My Stepfather, my Ruin
"This... this is wrong," she stuttered, trying not to meet his eyes. "You're my stepfather. Let's forget it ever happened."
"How can I forget it happened, Nicole?" He questioned, gripping her chin. "When the image of you whimpering for more replays in my head every fucking night?"
When one night of desperation turns into Nicole ending up in bed with a nameless stranger, she's almost shocked to death when she moves in with her mother's new husband to see that the nameless stranger is her new stepfather.
Tristan Michelson has always been in control of his emotions, but he can barely control himself when he realizes the masked stripper is his new stepdaughter.
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Chapter 2
Nicole Harper
~•~
"You've been saying next week for months now, Nicole," my landlord, a gruff man with a round face, said. "How am I supposed to trust you when you've repeatedly betrayed that trust?"
Betraying his trust was a bit dramatic because I just didn't have any money, but he had been accommodating. I didn't think any other homeowner would let me stay in their room for four months without paying.
"I know, Greg, and I'm really sorry, but I'm certain this time. If I don't pay next week, you can kick me out and throw my things in the street without notice!"
His lips thinned, eyeing me carefully. "I would throw you out after next week anyway."
My smile was tight. "I deserve it."
He let out a breath. "You're a student and I don't want to be cruel to you, so find a way to pay up okay?"
I nodded. "Yes sir."
As he left, the door closing behind him, I let out a relieved breath.
I was just coming back from classes when he ambushed me by the door and asked for my rent once again. I felt guilty that I'd delayed his payment for so long and I wouldn't wish my position on anyone.
I dragged my feet to my room, walking past two of my roommates, who didn't even spare me a glance. We were four in total, including me and Clara. I spoke to Clara occasionally, but as for the other two, I hadn't spoken to them in years, mostly because on their first day, I spoke to them and they didn't respond.
I closed my room door and dropped my backpack on the ground. Then I took off my clothes and stared at myself in the mirror. I had an objectively nice body. It looked good in my underwear so it was bound to look better in sexy lingerie. If I did agree to the opportunity Clara offered me, the men would find me attractive, right?
My straight blonde hair was long and silky. It was the one feature I was the most proud of.
I walked over to my closet and pulled out a pair of heels that I hadn't worn in a few months before going back to the mirror. Why the hell did the heels make my underwear sexier?
The first thing I did was a split to check my flexibility. I gasped in surprise. My thighs didn't hurt. I guess I wasn't too bad after all.
Before I could process it, I tapped on a random song and started dancing.
The music filled the room and I started slowly. A roll of the hips first, then I lifted my hands above my head like I was reaching for something. I dropped low, thighs parting, then rose again in a slow grind. My reflection stared back at me, my cheeks already flushed from the quick movement.
Muscle memory kicked in harder. I wasn't perfect but I wasn't that rusty either. A few more practices in front of the mirror and I'd be as good as new.
One song passed, then another. During the third song, a knock on the door pulled me away from the mood I was in. Without thinking twice, I opened the door.
It was Clara. Her eyes fell on me and her jaw dropped. That was when I realized I was still in my underwear and heels.
I closed the door immediately. I heard her chuckle behind the door as I searched my closet for something to wear. I threw on the first pair of joggers I found as well as a shirt before I opened the door again.
Clara couldn't stop laughing as she came in. My cheeks reddened. "What's so funny?"
"You haven't told me yes yet, but you're already practicing?" She questioned, still laughing. "I'll take that as your answer then?"
I didn't answer. I was too embarrassed to.
"You have a very nice figure though. I wouldn't be able to tell under all those clothes. Are you sure you don't want to strip full-time?"
My cheeks were still warm as I replied. "The point of joining you for the night is for quick money. I don't want to get distracted."
If I'd known I'd struggled this much, I would have spent my last summer break in the strip club. I paused. Did that make me sound like a whore? Whatever.
"You're sure you won't regret your decision?" She asked, finally turning serious.
It was just stripping. There was nothing to regret. I wasn't a morality police. I wouldn't even consider myself a moral person. As long as I wasn't hurting anyone with my decision, I didn't mind doing it. Stripping for one night wouldn't take anything from me. It was nothing to be worried about.
Besides, Clara had told me the other day that we would wear masks for anonymity. We even had to sign NDA's and all that stuff. The only effect a high-profile stripping gig would have on my life would be a positive one.
"I won't regret it. It's one night." I assured her.
She nodded, a bit proud. "Alright then. I'll let you know the details later." She turned to leave, but paused. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. Sometimes, these private gigs lead to sex." I opened my mouth to speak but she didn't let me. "You can decline, I promise. I just wanted you to know so you're not taken by surprise. If anyone asks for a private dance, that's likely what they mean. Just shake your head if you're not interested."
It wasn't like I was against sex for money, but I never wanted to be in a position where I'd be forced to have sex just because I went to dance on a pole. "Are you sure?"
"Of course. My boss checks his clients properly before putting them in our care. Besides," she leaned in to whisper like it was a secret, "–these men are billionaires who wouldn't want such a scandal."
That reassured me a bit. "Do you usually go all the way?"
Her smile was coy. "It depends?"
"On?"
"How urgently I need money or how hot the man is."
"Oh!" I blinked, unable to reply to that.
"You're cute." She laughed. "I wonder how we lived together for four years without being friends."
I faked a pout. "We aren't?"
