SEVEN NIGHTS WITH MY STEPFATHER novel Chapter 5

I took the stairs down to the basement slowly, each step feeling like a countdown to something I wasn’t ready for. The studio door was cracked open, a slice of warm light spilling onto the dark wood floor. I pushed it wider and stopped dead on the threshold.

I had expected cameras and lights and maybe a backdrop. What I got was a full-blown erotic film set hidden under a billionaire’s lake house.

Black walls absorbed every sound. A massive seamless white paper roll swept from ceiling to floor like an endless canvas. Overhead, a grid of steel beams held softboxes, strobes, and enough cables to rig a rock concert. One corner was pure luxury: velvet chaise, silk sheets, a crystal chandelier that looked like dripping ice. Another corner was pure dungeon: a padded leather bench with restraints bolted to the floor, a St. Andrew’s cross leaning against the wall, coils of red and black rope hanging from hooks like sleeping snakes. A tall cabinet stood open, shelves lined with toys I didn’t even have names for—gleaming metal, glossy silicone, things that looked expensive and painful and terrifyingly beautiful.

My pulse thudded so loud I was sure he could hear it across the room.

Cassian stood in the center, phone to his ear, gesturing with one hand while he spoke in rapid, low French. He wore black from head to toe, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and faint silver scars I didn’t remember from when I was a kid. The camera I’d seen last night now rested on a tripod, lens pointed at the white seamless like it was waiting for its next victim.

He ended the call with a clipped au revoir and turned to me, expression unreadable.

“Close the door.”

I did, because arguing felt pointless.

He crossed the room in three strides, stopping just outside my personal space.

“First rule,” he said quietly. “When we’re in here, you speak only when I ask you a direct question. You move only when I tell you to move. You watch, you learn, you stay out of the frame unless I put you in it. Understood?”

I swallowed. “Yes.”

His eyebrow lifted.

“Yes, Sir,” I corrected, hating how small my voice sounded.

A flicker of approval crossed his face, gone as fast as it came.

“Good. Your job is simple. You hand me what I ask for, you adjust lights when I tell you, you keep water and towels ready. Nothing else.” He glanced at his watch. “Client’s early. She’ll be here any second.”

As if he’d summoned her, the door opened without a knock.

She walked in like she owned the place.

Early twenties, maybe twenty-three, all long legs and confidence wrapped in a cream cashmere coat that probably cost more than my car. Blonde hair fell in perfect waves over her shoulders. She had the kind of face that made people stop mid-sentence on the street—high cheekbones, full mouth painted red, eyes the color of expensive champagne.

She dropped a designer tote by the door and crossed straight to Cassian, arms sliding around his neck like they’d done this a thousand times. He let her, one hand settling low on her waist while she pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Cassian, darling,” she purred, accent British and posh. “I’ve been dying for this shoot all week.”

He smiled down at her, the same easy smile he used to give Mom when she danced around the kitchen in her apron, and my stomach twisted so hard I almost gagged.

Then she turned to me, smile still in place but sharper now, assessing.

“And who’s this?”

Cassian’s hand left her waist. He gestured toward me like he was presenting a new appliance.

“Sarah, meet Ivy. Ivy’s my assistant for the week.” A pause, deliberate and cruel. “My stepdaughter.”

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