All Chapters of Stepdad’s Pet, His Son’s Plaything : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

EMMA’S POVThe Blackwood Corporate Headquarters was a monolith of glass and cold ambition, a jagged spear of steel piercing the city skyline. It was the physical manifestation of Jordan’s power, a place where fortunes were made and lives were dismantled with a single stroke of a fountain pen. As I stepped through the revolving doors, the conditioned air hit me—sharp, sterile, and smelling of expensive toner, filtered success, and the quiet desperation of those who worked beneath him.I wasn't wearing the floral sundresses my mother loved. Those were for the "perfect daughter" she wanted me to be. Today, I was wearing a weapon. My charcoal silk slip dress clung to my hips like a second skin, the fabric so thin it felt like a dare. Over it, I wore a structured blazer, but it did nothing to hide the fact that I had left my underwear on the floor of my bedroom. I felt every draft of the lobby’s air on my bare skin, a constant, electric reminder of what I was about to do.As I walked tow

JORDAN’S POVThe world didn't just stop; it fractured.Emma’s eyes went wide, her pupils so blown out by adrenaline and lust they were almost entirely black, reflecting the sheer, unadulterated terror of the moment. We froze in place, the only movement the frantic, visible thrum of the pulse in her neck. My heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest, a frantic, trapped animal clawing at the bars of my ribs.The memory I had completely suppressed slammed back into me with the force of a high-speed collision: the lunch date. We had agreed weeks ago—in a different life, it felt like—that she would come to the office today. We were supposed to go to the jeweler to pick out the gala pieces together. Emma’s presence, her scent, and her touch had wiped my slate clean. I had forgotten the world existed outside the heat of her skin and the lock on that door."Stay here," I mouthed, my voice completely gone, reduced to a ghost of a whisper.We moved with a frantic, silent grace bor

JORDAN’S POVThe drive back from the city had been a masterclass in psychological endurance. Ruth sat in the passenger seat of the Maybach, the soft amber glow of the dashboard illuminating the satisfied curve of her lips. She was humming a melody I didn't recognize, her fingers idly tracing the velvet lining of a jewelry box that held a set of pear-cut diamonds—stones that cost more than most men made in a decade.She had insisted on three glasses of vintage Krug at the boutique, her laughter ringing out against the silent, respectful walls of the showroom. By the time we pulled into the gravel drive of the estate, the champagne had done its work. Her movements were fluid and heavy, her eyes glazed with a gentle, drunken fog that shielded her from the jagged reality of the man sitting next to her.I helped her out of the car, my hand firm on her elbow as I carried her through the foyer. The house was silent, but it wasn't empty. It felt like a drum skin stretched too tight, vibrati

REIGN’S POVThe hallway of the house was a tunnel of oppressive, expensive silence, illuminated only by the pale, skeletal moonlight filtering through the high arched windows. I stood pressed against the cold velvet wallpaper, my breathing shallow and rhythmic, watching the heavy oak door of Emma’s room. I had watched my father enter— after looking around to make sure nobody saw him entering— seen the way his broad shoulders were set with a predatory, desperate tension. He was a man driven by a hunger he couldn't name in the light, a "Saint" seeking penance in the arms of a girl who was slowly becoming his executioner.I moved closer, my bare feet sinking into the thick, plush carpet, until I could hear the muffled, low-frequency vibration of their voices. I heard the sharp, glass-shattering tone of Emma’s defiance—the way she wielded her youth like a blade—and the low, dangerous rumble of my father’s possessiveness. I knew his patterns better than he knew them himself. I knew th

EMMA’S POVThe silence of my bedroom was a physical weight, pressing against my chest until every breath felt like a struggle through water. I lay in the dark, my body still humming from the hollow victory of Jordan’s mouth, but my mind was a jagged landscape of rage.I had expected him to grovel. I had expected the powerful, untouchable "daddy" to break at my feet when I denied him the release he was starving for. I wanted to see him reduced to a beggar in his own palace. But instead, he had simply adjusted his tie, regained his mask, and walked out.And then, the sound began.It started as a low, rhythmic vibration through the vents, and then it sharpened into the unmistakable, high-pitched cries of my mother. Jordan wasn't begging. He wasn't sitting in his study, dwelling on my rejection. He had gone straight to the one woman who was always available, the woman who didn't play games, the woman he had sworn to protect while he was busy ruining me.Every moan that drifted through