"Now, we are!"
I'd been pretty depressed in the last week, but right now, I was feeling a bit better. There was hope that I wouldn't be thrown out. There was hope that I could finally settle some of my bills.
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8.1
Elinor's frail daughter, Cece, died in a sterile hospital room while waiting for her father to take her to Disney World.
But her billionaire husband, Derick, never showed up. At the exact moment Cece's heart monitor flatlined, the hospital TV broadcasted Derick affectionately holding the hand of his mistress and he has booked a clearance of the entire Disneyland to celebrate mistress's daughter's birthday!.
When Elinor confronted Derick with their daughter's ashes, he sneered and accused her of hiding the child just to get his attention. Elinor's heart was torn to shreds. How could a father be so blind and ruthless? Did Kamryn use his power to steal the very kidney that belonged to Cece? Why did her innocent baby have to die for their sick affair?
The suffocating grief inside Elinor finally crystallized into a sharp blade. She wiped the blood from her lips, canceled the simple divorce, and began her ruthless revenge.
9.2
For three years, Rachel lived in a marriage that almost no one knew existed.
To the outside world, Captain Jared Holland-the cold and powerful second son of the influential Holland family-was single.
Only a handful of people knew the truth: Rachel was his legal wife. Their marriage had begun because of a mistake and was bound by a prenuptial agreement that promised it would end quietly after three years.
And in Jared's heart, there had always been someone else-Olivia, his foster sister and first love.
When Rachel returns from a grueling flight and sees a video of Jared desperately carrying Olivia to the hospital, the last illusion she held onto finally shatters. That same night, she signs the divorce papers and walks away with nothing but a suitcase and her dignity.
But when the time comes to finalize the divorce, Jared refuses to sign-always finding excuses to delay it.
The woman he once ignored is now determined to leave.
And the man who never valued her is suddenly unwilling to let her go.
Rachel looked at the man in front of her and frowned: "Jared what are you playing? Sign the divorce papers."
Jared smiled, "Darling, I am sorry, I was wrong. Please, let's not get divorce."
9.0
Colette stepped out of the federal prison, finally breathing the air of freedom after two agonizing years.
But instead of a bus home, a black armored SUV blocked her path. Ferris Vance's men kidnapped her right at the gates. He forced her to sign a marriage certificate, threatening to completely destroy her father's legacy if she refused.
The nightmare had only just begun. She soon learned her father had been driven to suicide anyway. Dragged into the Vance estate, Colette was beaten bloody by the family of Ellie, the girl she supposedly wronged. Ferris paraded her in a pure white gown for the cameras, playing the fiercely devoted husband. But the second the lenses turned away, he forced her into a coarse maid's uniform, making her scrub the freezing marble floors on her hands and knees.
"Your life isn't even worth the dirt on my shoes."
Ferris whispered those words as he threw his muddy boots at her bruised face. She was nothing but a piece of bleeding bait, a prop meant to lure his missing lover out of hiding. She was tortured and humiliated for a crime she had absolutely nothing to do with. The sheer injustice of paying the price for another woman's disappearance tore her soul apart.
When he cornered her in the bathroom, the last thread of Colette's sanity snapped. She hurled a bucket of filthy water right into his face, broke out of his grip, and threw herself out a window into a freezing storm. This time, she chose to escape, even if it meant death.
7.6
I was the fiancée of the Chicago Outfit’s heir, a bond sealed by blood and eighteen years of history.
But when his mistress pushed me into the freezing pool at our engagement gala, Jax didn’t swim toward me.
He swam past me.
He scooped up the girl who pushed me, cradling her like fragile glass, while I struggled against the weight of my gown in the murky water.
When I finally dragged myself out, shivering and humiliated before the entire underworld, Jax didn’t offer a hand. He offered a scowl.
"You’re making a scene, Eliana. Go home."
Later, when that same mistress shoved me down the stairs, shattering my knee and my dance career, Jax stepped over my broken body to comfort her.
I overheard him telling his friends, "I’m just breaking her spirit. She needs to learn she’s property, not a partner. Once she’s desperate enough, she’ll be the perfect obedient wife."
He thought I was a dog that would always return to its master. He thought he could starve me of affection until I begged for scraps.
He was wrong.
While he was busy playing protector to his mistress, I wasn't crying in my room.
I was packing his ring into a cardboard box.
I cancelled my transfer to UCLA and enrolled at NYU instead.
By the time Jax realized his "property" was missing, I was already in New York, standing next to a man who looked at me like a queen, not a possession.
8.3
On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news.
He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city.
The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.”
For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets.
My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me.
So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts.
He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked.
He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree.
He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.
9.3
After eight years in captivity, I was finally rescued. I thought it was the beginning of a new life with my mother.
But she didn't even look at me. She ran into the arms of a handsome stranger, her real husband, and I was treated like a dirty secret from her past.
They called me a contamination, a reminder of their trauma. My new stepsister set their Doberman on me, and as the dog's teeth sank into my arm, I looked up and saw my mother watching from the window.
She met my eyes for a second, then slowly closed the curtains.
In that moment, the last bit of hope I had died. The shallow bond of family was completely gone, and I finally gave up.
But they made one mistake. The family patriarch, suspicious after a car accident, ordered a secret DNA test.
The results came back on the day of my stepsister's birthday party, revealing a truth that would burn their perfect world to the ground.