Greer's POV 

The wedding was six days away, and every morning the mansion seemed to close in a little tighter. I woke with the same knot in my stomach, the kind that never fully loosened. The house was beautiful in the daylight, sunlight poured through tall windows and turned the marble floors gold, but beauty didn't make it feel like home.

It only made me feel smaller. I avoided the main dining room at breakfast. Too many eyes. Too many polite smiles that never reached anyone's faces. Instead I slipped into the kitchen hoping for something simple, something familiar. Coffee. Toast. Anything that didn't come on a silver tray.

The moment I stepped inside, the conversation stopped. Three staff members stood around the island. One of them, the older woman who always wore her hair in a severe bun and looked at me like I had tracked mud across the floor.

"Miss," she said. Not a question. Not a greeting.

"I just wanted some coffee," I said quietly. 

"And maybe a piece of bread if there's any." She exchanged a glance with the others. "Breakfast is served in the dining room. Trays are prepared." 

"I know. I just... I'd rather eat here. Quietly." The woman's mouth thinned. "This isn't the staff kitchen, darling. And even if it were, we don't serve charity cases at the help's table."

The word landed like a slap. Charity case. Heat rushed to my face. 

"I'm not-"

"You will be," she cut in, voice low but sharp. "Your mother may marry the master, but blood doesn't change overnight. We've seen girls like you before. You drift in, make a mess, drift out. Best not get comfortable."

I stood there, frozen, hands clenched at my sides. No one spoke after that. The silence was worse than the words.I turned and left without the coffee.

Upstairs in my room I pressed my palms to my eyes until spots danced behind my lids. I told myself it didn't matter. Words from strangers never should. But they did. They always had. I couldn't stay in that room breathing the same air that carried her voice. I needed to find my mother.

Veda was in the sunroom, surrounded by fabric swatches and a woman pinning her hem. She looked like a magazine cover come to life, hair perfect, smile practiced.

"Mom," I said from the doorway. She glanced up, irritation flickering before she smoothed it away. 

"Greer. Not now. We're finalizing the veil."

"It's important." 

She sighed. 

"Five minutes. Make it quick." The seamstress stepped out. The door clicked shut. I crossed my arms. 

"Call off the wedding." I begged her. 

"Excuse me?"

"The rumors are everywhere. Everyone's saying you slept your way into this. That you're marrying him for money. They are laughing at you behind your back. That you're..."Veda's eyes flashed. 

"And what if I am? I deserve this. After everything I gave up for you."

"For me?"

"Don't play the victim. You're an adult now. Act like it. Stop embarrassing me."

"Please" I said immediately. 

Veda laughed once, short and sharp. 

Her eyes narrowed. 

"People always talk. Let them."

"But they're talking about me too. They look at me like I'm part of the joke. Like I don't belong here. And I don't. None of this feels right." She stood, fabric rustling. 

"You think I should throw away the best thing that's ever happened to me because my daughter has a pity party?"

"I'm trying to protect you."

"Protect me?" She stepped closer. "You're protecting yourself. You're selfish, Greer. You always have been. I finally got something good and you want to ruin it because you can't stand seeing me happy."

"That's not true." 

"Isn't it? You've spent your whole life resenting me for wanting more than your father could give. Well, guess what? He's gone. And I'm not going back to scraping by." I flinched. 

"I never asked you to-"

"You never had to. Your existence was enough reminder." She waved a hand. 

"Go cry somewhere else. I have a fitting."

I left before the tears came. In the hallway I pressed my back to the wall and slid down until I sat on the cool floor. My chest hurts. My father had been poor, yes. A security guard who worked nights so we could eat. Veda had hated it. Hated him. Sometimes I wondered if she had been relieved when he died. It opened the door for richer men. Men like Calder.

I hated that thought. But I couldn't stop thinking of it. I stayed there until my legs went numb, then pushed myself up. Wandering was easier than thinking. I moved through the house like a ghost, past closed doors, past portraits of people who had never known hunger or shame.

A door stood open on the upper landing. Light spilled into the hallway, warm and inviting. I recognized the hallway. Wells's suite was somewhere here. My heart gave a stupid, hopeful lurch. Maybe he would listen. Maybe he would look at me the way he had that first night, soft, like I mattered.

I climbed the stairs quietly. The door was cracked just enough. I pushed it wider, ready to smile, ready to say something light. And stopped breathing.

Calder stood in the center of the room. Naked. Completely. His back was to me at first. Broad shoulders, water still beading along the muscles of his spine from a shower I hadn't heard. Dark hair damp and curling at the nape. He reached for a towel on the chair, movements slow, unhurried.

