Revenge With Step-Daddy

Lana’s POV

“God, it’s going to pour. The weather’s acting like it’s on its period again.”

I balance the damp paper takeout bag on one arm and fumble with the lock, practically vibrating with excitement. I told him I’d be gone until tomorrow, but I cut my work conference trip short. Three days apart felt like three years.

I’m such a pathetic sap.

I bought his favorite—pepperoni with extra jalapeños and that stupid root beer he insists “tastes nostalgic.” I used to roll my eyes, but now I smile because love turns you into a clown, and I’m full circus at this point.

I hum under my breath as I text him.

ME: Got your fav. Be home in 5. Get ready for kisses, loser 😘

He doesn't reply. That’s fine. He’s probably gaming or has his phone on silent. Or maybe he’s plotting to bend me over the kitchen counter when he hears the door open. I grin at the thought, quickly checking my reflection in the hallway mirror: tight jeans, cropped white tee, glossy lips. I even spritzed perfume low between my thighs. I’m ready.

I swing the door open—and my heart crashes.

The takeout bag slides from my numb fingers, hitting the floor with a soggy, silent thud. Root beer splashes across the tiles. The pizza box splits open like a gaping wound.

I barely notice the mess at my feet. Because right there—on the couch I bought with my first paycheck—is my mother.

She is bent over the cushions. Completely naked.

And behind her?

Larry. My boyfriend.

His jeans are pooled around his ankles, his hand tangled ruthlessly in her hair. His hips are driving forward in a sickening, relentless rhythm.

“Lana—fuck—Lana—” he groans.

He is moaning my name.

My. Name.

But his eyes aren't on me. They are squeezed shut, focused on the pleasure he’s taking in her.

My mother lifts her head. Her eyes find mine, and a slow, pure venomous smirk blooms across her face.

“Oops,” she says, her voice breathy, laced with amusement. “You weren’t supposed to be home so early, sweetheart.”

Larry recoils instantly, his body seizing up as if he’s been electrocuted. He stares at me—horror, shame, and guilt warring on his face.

“Lana, wait—shit—it’s not what it looks like!” He stumbles, trying to cover himself.

I’m frozen. The only thing I can hear is the frantic, panicked drumming of blood in my ears.

“You’re still inside her,” I whisper, the sound rough and foreign.

“What?”

“You’re. Still. Inside. Her!” The whisper shreds into a scream.

He pulls out, the wet sound in the sudden silence making me sick. He fumbles with his zipper.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” he blurts out, eyes darting. “It just—it happened! She came on to me—”

“Of course she did,” I snap, the sarcasm acidic. “That’s her gold medal sport, Larry. Ruining things.”

My mother slowly sits up, wrapping a throw pillow around her chest. The performance is sickening.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” she says, crossing her legs, elegant even while exposed. “It was just a quick taste. I’m not stealing him, Lana.”

“You fucked my boyfriend!”

She lights a cigarette, the smoke curling around her perfect, cold features. Calm. Casual.

“You have a husband!” I hiss, taking a step forward. My voice is shaking, but the fury is stabilizing me. “You married Roman Vale six months ago. The hottest billionaire in the city. If you’re so desperate to fuck someone, why don’t you go screw your husband?”

She exhales a cloud of smoke, her eyes glittering with cold malice.

“Roman doesn’t care about sex,” she says, dismissing the most powerful man in the city like he’s an annoying household pet. “He’s too busy managing power plays and tech mergers to notice what I do with my body, darling. And besides…” She leans forward, her voice dropping to a cruel, penetrating level. “If he was really yours, he wouldn’t have come crawling to me, would he?”

The blame, the twisted logic, snaps something deep inside me. I pick up Larry’s controller and hurl it at the wall. It shatters with a satisfying crack.

“You’re both disgusting pigs.”

Larry tries to grab my arm. “Babe, please. I was drunk. I didn’t mean to—”

I shove him away, hard. He hits the coffee table.

​“You were moaning my name. And your dick was in her.” I laugh, a terrible, hollow sound. “Maybe you should figure out who you were actually trying to fuck before you try to apologize.”

​“You don’t understand,” he pleads, holding his chest.

​I shake my head, tears finally starting to blur my vision. “No, you don’t. You don’t get to cheat on me with my mother and then act like I’m the problem. You don’t get to make me the failure in this equation.”

​My mother sigh, already bored with the spectacle. “Lana, come on. Stop screaming. You’re going to give yourself a migraine.”

​“I hope your husband finds out,” I snap, the thought of Roman Vale’s controlled fury giving me a brief, ugly thrill. “I hope he walks in and sees what kind of trash he married.”

She shrugs. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“You make me sick.”

I race to the bedroom, seeing nothing but red. I rip drawers open, yanking out clothes and shoving them blindly into my laundry tote bag. Phone charger. Makeup bag. My vibrator—because I'll take that, too, just to spite their pathetic excuses for sex.

From the hallway, I hear their voices again, muffled by the wall.

“Should we go after her?” Larry whines.

My mother’s voice is sharp and dismissive. “Let her throw her tantrum. She’s always been dramatic. Give her ten minutes.”

Dramatic. The woman who married a billionaire, then cheated on him with her daughter’s boyfriend, thinks I’m the drama? 

I scream silently into a pillow, my vision flashing white with pure, undiluted hatred.

The bag is full. I storm toward the front door.

“Don’t forget your raincoat, honey,” she calls out. “It just started storming.”

I don’t answer. I hope the storm tears the roof off this apartment.

The second I step outside, the sky breaks. The rain is violent, cold, a solid sheet of water that hammers down. I'm soaked to the bone instantly. My tight clothes are heavy and clinging.

I walk fast. Then faster. Then I’m running, fueled by nothing but the desperate need to escape the stench of that betrayal. I don't care that my clothes are see-through or that mascara is running down my face.

I duck beneath a flimsy bus stop bench, dropping down, hugging the bag to my chest. I bury my face in my arms and cry like a wounded animal, the sound stolen by the storm.

They say heartbreak stings. This feels like being burned alive. And I realize, through the haze of tears, what my mother said: Roman doesn't care. He's just a prop in her life.

But what if he wasn't?

Headlights pierce the rain. A low, powerful engine hums, pulling up beside the curb with unnerving control. A sleek, black sedan.

The tinted window glides down silently.

Roman Vale.

My mother’s husband. 

He is immaculate, even in the chaos. His dark suit is perfect, his expression utterly controlled. His sharp, assessing eyes lock onto mine, full of question and a strange, deep reservation.

“What happened?” he asks. His voice is deep, unwavering, and completely devoid of the panic that consumed me moments ago.

My lips tremble, but I can’t speak.

“Lana,” he says again, his tone commanding. “Get in.”

I don’t hesitate. I push myself off the bench and scramble into the warm, scentless leather interior of his car. The door seals shut, locking out the storm and the rest of my pathetic, ruined life.

I look at him—her husband, her escape route, the man whose perfect, controlled world she just declared he cares nothing about.

I bury my face in my knees and just cry, the shaking becoming violent.

To Be Continued…