Not So Angel For Stepdaddy

Angel’s POV The elevator doors slide open with an expensive hush. Marble underfoot. Soaring double-height ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling glass wrapping around the entire floor, showing off the Manhattan skyline like a trophy. I hate my mother. I hate coming back to her world. Zurich was getting boring, my degree is finished, and whether I like it or not, this penthouse is where my allowance is coming from right now. I drag my eyes over the ridiculously expensive art on the walls, rolling my hips with every step. My tight red dress clings to every inch of me, the hem riding high up my thighs, the thin material leaving nothing to the imagination. My t**s hangs against the deep plunge of the neckline, bouncing slightly with every click of my heels. If I have to be trapped in Celeste’s world for a while, at least I get to roll around a penthouse like this. "Angelina, drop that bag off the rug immediately." Celeste steps out from the living room, sapphire silk clinging to her fake curves, a glass of red wine resting in her manicured hand. No hug. No I missed you, sweetheart. Just cold, calculating eyes picking me apart like I’m a stray dog she regrets bringing home. Ever since my father walked out on us when I was twelve, Celeste treated me like an unwanted rival. She dumped me in boarding schools, ignored my calls, and only brought me out when she needed a pretty doll to parade around her high-society friends. Her gaze drags down my body, cold and critical. "Look at you," she sighs, acrylic nails tapping against her glass. "Your hair is flat from the flight. And that backless dress... it’s entirely too tight around your hips. Have you put on weight?" Classic Celeste. "I’m twenty-two, Mother," I say, rolling my eyes and keeping my bag right where it is. I run a hand down my side, feeling the smooth swell of my waist and the widening of my hips. "My body is fine." "You are under Maximilian Roth’s roof now," she snarls, stepping into my personal space. The stench of expensive perfume and dark wine hits my face, heavy and suffocating. "He is forty-five years old, he runs half of Wall Street, and he expects discipline in his home. I just got married to the wealthiest man in New York. I will not have a bratty girl coming in here, ruining my standing. You speak when spoken to, you call him Mr. Roth, and you show him respect." "So thrilled for your fairytale," I mutter, turning my head away. Before she can snap at me, firm footfalls echo down the marble hallway. The air in the foyer shifts, turning thick, suppressing, and freezing cold. A man steps out of what looks like a private study. My heart slams against my throat. I freeze. I knew my mother got remarried. I knew his name was Maximilian Roth. But nobody told me he looked like this. He is broad-shouldered, towering over six feet, and breathtakingly handsome in a black expensive suit. Silver touches his temples, framing a hard, carved jawline and dark, cold eyes that look like they could strip a woman naked in two seconds flat. Power radiates off him in waves. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees me. For that moment, nobody breathes. His eyes drag slowly down the length of my body—taking in the bare skin of my shoulders, the dip of my back, the narrow tuck of my waist, the full swell of my t**s, and the curve of my hips. It isn't a warm family welcome. It is a slow evaluation. My blood boils. He is my mother’s new billionaire husband. He is forty-five. He is completely off-limits. And he is the most breathtaking predator I’ve ever laid eyes on. "Maximilian," Celeste’s voice breaks the quiet, instantly dropping into a sweet, pleasing purr as she steps toward him. "This is my daughter, Angelina. She just arrived from the airport." Max doesn't look at her. His dark eyes stay locked onto mine. "Angelina," he says. His voice is a deep, low gravelly rumble that vibrates straight down my spine, settling thick and warm in the pit of my stomach. I hold his gaze, letting a slow, wicked smile touch my lips. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Stepdad."