Then he turned. Our eyes locked. He didn't flinch. Didn't cover himself. My gaze dropped traitorously, helplessly down the hard planes of his chest, the ridged abdomen, lower. Eight inches. Thick. Veined. Heavy, even soft. Heat exploded through me. Shame and something darker, wetter, curling low in my belly. I should have run. I didn't. His eyes stayed on mine. Steady. Unreadable. But there was something in them, something that wasn't anger. 

Something that felt like recognition.

"Greer," he said. Voice low. Rough around the edges.I swallowed. 

"I... I thought this was Wells's room." 

"It isn't." 

Silence stretched. Thick. Electric. He took one step forward. Not threatening. Just closing distance.

"You should go," he said. But he didn't sound like he meant it. And I still hadn't moved.

My nipples tightened against the thin cotton of my shirt. I felt the ache between my legs sharpen into something needy, insistent. This was wrong. I knew it was wrong. And yet my feet stayed planted. His gaze flicked down, slowly taking in the way my chest rose and fell, the flush creeping up my throat, the way my thighs pressed together without meaning to.

"Greer," he repeated. Softer this time. I turned then. Finally, I spun on my heel and fled down the hallway, heart slamming against my ribs. I didn't stop until I reached my room, locked the door and leaned against it. I tried to pretend I hadn't just looked at my stepfather's cock and felt my body answer.

Greer's POV 

I closed the door so softly it barely clicked. Then I stood there in the hallway, back pressed to the cool wood, heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. My legs felt unsteady, like the floor might tilt and drop me any second.

I had just seen my stepfather naked. 

Not just naked-thick. Veined. Eight inches of him hanging heavy between his thighs, the kind of cock that looked made for slow, deliberate ruin. I squeezed my eyes shut. Tried to shake the image. Counted backward from one hundred. Pictured cold water. Winter wind. Anything clean and safe. It didn't work.

The picture stayed. Burned behind my lids. The way the veins curved along the shaft, the slight upward tilt even soft, the dark hair at the base. I could almost feel the heat of it if I let myself imagine reaching out.

I pressed my thighs together. A shameful throb answered between my legs. Wet. Instant. Wrong. I was supposed to want Wells. Wells, with his easy smile and gentle touches. Wells, who had made me feel seen for the first time in years. Not his father.

Not the man who was about to become family. Not the man whose voice had gone rough when he said my name. I pushed off the door and started walking. Fast. Anywhere. My bare feet slapped quietly against the runner. I needed motion. Distance. Something to drown the pulse between my thighs.

But my mind kept circling back. What would it feel like? To be stretched by him. Filled. Taken apart slowly until I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but arch and beg. I'd always been good at being alone. I'd raised myself. Cooked for myself. Came for myself in the dark with my phone screen turned low, headphones in, volume barely above a whisper so no one would hear. I knew my body. Knew what made me shake. Knew the difference between quick relief and the kind of orgasm that left you trembling for minutes after.

And Calder... God. He looked like the kind of man who would know exactly how to draw it out. How to pin wrists. How to whisper filthy things in that low, controlled voice until I broke. I stopped in an empty corridor and leaned against the wall, breathing hard. I wasn't innocent. Not really. I'd watched enough porn to understand power dynamics, age gaps, forbidden lines. Stepfather. Stepdaughter. 

The taboo of it had always made me clench harder, come faster. But this wasn't fantasy. This was real and I was wet because of it. Footsteps echoed from the stairwell. I straightened fast, smoothing my shirt, trying to look normal. Wells appeared at the top of the stairs, still in his football practice gear-gray hoodie, black shorts, hair damp with sweat. He carried his cleats in one hand, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He looked flushed, alive, boyish in a way that used to make my stomach flutter.

"Hey," he said, smiling that half-smile that used to undo me.

"Hey." My voice came out thinner than I wanted. He tilted his head. 

"You okay? You look... flushed."

"I'm fine." Lie. "Just hot. The house is warm."

He stepped closer. Close enough I could smell grass and clean sweat and the faint cedar of his cologne underneath it all.

"You sure?" His hand lifted like he might touch my arm, then dropped again. "You've been quiet lately."

"I'm always quiet."

"Not like this."

I forced a smile. "Just wedding stress. You know how it is."

He studied me a second longer. Then nodded. "Yeah. Dad's been weird too. More than usual."

My pulse jumped at the mention of Calder..

I looked away. 

"I should go."

Before he could say anything else, I slipped past him and hurried down the hall. My chest ached with something like guilt. I used to daydream about Wells. About stolen kisses in the library. About him choosing me over Indira. About him seeing me the way no one else ever had. Now all I could see was his father's cock.

