The chandelier cast a predatory gleam on her hair, turning the strands to spun gold. I stabbed viciously at the rare steak on my plate, the clatter of silver a jarring counterpoint to the polite hum of conversation. Or, rather, my dad's endless drone about logistics and quarterly reports. I didn't need to look up to know she was bored. I could feel it, a restless energy radiating across the polished mahogany table. "So, Eric," my dad boomed, oblivious as ever, "you'll keep an eye on things while I'm gone, won't you? Make sure your stepmother doesn't get lonely." A choked sound escaped me. I swallowed it down, forcing a smile that felt like a cracked mask. "Of course, Dad. Always happy to help." Her eyes met mine, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. Pity? Amusement? I couldn't tell. It drove me crazy. "That's so kind of you, Eric," she purred, the sound like silk sliding over skin. "I'm sure I'll be perfectly fine, but it's nice to know I have someone to call on if I need anything." Anything. The word hung in the air, thick with unspoken possibilities. My pulse hammered against my ribs. Dad, bless his oblivious heart, just beamed. "See? Perfect. Now, about that shipment to Shanghai…" I tuned him out, focusing on the way the candlelight danced on her throat, the delicate pulse point a tantalizing invitation. She wore a simple black dress, but it clung to her curves like a second skin. Every movement was a subtle provocation, a silent promise of the woman beneath. I hated her. I hated him. I hated this whole goddamn charade. He finally wrapped up his monologue, pushing back from the table with a satisfied sigh. "Well, that's that. I should probably head up and finish packing. Flight leaves at six AM." "I'll come help you," she offered, rising gracefully to her feet. "Nonsense, darling. You relax. I've got it covered. Eric can give me a hand." My head snapped up. "Me?" "Yes, you. Unless you have something better to do?" He raised an eyebrow, a hint of steel in his gaze. "No, sir," I mumbled, pushing my chair back. "Nothing at all." I followed him upstairs, the silence between us thick with unspoken tension. He was a good man, my dad. Successful, generous, and completely blind to the simmering undercurrents in his own home. He probably thought I resented him for remarrying so soon after Mom died. He had no idea the real source of my resentment was standing in his goddamn living room. We packed in companionable silence, folding shirts and arranging toiletries. It was a familiar ritual, one we'd performed countless times over the years. But tonight, it felt different. The air crackled with an unspoken awareness, a shared secret that bound us together even as it threatened to tear us apart. "So," he said finally, zipping up his suitcase, "you'll look after her, won't you?" "Of course, Dad," I repeated, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "She's… she's a good woman, Eric. A little young, maybe, but she's got a good heart." A good heart? Or a heart of stone? I had no idea. All I knew was that she had me twisted around her little finger, a puppet dancing to the tune of her unspoken desires. "I know, Dad," I said, forcing a smile. "I'll take care of her." He clapped me on the shoulder, his eyes filled with gratitude. "I appreciate that, son. I really do." He left a few hours later, the roar of his car fading into the night. I stood at the window, watching the taillights disappear down the long driveway, a sense of foreboding settling over me like a shroud. The house felt different now. Empty. Silent. Dangerous. I found her in the living room, curled up on the sofa with a book. She looked up as I entered, her eyes wide and innocent. "He's gone," she said softly, as if stating the obvious. "Yeah," I replied, my voice rough. "He's gone." A long silence stretched between us, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth. I could feel the heat radiating from her, a magnetic pull that drew me closer.