I Lied I’m His Stepmom, He Wants To Marry Me

Chapter 2

On discharge day, Dante insisted on walking down himself.

I supported him. He stayed ramrod straight, breathing carefully, terrified of touching me.

Halfway down, he stumbled. I instinctively caught his waist.

Just the lightest touch.

He froze like he'd been burned, breath hitching.

"Sorry," he said hoarsely, quickly moving my hand away. "I can walk on my own."

I pulled my hand back, thinking the amnesia had really wiped out even his shameless side.

Back when he had his memory, he used to want me in his arms 24/7.

Back at the Lawson estate, Dante found everything unfamiliar.

I had already coached the housekeeper, Rosa—all the "couple" stuff was hidden: wedding photos, marriage certificate, the pictures of us he kept by the bed. All locked away.

I took him on a full tour of the house we'd lived in for three years, "reintroducing" him to everything.

On the second floor, I pointed to the guest room next to the master bedroom. "You'll stay here."

"Where do you sleep?" he asked.

"The master bedroom," I said calmly. "You promised your father you'd give me the best room."

He nodded without suspicion.

After dinner, I came out of the shower wrapped in a casual bathrobe, hair still dripping.

I turned the corner and ran into Dante standing there, holding a hair dryer.

"Your hair's wet," he said, averting his eyes, voice awkward. "You'll catch a cold. Let me… dry it for you."

I paused.

This routine felt way too familiar.

It was exactly how he'd courted me back then.

I didn't refuse.

Warm air brushed over me. His fingers parted my long hair, clumsy but careful, the pressure just right, like he was afraid of hurting me.

In the mirror, I saw him looking down, lashes casting shadows on his face, expression so focused it was almost unreal.

"You before…" he started, then swallowed it back.

"Before what?"

"Nothing." He paused. "Did you and my father get along well?"

My chest tightened. "…We got along great."

"Then you must have loved him a lot." His voice dropped, and the dryer's heat faltered for a second.

I didn't answer.

He didn't ask again.

After drying my hair, he stepped back politely, said goodnight, and went to the guest room.

At the door, he stopped like he wanted to say something, but didn't.

That night, I slept wonderfully.

For the first time in three years, no one woke me up in the middle of the night.

I stretched out on the huge bed and thought only one thing—

Amnesia is a blessing.

What I didn't know was that in the guest room next door, Dante didn't sleep a wink.

He sat on the edge of the bed, replaying that brief touch from earlier.

It was just a hand on the waist.

Why had his heart pounded so hard?

Why did he keep wanting to get closer?

The intense, uncontrollable feeling terrified him.

His mind kept reminding him: She's my stepmother.

But his body wouldn't listen.

Later that night, he had a dream.

In the dream, the woman nestled in his arms, calling his name in a soft, sweet voice: "Adrian…"

He moved without restraint, pressing her down and thrusting deep again and again, breathing hard.

The hot, tight grip around him nearly drove him crazy. He gripped her waist and slammed into her, every stroke filled with long-suppressed hunger.

The woman trembled and moaned beneath him. The pleasure felt terrifyingly real. He growled and came hard, pouring everything into her.

Then she lifted her head, revealing a face identical to Vivienne's.

"Dante, you're betraying your father," she said.

He woke with a jolt, drenched in cold sweat.

Dawn was breaking outside.

Overwhelming shame swallowed him whole.

The next morning at breakfast, Dante was acting strange.

He sat across from me, silent, face inexplicably flushed.

I thought it was a side effect of the crash and walked over, pressing my hand to his forehead to check for fever.

He went rigid.

"No fever," I said. "You're not hot."

He kept his eyes down, voice muffled. "Didn't sleep well last night."

I leaned closer to check his color again.

He suddenly grabbed a pillow and pressed it over his lap, breathing unsteady. "Don't… don't come any closer."

"What's wrong?" I asked, confused.

"Nothing." He practically forced the words out. "Vivienne, could you… dress more modestly?"

I looked down at myself.

Knit sweater, long pants—perfectly covered.

The most ordinary loungewear.

I stared at him for two seconds and suddenly realized what was happening.

This reaction…

Warning bells went off in my head.

No.

This was bad.

I needed to nip this inappropriate little crush in the bud.