My Ex Now Calls Me Stepmom

Mama

The private elevator opened straight into the penthouse. No hallway. No receptionist. Just home.

Warm. Wood floors. That black dog from his wallpaper was actually real — an old Labrador, sleeping by the fireplace, lifting his head when he heard Lothra's keys.

"Don't bark, Mzee," Lothra said quietly. "We have guests."

Mzee thumped his tail once and went back to sleep.

You were still in Mara's dress. His jacket still over your legs, now over your shoulders. Your feet were bare — you'd kicked off your heels in the car because you couldn't breathe.

Lothra didn't take you to a bedroom. He took you to the kitchen. Big island. Stools.

"Sit. I will make tea. My wife taught me. Kenyan tea, not that English water David drinks."

He said David's name like it tasted bad.

You sat. Your hands were shaking so hard you tucked them under his jacket.

"Demise," he said, putting the kettle on, his back to you so you didn't have to look at anyone. "That money you sent to the village for three years. How much?"

"60,000 SSP every month. Sometimes 80,000 when I did overtime," you whispered. "David said he sent it. He had the bank app."

Lothra closed his eyes. 60k x 36 months. More than two million. Money that never left his son's account.

"He showed me screenshots," you continued, voice cracking. "Mama's operation was 500,000. He said the hospital kept delaying. That we needed to send more."

The kettle whistled.

Lothra poured, added too much milk, too much sugar. The way mothers make it when a child is crying.

He slid the mug to you. His fingers didn't touch yours. He'd learned.

"Drink. Then we will call your mama. Directly. Not through David's screenshots."

You drank. It burned, but it was sweet and it was yours.

The intercom buzzed.

"Mr. Mu, guest Edden is downstairs. Security has her. She only has a small plastic bag. Should we bring her up?" The driver's voice.

Lothra looked at you. Asking.

You nodded, wiping your nose on the back of your hand. "Yes. Bring her."

Two minutes. The elevator dinged again.

Edden.

19. Same eyes as you. Same small nose. But village-thin, in a too-big Hai Town dress, hair not combed, holding a cracked Tecno phone and a plastic bag with one dress inside. And she was shaking like a leaf in harmattan.

When she saw you in that black dress, in this big penthouse, next to Lothra Mu, she froze.

"Demise?" she whispered.

You stood up. His jacket fell.

"My Heart," you said. The name you saved her as.

Edden burst.

She ran — not to you, but to the floor. She knelt at your feet, grabbing your bare feet, sobbing.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! He said you knew! He said city girls share! He said if I didn't, Mama would die and it would be my fault because I came to City J! He said you were doing the same with his father! I'm sorry!"

Your knees gave again but this time you chose to go down. You knelt with her on that warm wood floor, in Mara's dress, holding your sister who still smelled like the village — like shea butter and smoke.

Lothra turned away. Gave you privacy, but didn't leave. He stood by the fireplace, one hand on Mzee's old head, the other fisted.

"Edden, look at me," you said, holding her face. "Did he force you?"

She shook her head, then nodded, then shook again, confused. "He said... he said if I said no, you would lose your job. And Mama... Mama needs..."

That's force.

That's exactly what the law calls it.

"It's not your fault," you whispered, and you finally said the words someone should have said to you three years ago when David first said "let me manage your salary, you're just a village girl."

"It's not your fault. It's his."

Lothra knelt then too. On one knee, far enough that Edden didn't flinch. He was a father. He knew how to talk to a 19-year-old who was scared.

"Edden," he said, low and calm. "My son David Mu is 28 years old. He is my employee. He is not your boss. He never had power to pay for your mama's operation. I did. The company has a medical fund. Your sister never needed to send a single pound."

Edden stared at him, tears running.

"He lied to both of you," Lothra said. "He used your mama to control you. He used Demise's love for you to control her."

He looked at you. Then at her.

"So here is what happens now. One — you both stay here tonight. Guest rooms have locks. Inside. Two — tomorrow morning, my lawyer, a woman, will come. She will record what happened. Only if you want. Three — we call your mama together, on video, so she sees you both safe. And we send her operation money tonight. From me. Not a loan."

You choked. "Sir—"

"Don't 'sir' me in my own kitchen," he said, but his voice was soft. "Mara would have hit me if I let a girl in her dress call me sir."

Edden let out a tiny, shocked laugh through snot and tears. You did too.

Mzee barked once, approving.

The penthouse door buzzed again. Security.

"Mr. Mu, David Mu is back downstairs. He is shouting at the gate. He says he wants his fiancée. He has... he has a video he says he will post."

Lothra stood up slowly. He was 54. Tall. Shoulders that had carried a company for 30 years. And right now he looked like a father who had finally been given permission to be angry.

He took his phone from the island. Opened his security app. Pressed LIVE.

The gate camera showed David, in his Range Rover shirt, phone in hand, shouting at two guards.

Lothra pressed the mic button.

"David Mu," his voice boomed through the gate speaker, so loud even Edden jumped. "You are trespassing on private property. You are harassing two women under my protection. The video you have is of you assaulting your fiancée in my lobby. My CCTV has audio. My IT department has already saved it. If you post yours, I post mine. And mine is a crime."

David looked up at the camera. Went pale.

Lothra didn't stop.

"You are fired. Your company cards are blocked. Your company car is being towed in 10 minutes. Your access to my family accounts is revoked. And if you come near Demise or Edden or their mother again, I will not call security. I will call the police. Do you understand me, son?"

The word _son_ sounded like a sentence.

David got back in his Range Rover. No screech this time. Just reversed, fast, and disappeared down the hill.

Lothra turned the mic off.

He looked at you two on the floor, huddled together, in Mara's black dress that finally had a purpose again.

"You were incredible in there," he said again, same words from the car. But this time he said it to both of you.

Edden wiped her face and whispered to you, in Bari, your mother tongue: _"Demise, is this your husband now?"_

You blushed furiously. "No! He's... he's my boss's father!"

Lothra didn't understand Bari, but he understood blush. He raised an eyebrow, and for the first time that night, his old, tired eyes crinkled.

"Your sister asks good questions," he said, picking up his tea. "We will answer them after we call Mama, yes?"

You nodded, holding Edden's cold hands in yours, warming them the way no one had warmed yours for three years.

Outside the glass, City J lights flickered on. Your dead phone was charging on the counter. It buzzed once — not David.

Mama: _My daughters, I got the money. Hospital says tomorrow. Who is Lothra Mu?_