Falling For My Stepsister’s Father

Chapter 4

Isabel had mentioned, far too casually, that she made her father wait for work just to meet us.

I almost screamed when she told me.

Who the hell tells one of the most powerful men in Sicily to “wait”?

And who the hell obeys?

It simply meant I didn’t even have time to breathe or panic properly.

Soon, I was going to be standing in front of the Lord of the Draegor Empire, the most feared, influential man in Sicily, Italy.

That alone was enough for my stomach to twist into tight, nauseating knots.

When we arrived at Isabel’s home, I felt small. Very, very small. It was embarrassing to admit it, but in the seven years we had reconnected, this was the first time I had ever stepped inside, or even seen, the place she called home.

The only definition I could give was:

her father was wealthy.

Not rich.

Wealthy.

It was one thing to hear the stories, to see the gossip columns, to listen to Isabel rant about “father’s ridiculous spending habits.”

It was a whole different universe actually seeing it.

The house was… breathtaking.

Ivory stone walls stretched across a massive estate, carved with delicate Renaissance details. Two towering lion statues guarded the wrought-iron gate like silent sentinels. The cobblestone driveway curved in a perfect arc, lined with trimmed hedges and white rose bushes that smelled like heaven.

In the middle of the circular drive sat an enormous fountain, three tiers of marble, water cascading like liquid crystal, reflecting sunlight in blinding sparkles. A sculpted angel stood at the top, wings spread wide, as if blessing the entire property.

A fleet of luxury cars, sleek, polished and impossibly expensive, rested under a covered portico, each one looking like it had never seen a speck of dust in its life.

The mansion itself towered above all of it:

Grand.

Silent.

Intimidating.

With tall arched windows and balconies framed by black wrought-iron railings.

A house built for royalty.

Or kings.

Or men powerful enough to worshipped or feared.

Probably both.

And I?

I was about to walk inside.

My breath hitched.

Ann whined quietly in my arms, sensing my anxiety.

Meanwhile, Isabel grinned like we had just pulled up to a cottage by the beach.

“Welcome home, munchkin,” she said.

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to faint or run.

We got inside and my breath hitched. I had grown up poor, and that was putting it lightly. I had never seen a house like this except on TV, and even then, it wasn’t as grand. The floors were shiny white marble, smooth under my shoes. The ceilings were high, decorated with gold patterns that caught the light. A huge staircase curved up to the second floor, its railing dark polished wood that gleamed. Sunlight poured through tall windows, filtered by soft cream curtains. Everywhere smelled faintly of fresh flowers and warm wood. Even the air felt rich, heavy, and different from anywhere I had ever been.

I felt Isabel hover near me.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“Like it? Is this where you live?” I whispered, my voice barely above my racing heartbeat.

She laughed. “Yes, munchkin. I wouldn’t bring you to a guest house, now would I?”

I turned away from her and stared at the house. Tears pricked my eyes. I didn’t know if I felt relief, shock, or unworthiness. But I couldn’t let Isabel see me break, so I shook my tears away and sniffed back the rest.

“This is where you’ll be living for the next few months, Phina. Do well to make yourself at home, b***h,” she teased.

I laughed with her because it was either that or cry. And I couldn’t cry—not now, not when I was about to meet her father.

She led me to my room, and I froze. It took my breath away. I couldn’t remember the last time I had slept in a bed this big. The king-sized mattress felt like it could swallow me whole, and the headboard was so tall it nearly touched the ceiling. Glass windows ran from the floor to the ceiling, letting sunlight pour in and casting the room in a soft, warm glow.

Ann even had her own room, and she couldn’t have been happier. Isabel’s room was just down the hall to my right, similar in size and arrangement. Knowing Isabel wasn’t far away made me feel safer, this huge house suddenly felt a little smaller.

It took me a while to get used to the bathroom. I struggled with the taps, either getting water that was too hot or too cold. In the end, I settled for hot, finally feeling the warmth on my skin after weeks without a proper shower. I dressed in baggy jeans and a hoodie, wanting to hide as much as possible. I let my hair fall freely over my shoulders, finally feeling clean.

