Chapter 2 The Dinner
Ivy’s POV
I unzip my bag and tug out the black silk dress I packed for a night like this—the one I haven’t worn in months but never stopped thinking about. I peel off my clothes, let them fall to the floor, then slide the dress over my bare skin, savoring the wicked whisper of silk as it kisses every inch of me. No bra. No panties. Just me, the dress, and the promise of trouble clinging to my skin.
Tonight, I’m not just his stepdaughter.
I’m his goddamn downfall.
With one last look in the mirror—a wicked, dangerous woman staring back at me—I grab my stilettos and head for the door.
Game on, Daddy.
The dress is too tight. Too short. Too sinful.
Exactly why I wore it.
Black silk clings to me like a fucking second skin, whispering across every curve with every step I take. The neckline plunges like a damn invitation—deep enough to make a preacher drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness he knows he won't get.
This isn’t just a dress. It's a loaded weapon. And tonight, I’m pulling the trigger.
I slow my pace, letting the sharp click of my stilettos echo down the long staircase. Every step, a warning. Every sway of my hips, a goddamn promise.
Alexander’s already seated at the massive oak dining table, wine glass poised between two fingers, the dark red swirling lazily inside like blood.
He’s changed—black on black, no tie, top two buttons undone just enough to tease me with that chest—the same one I used to sob against when the monsters under my bed were too much.
Now I want to bite him there.
Scratch. Tear.
See if the man underneath is still as unbreakable as he pretends to be.
His head lifts. Our eyes lock.
And for a second—a beautiful, brutal second—the world fucking stops.
He freezes.
Eyes devouring me. They're slow. Greedy. Dark.
His stare burns, carving a path down my body like he wants to memorize every forbidden inch. Like he hates himself for it. Like he’s two seconds away from dragging me up against the nearest wall.
Good.
Bleed for me, Daddy.
I saunter over, hips swaying, sliding into the seat across from him with all the grace of a fucking goddess.
I cross my legs deliberately, the short hem of my dress riding up higher than should be legal.
“Is this dinner,” I say, voice honey-sweet, “or my execution?”
The stem of his wine glass snaps between his fingers with a soft crack, spilling blood-red wine onto the pristine white tablecloth.
I bite back a smile, satisfaction coiling inside me.
Got you.
"Don't push me, Ivy," he growls, low and dangerous, each word dragging across my skin like a blade.
I cock my head, feigning innocence. "You’re the one staring at me like you wanna snap my neck or..."
I let my eyes drop to his mouth.
"...something else."
His jaw flexes so hard I can practically hear his teeth grinding.
One wrong move, and he’ll break. And I want it. I want him broken—for me.
The housekeeper shuffles in, bless her poor heart, setting down plates heavy with roasted steak, butter-drenched potatoes, and caramelized vegetables.
The smell should make my mouth water.
It doesn’t.
My hunger tonight isn’t for food.
We eat in thick, crackling silence.
Each bite I take is a performance, slow, sensual, deliberate. I make a point of licking my fork clean, darting my tongue out just to watch his fists clench tighter every damn time.
Finally, he slams his silverware down. The sharp clang makes me jump—and ache.
"You think this is a fucking game?" His voice is low, but underneath... he's losing it.
I shrug, playful. Reckless. "No." I twirl my fork between two fingers, letting my lips curve into a slow, wicked smile. "I think you wanna play too."
A muscle ticks in his jaw, like he's fighting a war inside himself—and losing.
“You’re not a little girl anymore. I get that,” he says, voice ragged, dangerous. “But you will not disrespect my house. Or me.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table, letting my cleavage spill forward like an offering.
“You’re right.”
I let my voice drop to a sultry purr.
“I’m not a little girl anymore...”
I drag my tongue across my bottom lip, slow and deliberate.
“I’m all grown up now, Daddy.”
His chair scrapes back violently.
My heart leaps—and so does the heat pooling between my thighs.
He’s around the table before I can blink, towering over me.
A fucking storm in a suit.
He stops right behind me, so close I can feel the heat rolling off his body in angry, pulsing waves.
His breath ghosts over my neck, sending shivers straight down my spine.
“You keep calling me that like it doesn’t mean something. Like it’s not carved into fucking bone.”
I tilt my head back lazily, smiling up at him. “It does mean something.”
I let my fingers trail along the inside of his wrist, featherlight.
“You saved me. Raised me. Taught me how to be strong.”
I tilt my chin up, eyes burning into his.
“And now I’m strong enough to take what I want.”
His hand slams down next to my plate, rattling the silverware, making me jump and clench my thighs all over again.
"You don't know what you're doing," he rasps, like he's trying to convince himself more than me.
I stand slowly, the chair scraping back, and press my body against his.
I’m tiny compared to him—fragile, soft—but he’s the one trembling now.
I look up through my lashes, voice a whisper of sin.
“I know exactly what I’m doing, Daddy.”
I rise up on tiptoes, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“And the real question is…”
I drag the words out, tasting every one.
“…do you know what you’re gonna do when you finally fucking break?”
He stiffens, every muscle locking up like he’s holding back an explosion.
His hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles bone-white, the veins on his arms thick and pulsing.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t run. Doesn’t push me away.
He just stares. Burning. Starving. Dying.
And for the first time tonight, I see it.
The beginning of the end.
The cracks spider-webbing through the armor he’s spent years building.
The man unraveling at the seams—all for me.
He wants me. And it’s killing him.
And me?
I’m ready to watch him fall.
To Be Continued...