But it’s not like that matters to me anyway. Not today. I’m meeting him as his stepdaughter, and he’s meeting me as my stepfather. Before I move in for the kill, I want to find out for myself what kind of man Magnus Davion really is.
Guilty until proven innocent; if it’s good enough for the courts of public opinion, it’s good enough for me.
Has something like this ever happened to you? The whole world tells you that someone is X and Y, and then you meet him and you start having doubts about what’s real and what’s not? Maybe it’s a feminine thing. We never trust others to appraise the character of men for us. It’s simply a job we can’t delegate.
Ever since my mother’s marriage with Magnus fell apart, I’ve heard countless horror stories about him. How he’s a self-centered asshole who only cares for himself, how he ruins the women who fall for his sweet talk, and yet… Would a man like the one I just described donate a cool $1 million for charity, just like Magnus did at the gala? I know he probably sleeps in a bed made of cash, but still!
Maybe he just does it to save his ass. That makes sense too, doesn’t it? He knows that with his crazy antics it’s just a matter of time until the city turns against him, and perhaps he’s trying to put on a show for all of us. The charm he uses on women, maybe he decided to use it on a whole city this time.
Either way, I made up my mind. I’ll find out the truth about my stepfather on my own, without any foreign voices to cloud my judgment. That’s what a good reporter does; she digs for the truth, and she wants it raw.
“... Shameful, really,” my mother continues to drone on, almost as if she’s trying to teach my subconscious mind to hate Magnus. “And that’s why we need to bring him down. If there’s anyone who deserves it, it’s Magnus.”
“Yeah, mom,” I say just to appease her, nodding even though she can’t see me. And that’s when the taxi suddenly stops; I look out the window and realize that I’m already outside Agave, the discreet entrance to my right. I pay the taxi driver and, still listening to my mom, step out of the car.
And that’s when I see him.
Tailored suit, shoes as dark as the night.
“Mom, gotta run,” I whisper into the phone, my heart suddenly drumming fast, and end the call without waiting for her reply.
Memories of being in my room when I was 18, by myself, come back.
Having orgasms.
Thinking of Magnus.
“You look beautiful,” Magnus tells me, and I just stare at him without knowing what to say. There’s a kind smile on his lips, and he seems to have turned down his animal intensity for the night. Or, at least, it looks like it.
“Shall we?” he asks me, filling in my silence, and offers me his arm. I walk inside the restaurant with a smile on my face; arm-in-arm with the man I’m supposed to destroy.
8
Magnus
Penny Wright, my stepdaughter, has grown into a beautiful woman.
Which, in a way, is a fucking shame.
If she were any other woman, I’d just turn my charm on and let the chips fall where they may. I mean, just look at her… Her lips were made for kissing, and her body must've been sculpted by the Devil himself, each and every one of her curves like sin turned into flesh.
When she got out of the taxi, just one look at her and my cock was twitching inside my pants, my eyes roaming over her tight-fitting dress. It took a lot of willpower to stop that train of thought—that's for fucking sure.
I was a bit surprised I didn’t recognize her at the gala; I rarely forget a face and, fuck, it’s my stepdaughter we’re talking about, but in a way, that was bound to happen. At eighteen she was just a bony teenager, a rough draft of the woman she had yet to become. She was already a young beautiful woman, sure, but that beauty has now blossomed into something more.
Something intoxicating and dangerous.
“So, journalism, right?” I ask her, our conversation still stiff and rough around the edges. “You were at Yale back then, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, graduated just a few months ago,” she replies as I pour some wine in both our glasses. “And you? Still a rich bastard, right?”
“Still a rich bastard, yeah,” I smile, the sound of her voice making me more lightheaded than the fucking wine itself. We keep on talking about nothing and everything, two strangers bridging the divide between them. It’s a struggle to keep the inner beast inside of me in chains, but I somehow manage to do it.
“This feels right, doesn’t it?” I find myself saying, not even knowing why the fuck I’m saying it.
“What feels right?”