Lahat ng Kabanata ng Owned By My Stepdad(MxM): Kabanata 21 - Kabanata 30

The house woke up wrong.Normally Sundays dragged themselves awake around ten. Mother would emerge in her silk robe demanding coffee, Claire would stay in bed scrolling until noon, Cyrus would stumble downstairs looking like he’d fought gravity all night, and Vane… Vane was always up at six, gym, black coffee, newspapers spread like battle plans. Clockwork.This morning the kitchen lights were already blazing when I came down at seven-thirty.I stopped on the bottom step, hand on the banister, listening.Plates clinking.Coffee machine gurgling.Mother’s laugh—too bright, too early.I walked in.Everyone was there.Mother at the island in yoga pants and cashmere, hair in a messy bun, pouring orange juice like she was hosting brunch for royalty. Claire perched on a stool in a cream cashmere sweater, scrolling her phone but glancing up every few seconds. Cyrus slouched at the table, hoodie up, nursing a mug that smelled like jet fuel. Vane stood by the window, arms crossed, staring out

The bass was a living thing inside my chest.I leaned close to Isabella’s ear so she could hear me over the drop. “Give me a minute.”She pulled back just enough to search my face—sweat on her temples, pupils wide from dancing too much, her lips parted like she was about to argue. Then she saw where my eyes had gone.Cyrus.She nodded quickly. No questions.I slipped through the crowd, shoulder-first, letting bodies part around me like water. The air smelled of vodka, perfume, and overheated skin. Every few steps someone’s hand grazed my arm, and someone else shouted my name like we were old friends. I didn’t stop.He was in the raised VIP section same black velvet rope, the same bored security guy who recognized me and lifted the rope without a word.Cyrus sat dead center on a low leather couch.Two girls flanked him.One on his left—red dress, long dark hair, laughing too loudly at something he’d said.One on his right—blonde, silver top, fingers already tracing the collar of his sh

We didn’t make it far.The subway rattled us downtown, then we switched to the L train, heading toward Brooklyn. Isabella had her head on my shoulder, half-asleep, the hood of her borrowed sweatshirt pulled up like camouflage. I kept one arm around her—not possessive, just steady. The train car was mostly empty: a guy in a delivery uniform scrolling TikTok, an old woman with grocery bags, a teenager with earbuds nodding to whatever beat was leaking out.I was staring at our reflection in the dark window when my burner buzzed.Once.Twice.I pulled it out, and it was an Unknown number.I answered without thinking.“Elias.”Vane’s voice.Low.Rough.Like he’d smoked a pack in the last hour.My stomach dropped through the floor.Isabella stirred. Felt me tense. Sat up slowly.I didn’t speak.He didn’t wait for me to.“I know you’re with her,” he said. “I know you turned your phones off. I know you think you’re being clever.”I swallowed.“Where are you?” he asked. Not angry. Not yet. Jus

Mother didn’t leave the foyer.She stood exactly where she’d been when Isabella walked out—arms hanging limp, eyes glassy, mouth half-open like she’d forgotten how to close it.Vane’s hand was still on my lower back.Warm.Steady.But I could feel the tremor running through his fingers now, the same one I’d felt when he held me in the study two nights ago.She finally moved.One slow step backward.Then another.Her heel caught the edge of the runner.She stumbled.Vane instinctively reached out—old reflex, old habit.“Don’t,” she hissed.He froze.She straightened herself without touching him.Looked at me.“You’re really going to do this?” she asked. Voice cracked but cold. “You’re going to stand there—in my house—and choose him over everything I gave you?”I didn’t answer right away.I looked at Vane.He was watching me—not her.Waiting.I turned back to her.“Yes.”One word.Simple.Her face crumpled for half a second—real pain flashing through the fury—then hardened again.“You’r

The drive home felt like a funeral procession, even though the sun was still high in the sky, mocking me with its cheerful indifference. I’d left Elias and Vane at their house, standing in the foyer like two men who’d just survived a war, but I knew my own battle was waiting for me. The cab dropped me at the gates of the Laurent estate—sprawling lawns, iron fences that screamed old money, and a mansion that looked more like a museum than a home. I paid the driver with cash from my bag, the last of what I’d grabbed before Elias and I bolted yesterday.The front door was unlocked.That should’ve been my first warning.I stepped inside, the marble foyer echoing under my sneakers—still the borrowed hotel sweatpants, wrinkled dress shirt from last night peeking out under my coat. I looked like a runaway, which I was. The house smelled like polished wood and lemon cleaner, the kind of sterile perfection my father demanded. No warmth. No mess. No life.“Dad?” I called out, voice tentative. “