Lila Thompson stood barefoot on the cold marble of the Blackwood estate's grand staircase, clutching the hem of an emerald satin dress she hadn't chosen. The fabric clung to her like a second, unwanted skin—low-cut, thigh-slit, expensive. Her mother had called it "elegant." Lila called it a costume.
Down below, string quartet music floated up like perfume. Guests in tailored tuxedos and shimmering gowns moved in slow, glittering circles. Champagne flutes caught the chandelier light and threw tiny rainbows across the walls. Everyone was smiling the way rich people smile when they know the cameras are rolling somewhere.
Lila wasn't smiling.
Six months earlier she had stood in black at her father's graveside, rain soaking through her coat while her mother held an umbrella over someone else's head. Now that someone else—Victor Blackwood—was downstairs sliding a platinum band onto Elena Thompson's finger in front of three hundred witnesses.
Lila's new stepfather.
And somewhere in that crowd was the other new addition she dreaded far more.
She spotted him before he spotted her.
Damien Blackwood leaned against a fluted column near the bar, one hand in his pocket, the other loosely curled around a glass of something dark. Black suit, black shirt, black tie pulled loose at the throat as though the formality offended him personally. His hair looked like he'd run impatient fingers through it too many times. Even from thirty feet away she could see the faint scar that sliced through his left eyebrow—a detail she remembered far too clearly.
Three years ago, at the Whitaker Foundation Gala, she had been nineteen and nervous, carrying two glasses of merlot because her father insisted she "mingle." She'd turned too fast. The wine had arced in a perfect, humiliating crescent across the front of Damien Blackwood's white dress shirt.
He hadn't shouted.
He'd simply looked down at the spreading stain, then up at her, and said—loud enough for the people nearest them to hear—"Clumsy little nobody."
The laughter that followed had felt like needles under her skin.
She'd called him an arrogant prick in front of the same crowd.
Security had walked her out while he watched, one corner of his mouth lifted in cool amusement.
Now he was family.
Their eyes met across the sea of silk and diamonds.
His glass paused halfway to his lips.
Lila felt the air change—like someone had opened a window in winter.
He didn't smile. He simply held her gaze for three long seconds, then tipped his head in the smallest mockery of a bow before turning back to the woman beside him. Blonde. Laughing too loudly. Hand resting on his forearm like she owned it.
Lila's fingers tightened on the banister until her knuckles ached.
The ceremony had ended an hour ago. Vows exchanged under an arch of white roses. Rings exchanged. A kiss that looked practiced and polite. Everyone had clapped. Lila had clapped too—three slow claps—because her mother's eyes had found hers in the front row and silently begged.
Now the reception was in full swing and Lila wanted nothing more than to disappear.
She slipped down the rest of the stairs, keeping to the edge of the room, then pushed through French doors onto the terrace. The night air was cool and smelled of cut grass and chlorine from the pool below. She kicked off the silver heels that pinched her toes and padded barefoot across flagstones still warm from the day.
The garden was lit with thousands of fairy lights strung through the trees. Romantic. Tasteful. Expensive.
She hated every twinkling bulb.
Footsteps followed her.
She didn't need to turn to know who it was.
"Still running away from parties, I see."
His voice was low, amused, edged with something darker than she remembered.
Lila stopped beside a stone fountain. Water trickled in soft, endless loops. She wrapped her arms around herself even though the night wasn't that cold.
"Still following girls you don't like?" she answered without turning.
A soft laugh. Closer now.
"I like watching you squirm."
She spun.
Damien stood three paces away, hands in pockets, moonlight carving sharp angles across his cheekbones. Up close he looked taller, broader, more dangerous than memory had allowed. The scar through his brow caught the light and turned silver.
"Congratulations," she said flatly. "You've officially inherited a stepsister."
His gaze dropped—slowly, deliberately—to the neckline of her dress, then lower to where the slit revealed thigh, then back up to her face.
"Poor thing," he murmured. "Forced to live under the same roof as the arrogant prick."
Heat crawled up her throat. Not embarrassment. Anger. Something hotter. She hated that he could still make her feel small with one look.
