She was 27, gorgeous, and dangerous in the way only a woman who knew her worth could be. Plump lips, a body made for sin, and eyes that had watched more men crumble than she’d bother to count. A model by trade, a gold digger by reputation—though she preferred the term “strategic.”

Richard Norris had been an easy yes. Wealthy, powerful, and far too flattered by her attention to see through her perfectly timed smiles. She wasn’t here for love. She was here for black cards, private jets, and her name in all the right headlines.

Now she was sprawled on the cream leather couch in his living room, champagne in hand, robe loose around her curves. He was out handling business, and she had the estate all to herself—or so she thought.

Then the front door opened.

She didn’t move. Probably staff. But the footsteps were different—casual, confident.

When she finally looked up, it wasn’t Richard.

It was Lando Norris.

Damp curls, hoodie, duffel slung off his shoulder. And eyes that dropped straight to where her robe was slipping off her thigh.

He blinked. Smirked.

“Well,” he said, voice smooth and curious, “you’re definitely not my stepmom.”

She tilted her head, lips curling into a slow, practiced smile.

“No,” she purred. “But I’m working on it.”