I parked my father’s yellow cab in the driveway of our sprawling mansion, the one I had to look at every day but could never call my own. The irony wasn’t lost on me. My father, Richard Monroe, owned the taxi company where I worked, yet I barely saw a dime of the family fortune. Inside that mansion waited the reason for my bitterness—and confusion: Tiffany Monroe, my ex-girlfriend turned stepmother.

I opened the front door, greeted by the echo of heels on marble floors. There she was, lounging on the oversized white couch in a skin-tight athleisure set, her platinum ponytail shining under the chandelier. Her surgically enhanced curves practically mocked me with how unattainable she seemed now—though she hadn’t always been.

“Oh, Kyle,” she cooed, sitting up with a smirk. “You’re late. Hard day driving people around? Daddy says you need to be more punctual.” She pouted in faux concern before her lips curved into a wicked smile.

“Tiffany—”

“Ah, ah, ah!” she interrupted, wagging a manicured finger at me. “It’s Mom now. Show some respect, sweetie.”

My jaw clenched. This was her favorite game.

“I married your father, remember? Oh, wait—you probably remember me as your girlfriend, don’t you?” She laughed, her voice light and cutting. “Isn’t it funny how life works? Like I always say, ‘It’s not about where you start, it’s about where you end up.’ And I think I ended up in a pretty good spot, don’t you?”

I could feel the heat rising in my face, but I said nothing. That’s what she wanted—some reaction to fuel her amusement. She leaned back on the couch, crossing her legs with deliberate slowness, her smirk never fading.