My Stepson's Blackmail Toy

Just minutes ago, my childhood buddy Ethan Crawford slid some photos across the table toward me.

The woman in the pictures had curves that could stop traffic—dressed in barely-there lingerie, sprawled across a bed in a pose that screamed trouble. The sly fox mask covering her face only made the whole thing more tantalizing.

I swallowed hard. At my age, a sight like that was bound to get the blood pumping.

"What do you think? Absolute fire, right?" Ethan smirked, looking way too pleased with himself.

"Hell yeah. Those curves—what, a C cup? Maybe bigger?"

"That's your stepmom, Vanessa Lombardi."

My eyes nearly popped out of my skull. A cold wave of dread crashed over me—if my old man, Richard Lowell, ever saw these, it would probably kill him on the spot.

I hit the road that same night.

Just a month ago, my father had tied the knot with Vanessa. The kicker? He only bothered to call me on the damn wedding day. I lost it, we fought, and we hadn't spoken since.

And now here she was, showing her true colors already.

I'd always had my suspicions. Vanessa was thirty, in her prime—what the hell did she see in a man pushing sixty like my dad?

By 2 AM, I pulled into The Grandelle Inn near my place. Weirdly, even though I'd booked Room 503, the front desk suddenly claimed it was "unavailable" and stuck me in 603 instead.

After tossing my bag down, I hopped in the shower and wrapped a towel around my waist. Then—ding dong—the doorbell rang.