Todos os capítulos de Stepdad’s Pet, His Son’s Plaything : Capítulo 41 - Capítulo 50

Emma’s POV The high-gloss finish of the new estate was a lie. As the heavy doors of the car finally cut the engine in the circular driveway, the silence that followed wasn't peaceful—it was a heavy vacuum of everything we had done in the dark.Jordan sat in the driver’s seat for a long moment, his chest heaving, his hands white-knuckled on the leather steering wheel. I sat straddled over him, my silk dress bunched at my waist, my skin still humming from the vibration of the car. The windows were tinted dark enough to hide the sin, but the air inside was thick with the scent of sex, gasoline, and the raw, unrefined power I had just clawed back from him."Get off, Emma," he rasped, his voice a broken thread of the "Saint" he pretended to be. "Ruth is right behind that door. Fix yourself."I didn't rush. I leaned in, my lips brushing his ear, tasting the salt of his sweat. "I'll fix myself, Daddy. But every time you look at her tonight, I want you to feel the ghost of my mouth on you.

EMMA’S POVThe one-week mark in the new estate hadn’t brought peace; it had only fermented the rot. The house was a glass-walled pressure cooker, and by the time Monday morning rolled around, the air was smelling with the unspoken friction of four people pretending they weren't devouring each other in the dark.Jordan had insisted on driving me back to my university housing. Ruth had waved us off from the marble portico, looking tired—her skin sallow, her eyes trailing Reign as he loitered in the foyer like a shadow. She thought she was safe in her new fortress. She had no idea the foundations were alread liquid.The SUV felt smaller than it had a week ago. The interior smelled of Jordan’s expensive cologne and the faint scent of the latte I’d spilled on the floor mat, but the real heat was coming from the man behind the wheel. He wasn't wearing a tie today—he’d abandoned that piece of the "Saint" persona since the move. His collar was open, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the veins

JORDAN’S POVToni Donald didn't look like a whistleblower. She didn't look like the kind of woman who spent her afternoons digging through the digital trash of her husband’s rivals or scouring the dark corners of the cloud for leverage. She looked like a queen mother in a vintage Chanel suit, her legs crossed with a lethal elegance that made the air in my office feel thin. A slim silver tablet rested on her lap, glowing with a cold, blue light that seemed to bleach the color from the room, turning my warm mahogany sanctuary into a sterile morgue.She was the wife of Alex Donald—my primary competitor, a man I’d spent a decade trying to bury under the weight of my own philanthropic shadow. While Alex was loud, brash, and transparently greedy, I was the "Saint." I was the benefactor of the city’s orphans, the man who held the moral compass for the entire board of directors. I had built a legacy on the premise that I was untouchable because I was holy. My face was on the side of hospi

JORDAN’S POVThe new house was a masterpiece of modern architecture—all soaring glass, brushed steel, and open spaces—but tonight, it felt like a cold, echoing museum. We sat at the long, obsidian dining table, the clink of silver against china sounding like the rhythmic ticking of a countdown I couldn't stop. The air-conditioning hummed a low, clinical note that made the vast room feel even more sterile, as if it were designed to preserve a corpse rather than house a family."It’s too quiet," Ruth said, her voice barely a whisper as she pushed a piece of sea bass around her plate. "The house feels... hollow without Emma. Don't you think, Jordan?"I didn't look up from my wine. The crisp Chardonnay tasted like vinegar in my throat, a sharp contrast to the cloying, dirty memory of Toni’s perfume that still seemed to cling to my skin. Every time I closed my eyes, I didn't see my wife or the pristine white walls of our new home; I saw the grain of the mahogany desk in my office. I fel

JORDAN’S POVDinner was a slow-motion execution. The obsidian table, once a symbol of my status, now felt like a barricade. I watched Ruth across the expanse of the room, the candlelight flickering in her eyes, but there was no warmth there—only a cold, glassy indifference. I tried to bridge the gap, throwing out small talk about the foundation, the house, the weather—anything to crack the silence.She didn't even look up from her plate. She didn't offer a single word, not even a nod. The "husband" was speaking into a vacuum, and the sound of my own voice began to disgust me. I could still feel the "rotten" residue of Toni’s visit on my soul, and every time I looked at my wife, the guilt flared like a physical burn.By the time the clocks chimed ten, I couldn't take the distance anymore. I followed her toward the visitors' quarters, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I had to fix this. If I lost Ruth, the last pillar of my carefully constructed life would crumble,