Owning My Stepfather:A Forbidden Romance

Elias Thorne

Your father is dead.

I stared at the notification plainly before setting the phone down.

I replayed the words over and over again in my head until the logic part of me connected with my emotions.

My chest constrained, hands clenched on my laps,palms sweaty,my breathing ragged. I frowned trying to understand if there was any other meaning to the message.

I couldn't find any.

The world didn't stop. The professor keep on rambling, the two girls behind me were not doing a good job at keeping their tone down and hiding their gossip , the guy beside me kept chewing his pen. Everything kept moving on.

The world didn't stop but I wish it had.

I started at the front,words getting blurred by my tears.

I didn't wipe it away. I couldn't move. My muscles felt like they had been replaced with lead, pinning me to the chair while the rest of the room carried on in its nauseatingly normal rhythm.

"Mr. Thorne? Are you with us?”

I couldn't move. I tried to but everything was still yet moving so fast that I felt nauseous.

“Mr.Thorne.” the voice cut through again. A firm hand on my shoulder. “Is everything okay?”

I didn't respond. Couldn't. I just shoved my books into my bag with trembling hands.

I dragged myself out without a word.The gossiping girls falling silent as I passed. The stares of everyone in the class burning into my back.

I hit the campus air and ran. I ran until the burning in my lungs drowned out the screaming in my heart. But no matter how fast I went, I couldn't outrun the thought that had begun to rot in my mind: My mother was the one who sent the text.

Cold. Brief. Efficient.

Just like who she is.

Just like she wanted him gone.

My legs gave out and all went dark.

3 months later

Sharp, rhythmic rapping against my bedroom door dragged me out of a dreamless, heavy sleep.

"Elias. Wake up. The first of the town cars are pulling into the drive."

My mother’s voice was as crisp as the morning air, devoid of the tremor I’d been carrying in my own voice for ninety days.

I stared up at the ceiling of my room in the Vance estate. A room I was forced to adjust and move into two months after my father's death.

I didn't move. I wanted to sink into the mattress and let the house grow over me, but the door opened anyway.

Claire,my mom, stood there, already dressed in silver silk. She looked perfect. Not a hair out of place, not a sign of the woman who had buried a husband three months ago. She looked like she was heading into a board meeting for a negotiation.

"Your suit is pressed and hanging in the dressing room," she said, her eyes scanning my messy bed,a clear sign of disapproval written on her face.

"Don't make me send someone to come fetch you. We have a lot to do and I can't risk the schedule because of your lack of agency."

“Okay.” I murmur.

“And ensure you look put together,Elias. This isn't a game.”

"God forbid we look human for a second," I muttered, my voice thick with sleep and bitterness.

“Being human doesn't equate being messy. Now get up.”

She just adjusted a diamond earring, her reflection in my vanity mirror sharp and untouchable.

"Today we become the Vances. Don't mess this up."

She left without waiting for a response. The click of her heels down the hallway sounded like a countdown.

I dragged myself out of bed, my feet hitting the cold hardwood. I walked over to the window and pushed aside the heavy drapes. Below, the sprawling gardens were being transformed. Men in white gloves were moving chairs into perfect rows, and a string quartet was tuning their instruments near the rose bushes.

And then I saw him.

William Vance was standing by the fountain, speaking to a man who looked like an older, more haggard version of himself, his brother,Barret.

Even from the second floor, William’s presence was suffocating. He was dressed in a black morning suit that accentuated his tall, athletic frame. He didn't gesture when he spoke; he just stood there, a pillar,heavy and firm.

He was the man who had stepped into the void my father left before the seat was even cold.

As if sensing my stare, William tilted his head back. His dark eyes locked onto mine through the glass. He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He just stared at me with that same immovable, minimalist poise that made me want to scream.

He looked at me like I was a blueprint he was deciding whether to approve or scrap.

I let the curtain drop, the fabric heavy in my hand. My chest tightened, that familiar constrained feeling returning with a vengeance. I had spent three months perfecting my silence, my rebellion, and my grief. But looking at him today, I realized silence wasn't going to be enough.

I walked toward the dressing room where the black suit waited for me.

I reached for the tie, my hands finally steady. The guests were here. All I had to do was dress up and act poised enough for my mother to approve.

That I could do.

For today,at least.