All Chapters of Owned By My Stepdad(MxM): Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

135 Chapters

Trauma

The utility room door stayed locked.No windows.No clock.Only the single bare bulb overhead, flickering every few minutes like it was tired of staying alive. The concrete floor was cold enough to ache through my sweatpants. I sat with my back against the metal door, knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped tight around them like that could keep the shaking inside.I didn’t scream anymore.My throat was raw, voice gone to a hoarse rasp after the first two hours of pounding and begging. The house above me was too big, too thick-walled; no one would hear. Not the staff—they had strict instructions never to come down here unless summoned. Not my father—he was probably upstairs pouring another scotch, congratulating himself on “teaching me a lesson.”So I waited.And in the waiting, the memories came.They always did when I was alone too long, when the dark pressed in and there was nowhere to run. They came slow at first, like smoke curling under the door, then faster, thicker, until they

Tortured

The crowbar felt heavier with every swing, but I didn’t stop. The metal bit into the doorframe, splintering wood and denting the lock. Each hit sent vibrations up my arms, rattling my teeth, but the pain was nothing compared to the fire in my chest. I’d been down here for hours—maybe a day? Time blurred in the dim light, the single bulb swinging like a pendulum above me. My cheek still throbbed from where my father had slapped me, the skin swollen and hot, but that only fueled me. He thought he could lock me away like some forgotten relic in his collection. He thought I’d break like my mother did. He was wrong.On the tenth swing—or was it the twentieth?—the lock gave with a metallic snap. The door groaned open, a sliver of light from the basement hallway spilling in like a promise. I dropped the crowbar, my hands raw and blistered, and stepped out, breathing hard. The basement air was cooler out here, musty with the scent of old wine and dust. I listened—nothing but the distant hum o

Reunited

The front door slammed open so hard the crystal chandelier in the foyer rattled.I didn’t hear it at first—my ears were ringing, my head swimming in a thick fog of pain and shock. Victoria was still straddling me on the marble, her knees pinning my arms, the jagged shard of vase pressed to my throat. Blood dripped from my lip onto the floor, mixing with the spilled water from the roses. She was breathing hard, face flushed, eyes wild with something that looked almost like triumph.Then the roar.“Victoria!”My father’s voice—furious, thunderous—cut through the haze like a blade.Victoria froze.The shard trembled against my skin.Alexander Laurent stormed into the living room, coat still on, briefcase dropping to the floor with a heavy thud. His face was scarlet, veins standing out on his temples, eyes wide with something I’d never seen on him before: real, raw horror.“What the hell are you doing?” he bellowed.Victoria scrambled off me, the shard clattering to the marble. She stood,

Finally free

The Laurent estate looked different in daylight.No shadows to hide in. No night to blur the edges. Just stark white stone, manicured hedges, and a driveway that felt longer than it should. Vane drove. I sat in the passenger seat, hands clasped between my knees to keep them from shaking. My mother was in the back—silent, pale, still wearing the same blouse from yesterday. She hadn’t spoken much since last night, just nodded when Vane said we were going to see Laurent. I think she was afraid of what she’d say if she opened her mouth.We parked at the front steps.No valet.No staff rushing out.Just the three of us, stepping out into cold morning air that smelled like cut grass and money.Vane rang the bell.The door opened almost immediately.Alexander Laurent stood there—tailored suit, no tie, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looked older than the last time I’d seen him at a gala. Gray at the temples, lines around his mouth deeper. But his eyes were sharp. Tired, but sharp.He didn’t

Going to college together

The house was unnervingly quiet the next morning. It wasn’t the kind of silence that came from peace—it was the hollow, echoing kind that followed a storm, when everything had been ripped apart and left to settle in awkward, unfamiliar shapes. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the foyer, casting long shadows across the marble floor that looked like fingers reaching for something they couldn’t quite touch. I’d woken up alone in my bed, the sheets tangled around my legs from a night of restless dreams—flashes of Cyrus’s face in the loft, the cold barrel of the gun in my hand, Isabella’s bruised smile in the hospital. Vane’s side of the bed was cold, the pillow still indented where his head had been hours earlier.I rubbed my eyes and sat up, glancing at the clock on the nightstand: 8:47 a.m. Later than I usually woke, but sleep had been a battle. The events of the past few days clung to me like smoke, hard to shake off even in the daylight. Downstairs, I could hear faint sou

