All Chapters of Claiming His Stepmother: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The hospital room is a sterile cage of white light and the rhythmic, mocking beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor. I am tethered to the world by clear plastic tubes, my breath coming in shallow, fragile hitches. Every time I close my eyes, I taste that metallic copper, a ghost of the tea that nearly stopped my heart.Arthur had stayed for hours, his face aged by a decade, pacing the room and clutching my hand until the police and the Reynolds Group board members practically dragged him away to handle the "public relations" of his wife’s collapse.But Ethan never left.I drift in and out of a drug-induced haze, but every time I open my eyes, he is there. He isn't sitting in the guest chair. He is standing at the feet of my bed like a dark, vengeful statue, his shadow stretching across the linoleum floor.A nurse enters, her rubber soles squeaking on the tiles. She reaches for the IV bag to adjust the drip."Don't touch it," Ethan’s voice cuts through the room like a shard of glass.Th

The return to the Reynolds mansion feels less like a homecoming and more like a slow march toward an altar.I am tucked into the backseat of the Bentley, wrapped in a cashmere blanket that smells faintly of the hospital’s antiseptic and Ethan’s heavy, sandalwood cologne.Arthur sits beside me, his hand resting over mine with a gentle, paternal warmth that is supposed to comfort me. But under the weight of the secret I’m carrying, his touch feels like a brand.You're safe now, sweetheart," Arthur whispers, leaning in to kiss my temple. "I will make sure no one hurts you again. More importantly, I will hunt down the person who tried to poison you."I nod weakly, but my eyes are fixed on the rearview mirror.Ethan is driving. He hasn't spoken since we left the hospital. His eyes are hidden behind dark aviators, his jaw set so tight I can see the muscles leaping in his cheek.When we pull up to the grand entrance, Ethan is out of the car before the engine even stops. He doesn't wait fo

The dining room is a cathedral of sunlight and polished silver, but to me, it feels like a courtroom.Arthur sits at the head of the long table, beaming with a pride that feels like a weight on my chest. To his right sits Ethan, looking devastatingly handsome in a charcoal suit. And beside Ethan sits Althea, Ethan’s fiancée.She is breathtaking. Her hair is a cascade of honey-blonde silk, and her skin glows with the health of someone who has never known a day of true desperation. She wears a cream-colored dress that screams old money: elegant, modest, and perfect.I sit beside Arthur. I feel like a smudge of charcoal on a white canvas. Under the table, I am acutely aware of the draft on my skin; I am wearing nothing but the silk of my dress, just as Ethan commanded after the Tax last night: 'From this second on, you don't wear a single scrap of lace between your legs. If I reach for you and find anything but skin, I’ll strip you right where you are, even if your husband is watching

The light from an old movie flickers on the walls of the home theater.It’s supposed to be a relaxing family evening. Arthur sits in the center of the oversized sofa, looking content, while I am tucked into his side.Ethan is seated in the leather armchair to our left, half-shrouded in shadow. He isn't watching the screen. He’s watching us."You’re so tense, Sweetheart," Arthur murmurs, his voice full of a gentle, husbandly concern. "You need to relax, my love. Let the world go and let me show you how much I care."Before I can respond, Arthur reaches over. He takes my legs, lifting them with a slow, deliberate motion, and drapes them across his own lap. He begins to stroke my thigh, his palm moving in a rhythmic, soothing pattern. To anyone else, it’s a gesture of affection. To me, it’s a countdown to an explosion.I can feel Ethan’s gaze boring into the side of my head. In the dim glow of the movie, I see his jaw set so hard the bone looks like it might snap. His fingers are cu

The hallway is dark and quiet. Ethan walks past the master bedroom, his boots making no noise on the thick rugs. The room is empty. He knows where his father went. He can smell his cowardice.He reaches the guest wing. The door to the final room is cracked open, a sliver of warm light spilling onto the floor. Ethan doesn't knock. He kicks the door open, the wood hitting the wall with a violence that shakes the frames of the nearby paintings.Arthur is sitting in a wingback chair, a leather-bound book in his lap and a glass of amber liquid on the side table. He doesn't jump. He doesn't even flinch. He slowly looks up, his gaze falling on the matte-black barrel of the handgun leveled at his forehead."What’s with the rage, Ethan," Arthur asks, his voice as smooth as aged wine. "Is there a reason you’re pointing a weapon at the man who gave you everything?""You touched Mother," Ethan sneers, his voice a low, lethal vibration as his finger curls around the trigger.The safety is off. T