If my words hurt you yesterday… I didn’t mean them that way. Well, maybe I did in the moment, but… hearing you cry last night… I don’t know. It didn’t sit well with me.”

I looked away, trying to hide the flicker of vulnerability on my face. His tone was gentle now, nothing like the mocking one from before.

“I know you didn’t sleep much,” he added, glancing at the pillow beside me, the covers that I had twisted in my tossing. “And I’m truly sorry. I was angry and rude. I let my issues with my father spill over onto you. That wasn’t fair.”

His words felt real, and that scared me. I wasn’t sure how to respond.

“It’s okay,” I said softly, my voice hoarse from crying. I didn’t want to lower my guard too easily. “Thank you for the breakfast.”

He nodded, offering a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Enjoy it. I’ll be at the seat-out if you need anything.”

And just like that, he stood up and walked out, leaving me sitting there, confused and cautious. His footsteps echoed in the hallway, fading slowly until there was only silence again.

I stared at the tray, the steam rising from the coffee cup curling in the air like a ghost. The scent of buttered toast and rich coffee should have made my stomach growl, but I felt empty inside. Still, I forced myself to get up, brush my teeth, and take a few bites. My body needed strength, even if my heart felt too tired to care.

After eating a little, I walked to the wardrobe to grab something comfortable to wear. But the moment I opened it, my breath caught in my throat.

Everything I owned—every dress, shirt, shoe, and scarf—was gone.

In their place were new clothes. Dresses I had never seen before, elegant and expensive. Soft silks, rich colors, carefully hung and folded like they belonged in a magazine spread. But none of them were mine. None of them carried the memories of who I was before I stepped into this house.

I stood there frozen, my heart sinking. Mr. Derrick had done this. He had taken away the last pieces of my old life. Of me.

I reached out and touched one of the dresses. It was beautiful, sleek, and perfectly tailored. A rich burgundy color that would hug every curve. I slipped into it with shaky hands. The fabric fit like a glove, almost too perfect, like it was chosen to impress someone.

As I stepped out of the room, I nearly bumped into Mr. Derrick.

He gave me a long, slow look, his eyes moving down my body. “You look stunning,” he said, his lips curving into a smug smile. “I knew these would suit you.”

I folded my arms, trying to steady the frustration rising inside me. “Good morning,” I said flatly. “I think you should have asked before throwing out my clothes. I bought them with my own money.”

He tilted his head, clearly unbothered. “Noted. But you’re my wife now,” he said calmly, “and I want you to look the part.”

His words felt like iron bars around me. A reminder that no matter how beautiful the cage was, I was still trapped inside it.

“Thank you,” I muttered and stepped past him, resisting the urge to scream.

The garden became my escape. Among the trimmed hedges, the blooming roses, and the quiet rustling of leaves, I found a moment of peace. I sat on the stone bench, letting the wind kiss my skin, my thoughts far away. I tried to remember the sound of Daniel’s laugh, the way he used to hold my hand. But the memories only brought pain.

“Hello, Stepmom,” Jackson’s voice broke into my thoughts, playful this time.

I didn’t look up. “Sit wherever you like. It’s your father’s house.”

He settled beside me, and for a moment, we just sat in silence. Then he said, “You don’t even care to know your stepson’s name. That’s not very motherly of you.”

I glanced at him, unimpressed. “What do you want, Jackson?”

He chuckled softly. “I want to start over.” His voice had lost its teasing edge. “Yesterday… I was out of line. I was angry, but not at you. My relationship with my dad is… complicated. It’s made me someone I’m not proud of.”

I turned to look at him fully now. His jaw was tense, his eyes serious. And beneath that tough exterior, I saw a glimpse of hurt.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice gentle. “No one deserves to feel that way.”

He looked at me, and for a second, we weren’t enemies. Just two people lost in a world that didn’t care about feelings.

“Thank you,” he said. “You’re different from the others my dad’s brought here. You don’t act like them. You don’t pretend.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I stayed quiet.

“Tell me about yourself,” he added.

Part of me wanted to shut him out, but his curiosity felt genuine. Slowly, piece by piece, I started to share small parts of my story—how I loved art, how I had dreams of running my own gallery one day, how everything had changed so suddenly.

He listened without interrupting, nodding, sometimes asking gentle questions. And as the days passed, we talked more. Sometimes in the garden, sometimes over dinner, or when we crossed paths in the hall.

The tension that once defined us began to shift into something… different.

One evening, I was curled up in the living room, flipping through the channels when Jackson walked in.

“Stepmom,” he said with a teasing grin.

I rolled my eyes. “I told you to stop calling me that.”

“But you are my dad’s wife,” he teased, dropping onto the couch beside me.

“I prefer you call me by my name.”

He raised a brow. “Fine, but only when he’s not around.”

There was a small smile tugging at my lips before I even realized it.

“So,” he continued, leaning back, “how about we hang out tonight? It’s been weeks of being cooped up here. Let’s do something fun.”

I hesitated. The idea of going out with Jackson felt dangerous… but also tempting.

“Okay,” I said, surprising even myself. “Let’s go.”

I dressed carefully that night. The mirror reflected someone I didn’t quite recognize—a woman in control, confident, strong. When I stepped out, Jackson’s eyes widened slightly.

“You look… wow,” he said, unable to hide his admiration.

“Thank you,” I replied, brushing past him with a soft smile.

We drove into the city, found a cozy rooftop bar, and ordered drinks. The lights shimmered like stars around us, and for the first time in a long time, I laughed. Really laughed. Jackson was charming when he let his guard down, and witty in a way that made time fly.

We danced. We shared stories. We drank just enough to feel bold but not reckless.

By the time we got back to the mansion, the world had quieted down, but the air between us had changed. It was charged with something we hadn’t spoken aloud yet—something we had both felt growing quietly.

“Thank you, Jackson,” I said softly, pausing at my door. “I had a lot of fun.”

“So did I,” he murmured, his eyes locked on mine.

And then, before I could think too hard, he stepped closer. His hand brushed against mine, his fingers warm and hesitant. I didn’t pull away.

His lips touched mine—soft, hesitant, and full of tension. The kiss was quick, but it felt like lightning, sending sparks down my spine.

We pulled apart slowly, breathless, staring at each other like we had both just crossed a line we didn’t know we were standing on.

Without another word, I slipped into my room, my heart pounding against my ribs. I leaned against the door, t

rying to catch my breath.

That kiss… it had changed everything.

And deep down, I knew—there was no going back now.