Elias pov

The morning after Isabella’s revelation about joining me at Stanford, I woke up to sunlight streaming through my bedroom curtains, painting stripes across the hardwood floor. It was one of those rare perfect fall days—crisp air outside, the kind that makes you want to throw on a hoodie and pretend life’s normal for a while. I stretched, feeling the pull in my muscles from yesterday’s emotional marathon, but there was a lightness in my chest too. Stanford. College. A fresh start. And Isabella is coming with me? It felt like the universe was finally cutting us a break.Vane was still on his trip—some last-minute merger cleanup in Chicago, he’d said on the phone last night. “Two days,” he’d promised again, his voice low and reassuring. “I’ll be back before you miss me.” I’d laughed, told him I already did, but the truth was, the space felt good. Like I could breathe without the constant weight of our complicated dynamic pressing down. Mom had headed back to her hotel early this morning,

Cyrus pov

Lisbon greeted me like a lover who’d forgotten my name—warm, indifferent, smelling of salt air and diesel. I landed just after dawn, the sky bruised purple over the Tagus River. No one waited at the gate. No driver. No welcome. Just me, the duffel slung over one shoulder, and the faint buzz of jet lag behind my eyes.I took a black cab from the airport. Told the driver “Bairro Alto” in accented Portuguese I’d practiced on the flight. He grunted, pulled into traffic, and didn’t speak again. Good. I didn’t want conversation. I wanted silence to think in.The apartment I’d booked was on a narrow street lined with pastel buildings and wrought-iron balconies dripping with laundry. Fourth floor, no elevator. I climbed the stairs slowly, letting the burn in my thighs ground me. The key was in a lockbox; the code still worked. Inside: one bedroom, one bathroom, a tiny kitchen that smelled faintly of garlic and old cigarettes. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a courtyard where someone was a

Cyrus pov

The Lisbon apartment had one good feature: the balcony overlooked a narrow street where people actually lived. Not tourists. Not expats. Real people—old women hanging laundry at dawn, kids kicking a deflated soccer ball until it rolled into the gutter, a guy in a stained apron smoking while he swept the sidewalk outside his tiny tasca. I sat out there every morning with black coffee and a cigarette I didn’t finish, watching them move through routines that looked simple from four floors up.Simple was a luxury I no longer had.I’d entered the kill code at 6:03 a.m. local time—seventy-two hours minus one minute. The folders stayed locked. For now.The laptop was open on the small iron table beside me. Three browser windows:1. Dark-web mirror status – all green.2. Berlin PI dashboard – new uploads every six hours.3. Encrypted chat with the Istanbul forger – documents ready tomorrow, pickup location confirmed.I refreshed the PI feed.New batch: eight photos, timestamped yesterday a

College is for bad decisions and great stories.

Packing didn’t take long.I stood in the driveway staring at two black SUVs—both gleaming, both loaded with the small life I’d decided to take to Stanford. Two suitcases (one for clothes, one for books and tech), a duffel of shoes and random shit, my laptop bag, a box of bedding Mom insisted on buying (“You can’t sleep on dorm sheets, Elias—they’re scratchy”), and a single framed photo of us—me, Mom, Vane, and even Cyrus from years ago—because throwing it out felt too final. That was it. Everything else stayed. The house, the furniture, the memories—none of it was coming with me.I didn’t have much.Never really had.The driver—Thomas—helped me slide the last suitcase into the back of the second car. He was quiet, efficient, the way he’d always been. “That’s everything, sir,” he said, closing the hatch with a soft thud. “Miss Laurent’s things will probably fill the other vehicle.”I laughed under my breath. “Yeah. She’s got more shoes than I have shirts.”Thomas gave a rare half-smile

College began

The car rolled to a stop outside the freshman dorms, tires crunching on the leaf-strewn curb. Stanford’s campus hit me like a wave—red-tiled roofs, palm trees swaying against blue sky, students everywhere hauling boxes, laughing, hugging parents goodbye. It smelled like eucalyptus and new beginnings. Isabella and I looked at each other from the back seat, eyes wide, stupid grins already forming.We practically fell out of the car.The moment our feet hit pavement we screamed full-on, unhinged, teenage-screech screaming—like we’d just won the lottery and the prize was freedom itself. Heads turned. A group of guys carrying a mini-fridge paused mid-step and stared. A girl with purple hair and AirPods yanked one out to gawk. We didn’t care. We grabbed each other’s arms (careful of her cast) and jumped in a tiny circle, shrieking like maniacs.“WE’RE IN COLLEGE!” Isabella yelled.“WE’RE ACTUALLY HERE!” I yelled back.Someone—probably a senior RA—appeared from the dorm entrance holding a cl

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