"My mother married your father," she said. "That doesn't make us anything."
"Doesn't it?" He took one step closer. "Same dinner table. Same last name on the mailbox soon enough. Same house. Same walls. Same… nights."
The last word landed like a stone in still water.
Lila's pulse kicked hard against her ribs.
"Don't," she warned.
"Don't what?" Another step. Close enough now that she could smell him—cedar, smoke, a faint bite of whiskey. "Remind you that you stared at me from your bedroom window last month when I was in the pool?"
Her stomach dropped.
She hadn't thought he'd seen her that night. She'd stood at the guest-house window in nothing but underwear, watching him cut through the water like a blade. Moonlight had turned every droplet into silver. She'd told herself it was hate that kept her looking. Hate and nothing else.
"You're delusional," she whispered.
"Am I?" He tilted his head. "Because from where I was floating, it looked like you were enjoying the view."
Her hand moved before she could stop it—fast, open-palmed, aimed for his cheek.
He caught her wrist mid-air. Not roughly. Just firmly. His thumb pressed against her racing pulse.
"Don't," he said quietly. "You'll regret it."
"Let go."
He didn't.
Instead he stepped even closer until the toes of his polished shoes brushed her bare ones. Her back met the rough edge of the fountain. Nowhere to go.
"You always did like making scenes," he murmured. "Spilling wine. Throwing slaps. Running your mouth."
"And you always did like watching me humiliate myself."
His grip loosened—but only so his fingers could slide up the inside of her wrist, slow, deliberate. Goosebumps followed the path.
"Maybe I like watching you try to pretend you don't feel it," he said.
"Feel what?"
His eyes locked on hers.
"This."
He leaned in until his mouth hovered a breath from hers. Not kissing. Not quite. Just close enough that every exhale brushed her lips.
Lila's lungs forgot how to work.
She should shove him. Knee him. Scream.
Instead her head tipped back the tiniest fraction—enough that her mouth parted on a silent inhale.
Damien's gaze dropped to her lips.
Then he smiled—slow, predatory, victorious.
"Careful, little stepsister," he whispered. "Keep looking at me like that and I might decide to keep you."
He released her wrist.
Stepped back.
Turned.
Walked away without another word.
Lila stood frozen beside the fountain, heart slamming so hard she could feel it in her teeth.
She pressed trembling fingers to her mouth.
The place where his breath had touched still burned.
Later—much later—after the last guest had left and the staff began clearing champagne flutes, Lila climbed the east wing stairs to the bedroom that now officially belonged to her.
She didn't turn on the light.
Moonlight fell through floor-to-ceiling windows and painted silver stripes across the four-poster bed, the silk duvet, the mirrored wardrobe.
She unzipped the emerald dress and let it fall.
Stepped out of it in only black lace panties.
Walked to the window.
Looked down.
The pool lights were still on, turning the water aquamarine.
Damien stood at the far edge—shirtless now, black swim trunks slung low on narrow hips. Water glistened on his shoulders, his chest, the defined ridges of his abdomen. He raked both hands through wet hair, muscles shifting under moonlit skin.
Then he looked up.
Straight at her window.
Straight at her.
Lila didn't move.
Didn't cover herself.
She simply stood there—backlit, shadowed, defiant—letting him see.
His hands dropped to his sides.
His stare didn't waver.
For one long, electric heartbeat neither of them moved.
Then he lifted his chin—the smallest acknowledgment.
A challenge.
A promise.
Lila turned away first.
She crossed the room on shaking legs, slid beneath cool sheets, pulled the duvet to her chin.
Her skin felt too tight. Her thighs pressed together involuntarily.
She stared at the ceiling, listening to her own ragged breathing.
Downstairs, somewhere in the dark mansion, she knew he was still standing at the pool's edge.
Still watching the window she had just left.
Still thinking about her bare skin under black lace.
And she hated him for it.
Almost as much as she hated herself for wanting him to keep looking.
The next morning a single red rose lay across her pillow.
No note.
Just the flower.
And beneath it, inked in black fountain pen on thick cream card:
Welcome home, little tease.
Game on.
— D