I hated myself for it. I hated Veda for bringing us here. I hated the part of me that wanted more. I needed to fix this. Needed to make it right somehow. If I gave her my blessing-really gave it-maybe the guilt would lift. Maybe the thoughts would stop. Maybe I could look at Calder without my body betraying me. I turned toward her suite.

The door was cracked, just enough for voices to drift out. Veda's laugh-so high, practiced, the one she used when she was trying to sound delighted instead of calculating. Then a man's voice. Low. Smooth. Not Calder's voice. 

I froze mid-step.

"...he's still dragging his feet on the prenup, but I'll get him to sign. You know how these old-money types are-cautious until you stroke their ego just right." Veda's tone turned syrupy, intimate. 

"Mmm, you always know how to handle them. Just make sure the transfer is ready when I say." The man said. 

"I'm not staying in this house forever if Calder gets cold feet. I've got options, darling."

The man chuckled-deep, confident. 

"You've got me. And the villa in Capri is still waiting. One call and it's yours. No questions." 

My stomach twisted.

Veda sighed, almost dreamy. 

"God, I miss privacy. This place is suffocating. And Greer... she's becoming a problem again. Moody. Clingy. Always in the way. I thought she'd fade into the background once we moved in, but she's still here...." A pause. 

The man's voice softened, coaxing. "She's eighteen. She'll move on. Or you'll make her. You always do." Veda laughed again and it was sharper this time. "She's just like her father. Weak. Needy. I gave her a roof, clothes, this ridiculous new life. If she can't be grateful, that's on her. Once the ring's on my finger and the accounts are secure, she can disappear for all I care."

The words hit like stones. I pressed my hand to my mouth to keep the sound in.

She wasn't talking to Calder. She was talking to someone else. Someone who was already positioning himself as her backup plan. Someone who was promising villas and transfers and freedom from the very marriage she was about to walk down the aisle for. 

I couldn't listen anymore. I backed away, silent, until I was far enough down the hall that my footsteps wouldn't carry.

Then I ran. Back to my room. Door locked. I slid down against it, knees to my chest, and let the tears come.

Not because of what I felt.

But because the only person who was supposed to choose me, my mother, she had just confirmed what I'd always suspected. I was never going to be enough. Not for her.

And maybe not for anyone. But the ache between my legs hadn't gone away and neither had the image of Calder's cock.

I buried my face in my arms and tried not to hate myself more than I already did.

Calder's POV

She hasn't left my mind since that night. One accidental step through an open door. One frozen heartbeat where our eyes locked and the world narrowed to the sound of her quick, startled inhale. Now every quiet moment is infected with her, Greer.

The way her gaze dropped to my cock, lingered long enough to sear the image into me, then snapped away like she'd been caught in something criminal. The flush that climbed her throat in slow, guilty waves. The soft hitch in her breath that echoed in my chest for hours afterward. 

I've told myself a hundred times it means nothing. Biology. A man's body reacting to proximity, to youth, to the sheer wrongness of the situation. She's eighteen. My son's soon-to-be stepsister. My fiancée's daughter. The lines couldn't be drawn any sharper, any more final. And yet. 

Dinner that evening was unbearable. The long mahogany table gleamed under the chandelier's low, golden light. Veda sat to my right in emerald silk that caught every flicker, chatting brightly about seating charts, champagne vintages, and the string quartet she'd finally booked. Wells lounged across from her, half-distracted by whatever notification lit up his phone screen. Indira beside him, her posture perfect, smile polished, every movement calculated for maximum elegance. 

And Greer, directly opposite me, head lowered, fork tracing invisible, endless patterns through the remnants of her risotto. I tried not to look. I failed spectacularly. 

Every time my eyes lifted from my plate they found her. The delicate column of her throat when she swallowed. The faint shadow her lashes cast across her cheeks. The way her lips parted slightly on each quiet, shallow breath. I imagined. Jesus Christ! 

Forgive me!

Those lips parting wider. Gasping my name. Wrapped around the length of me while her eyes watered and her hands gripped my thighs. The thought hit like a fist to the gut. I forced conversation to drown it.

"Wells," I said, voice steadier than I felt. "Practice went well today?" He glanced up, surprised I'd addressed him directly. "Yeah. The coach is coaching me for the next game."

"Good. Consistency matters more than talent at your level." Veda laughed lightly, touching my forearm. "Always the strategist, darling. Even at dinner."

I offered a tight smile that felt more like a grimace. Greer stayed silent through the exchange. Her eyes flicked up once. It was wide, startled, like she'd been caught listening to something she shouldn't. And then dropped again. Her fingers tightened on her fork until her knuckles paled white against the silver. She dropped it immediately and excused herself. I tried small talk with Indira next. Weather in the city. Her upcoming university applications. 

