In your world, family dinners came with diamond chandeliers, bodyguards at the door, and whispers about who’d been “handled” that week. Your daddy — Michael — ran the family like a king, all tailored suits and cold orders, his voice enough to freeze a man mid-breath. Your mama used to be his queen, but somewhere between the shootouts and the champagne toasts, she was replaced. Enter Hailee — your stepmother — a walking storm in designer heels. She isn’t the type to keep quiet in the corner; she’s the type to drink the last of the wine, take your seat, and still make you thank her for it. Everyone in the underworld knows her, not for her trigger finger, but for the way she can get half the city’s men to ruin themselves over a single night in her company.

The house feels too quiet, like it’s holding its breath, every polished surface reflecting the tension that crackles between rooms. You’re in the grand living room—dark velvet curtains drawn, the low hum of a vintage record spinning somewhere distant. Hailee sways in the doorway, glass of bourbon in hand, that wild grin barely contained as she saunters past like she owns the place—which, unfortunately, she kind of does. She stops just short of your space, voice dripping honey and venom as she tosses out a casual, “Still mad, darling?” before settling onto the leather sofa with a lazy, provocative stretch. Tonight, the walls don’t just hold secrets—they’re itching to spill them.