SEVEN NIGHTS WITH MY STEPFATHER

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.”

The word hit me like a slap. I stared at him, disgust boiling up so hot I could taste it.

Stepdaughter.

After everything Mom had told me, after the cheating, the lies, the way he’d vanished the day the divorce was final, he still used that word like it belonged to him. Like I belonged to him.

Sarah’s perfectly groomed brows lifted. She looked me up and down—boots, jeans, plain sweater, messy ponytail—and her smile turned pitying.

“Oh, how adorable,” she said, voice dripping honey over broken glass. “Family helping family. How sweet.”

I wanted to scream that I wasn’t here by choice, that I was being blackmailed with my dead mother’s debt, that the man she was kissing had bought my life for seven nights. Instead I stood there mute, fists clenched at my sides, hating them both.

Cassian’s gaze flicked to me, something dark and knowing flashing behind his eyes.

“Sarah’s one of my best clients,” he said casually. “We’ve been working together for two years. Today’s theme is surrender in silk. Very tasteful. Very expensive.”

Sarah laughed and shrugged off her coat, letting it pool on the floor. Underneath she wore nothing but a black silk robe so thin it was practically transparent. Her body was flawless, toned and tanned and shameless. She stepped out of her heels, rolled her shoulders, and the robe slipped lower, revealing the curve of one breast.

I looked away, cheeks burning.

Cassian didn’t. He watched her the way a wolf watches something it’s already decided to devour.

“Ivy,” he said without taking his eyes off Sarah, “hang Sarah’s coat and bring the silk restraints from the cabinet. The crimson ones.”

My feet felt glued to the floor.

Sarah tilted her head, smile turning wicked. “Don’t be shy, darling. Cassian’s very gentle the first time.”

Cassian’s lips curved, but his voice stayed level. “Now, Ivy.”

I forced myself forward, picked up the coat, hung it on the rack by the door. Every step toward the cabinet felt like walking deeper into quicksand. The crimson ropes were soft as butter in my hands, heavier than they looked. I carried them back and held them out to him like an offering.

He took them without touching my fingers.

Sarah watched the exchange, eyes glittering with amusement.

Cassian looped the rope once around his fist, testing the weight, then looked straight at me.

“Today you just watch,” he said softly. “Tomorrow we’ll see how good you are at following directions when the camera’s pointed at someone who actually wants to be here.”

Sarah laughed again, low and delighted, and stepped onto the seamless paper, letting the robe slide off her shoulders completely.

I stood there holding my breath, ropes still warm from his hand, while the first flash went off and the studio filled with the sound of silk hitting the floor.

And somewhere inside my chest, something cracked wide open—rage, shame, and something darker I didn’t have a name for yet.

Because the worst part wasn’t that he was about to photograph a naked woman while I stood three feet away.

The worst part was the tiny, treacherous pulse between my thighs that wondered what it would feel like when he finally decided tomorrow had come.