Safe, neutral topics that should have anchored me. None of it worked. My pulse stayed too high, my thoughts too low. Under the table my thigh tensed rhythmically, remembering the exact second her gaze had landed between my legs that night, how she'd frozen, how her pupils had blown wide, how she hadn't immediately looked away. I excused myself before dessert was cleared.

The hallway felt longer than usual, shadows stretching across the marble like fingers. My study door stood open, light spilling warm into the corridor, but I didn't go in. My feet carried me instead to the guest wing. To her door. I stopped outside it. This was madness.

I command boardrooms full of men twice my age. I close deals worth billions without breaking a sweat. Control is not something I possess, it's who I am. Yet here I stood, heart hammering, seconds from knocking because I couldn't erase the memory of her eyes on my cock, the way her breath had caught, the way her body had betrayed the same forbidden curiosity I felt burning through me. I raised my fist to knock. 

Lowered it. Raised it again. Then I heard the music. Low. Sultry. Bass thrumming through the wood like a second heartbeat. I shouldn't have looked. I pushed the door open an inch. Just enough. Greer stood in the center of the room, back to me, wireless headphones on, eyes closed. Tiny sleep shorts that barely covered the curve of her ass. Thin tank top clinging to the dip of her waist and the gentle swell of her breasts. Her hips rolled slowly, deliberately, following the rhythm of whatever filthy track was playing. 

Arms lifted, fingers threading through her hair, body swaying like she was alone in the universe, innocent yet achingly sensual. The way her ass flexed with each slow grind. The subtle bounce of her breasts beneath cotton. The arch of her back when she dipped low and rose again. I couldn't breathe properly.

My cock thickened instantly, it was hard, aching, straining against wool in seconds. She spun. Our eyes met. She froze mid-motion. Headphones slipped down to hang around her neck. Music leaked out-slowly, explicit lyrics about craving what's forbidden, about bodies that shouldn't touch but do anyway.

"Mr. Rhys," she whispered. 

Shocked. Voice trembling at the edges. 

I turned to leave.

"Calder-wait!" Her bare feet slapped the floor as she ran after me. I should have kept walking but I didn't. She reached for my arm and she missed it. She stumbled on the edge of the rug.

She fell forward. Straight into me. Her cheek landed against the front of my slacks. Right over the thick, straining ridge of my erection. 

Time fractured. Her breath came hot through the fabric. Once. Twice. A soft, startled sound slipped from her throat-not quite a gasp, not quite a moan, but something dangerously close to both. I went rigid. Every muscle locked.

She didn't pull away. Neither did I.

Her hands braced on my thighs, fingers digging in, feeling the tremor that ran through me. Her face stayed pressed to me, nose brushing the hard length, lips so close I could feel the damp heat of her mouth seeping through wool.

My hand moved slowly, involuntarily and settled on the back of her head. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just resting. Feeling the silk of her hair. Feeling her shiver under my palm.

"Greer," I said. Voice gravel. Barely recognizable as my own. She didn't move.

Her breath puffed again, deliberate now. Warm. Teasing. Her cheek nuzzled, just the slightest shift against the bulge, I sucked in air through clenched teeth. She lifted her head slowly. Eyes wide. Pupils blown dark. Lips parted. Cheeks scarlet.

Our gazes locked. Hers dropped to my mouth, then lower. To where her face had just rested. To where I throbbed visibly for her.

"I-" she started.

"Don't," I cut in. Rougher than I intended. "Don't apologize." 

She swallowed. The sound is loud in the quiet hall.

We stayed like that, hand still tangled in her hair. Neither of us is moving to break the contact. The air between us crackled, thick with everything we weren't saying, everything we shouldn't want.

Her fingers flexed on my thighs. Then one hesitant inch higher. Grazing the base of my cock through fabric. I shuddered. Hard. She felt it. Her eyes flicked up again searching, daring, a spark of something reckless in them. I didn't step back. 

I didn't pull her up. I simply stood there, letting her feel me. Letting her see exactly what she'd done. Her tongue darted out, wet her bottom lip in one slow, deliberate swipe. The sight snapped something low and primal in my gut. 

My thumb brushed once, barely against the nape of her neck.

She shivered harder. Nipples peaked visibly against her thin tank top.

Neither of us spoke. Neither of us moved away.

The hallway stayed silent except for our breathing, ragged, uneven, perfectly matched.

I knew I should stop this. I knew I should walk out that door and never look back. But my hand stayed in her hair. And she stayed on her knees.

Pressed against me. 

Waiting.