Isabel came to call me after she refreshed herself, now wearing jean shorts and a crop top. She looked effortlessly perfect, like she always did, unbothered by showing off her killer figure.

We made our way downstairs, and my breath hitched at the sight of the people gathered in the hall.

“Who are all these people?” I asked nervously.

“Oh? These are the workers of the house, munchkin,” she said with a smile. “We treat them like family. You won’t even notice them most of the time. They’re all gathered like this because my father is coming. No matter how much he complains, he doesn’t like it, but they wouldn’t stop greeting him.”

She took my hand and led me forward, her grin making me feel slightly braver, though my heart still hammered in my chest.

The workers all smiled at me, warm and welcoming, just as Isabel had promised. She moved among them with effortless charm, laughing, teasing, fanning them with attention, as if they were all part of her little world. Ten in total, five men, five women—and they gravitated toward her naturally, hanging on every word, every gesture. I smiled faintly, the ache in my chest softening just a little. She deserved all the love that came her way.

I drifted toward the kitchen, trying to steady my nerves. The space was cavernous, a room that should have belonged in a magazine rather than a house. Marble countertops gleamed under the soft lighting, appliances polished to perfection, the scent of something rich lingering faintly in the air. I turned the tap and let the cold water rush over my hands, scrubbing as if I could wash away more than just dirt.

Yes, I had just bathed. But anyone who had lived through my kind of darkness knew this: you never stop needing to feel clean. Not just physically. Mentally. Spiritually. You scrub because the past sticks to your skin like poison.

I didn’t notice the presence behind me until a shadow fell across the room.

“Are you a thief… or a robber?”

The words made my blood freeze. I turned slowly, heart hammering like a drum in my chest.

He was standing there, and the world seemed to shrink around him. Eyes so green and sharp, they pierced my skin. Eyes that didn’t just look, they assessed, stripped away layers, saw the truth beneath the mask I wore for everyone else.

And then his face. God. His face. Sharp angles softened by just enough symmetry to make him disturbingly beautiful. A jaw that could break a man’s pride, cheekbones high and defined, lips full but never soft, the kind of lips you knew could command or destroy. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his suit; tall enough that I had to tilt my head, though I stood at a decent height. He was a giant, a predator disguised as a man.

“You’ll learn quickly, little girl,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “I hate repeating myself. Unless you’re mute or deaf, a sign will be appreciated.”

“I—I’m not deaf,” I stammered, though my voice sounded alien even to my own ears. His gaze traced me, slowly, uncovering pieces of me I had hidden for years, the scars, the quiet desperation, the parts of myself I hadn’t let anyone touch. Every nerve in my body screamed awareness; every inch of me prickled with heat I hated and couldn’t control. My n*****s hardened against my sweater, a friction that felt too intimate, too wrong.

“Good to know,” he said simply. The words were nothing, and yet they carried everything: power, promise, warning. I could feel it in my bones, in the pit of my stomach, in the way my chest tightened involuntarily.

Our eyes held each other firmly, mine trying desperately to hide the way his presence twisted something deep inside me—something I hadn’t felt in years. I tried to make sense of him, to place him among the workers here, to tell myself he was just another person, another stranger in a house that wasn’t mine. But every fiber of my being screamed that he was anything but ordinary. And him, well, he gave nothing away. No flicker of emotion, no hint of recognition, no softness in those piercing green eyes. He simply observed, silent and unreadable, like a storm contained behind a mask.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t tear my gaze away. My pulse thundered in my ears, my chest tightened, and the air between us felt thick enough to choke on. I was certain he could feel it too, the taut cord of tension stretched between us, the way my hands itched to pull away yet stayed frozen at my sides.

And then, without either of us noticing the shift in the room, a new presence entered. The subtle sound of footsteps, the slight breath of movement, barely audible, sliced through the suffocating silence.

“Dad?”

Fuck. My. Life.