Page 12 of The Unexpected

“Good girl,” I say again. “I wasn’t expecting that last part, but the begging was a nice touch. Now, lesson one: always swallow.”

She laughs, giddy and broken, her hair a mess and her eyes wild.

Outside, the party is still raging. Inside, we are the only thing that matters.

And I can’t wait for lesson two. Stella may be my step-niece, but this is going to be the most depraved two weeks of my life, and I can’t wait.

5

THE MORNING AFTER, PART ONE

Stella

The morning after feels nothing like the movies. No hangover, no mascara-caked pillow, no queasy post-party regrets—just a weird, floating lightness, like I’ve accidentally woken up in someone else’s skin. I swallow, and the slightly salty tang brings everything rushing back because I can taste the remnants of his semen in my mouth. After the filthy blow-job, Hunter walked me to my room and tucked me into bed like I was a little girl, ignoring the raging party downstairs. I obediently shut my eyes, completely overwhelmed, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

But now, it’s morning and I’m faced with the residuals of last night’s bad choices. I shuffle into the kitchen with my hair a full-blown disaster, and right away I regret not brushing it. The light in here is brutal, everything sharp: the oversized window, the glassy shimmer of the marble floor. A cleaning crew is already at work in the next room, muted by the soundproof door but audible if you listen: the distant shhh of a vacuum, the rhythm of clinking glass, the dull scrape of a mop bucket wheel. It’s all so efficient, so antiseptic, that for a second I feel like a patient in a hospital, or maybe a crime scene witness.

At the breakfast table, Hunter reads a real, actual newspaper, the kind that leaves ink dust on your hands. The paper is folded into a precise rectangle next to his coffee mug. He doesn’t look up as I enter, but I know he’s aware—I can feel it in the subtle shift of his jaw, the flick of an eye above the rim of his mug. He’s too handsome for his own good, with that dark hair slicked back and a tiny smirk at the edge of his mouth.

I hover by the fridge for a beat, unsure if I’m allowed to just… be here, after last night. But it’s my father’s house, not his, and I refuse to do the walk of shame in my own kitchen. I yank open the fridge and take out the glass carafe of cold brew, then pour myself a mug with hands that only shake a little.

I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. Not until I’ve poured the coffee, added exactly one drop of cream (too much and it tastes like soap), and sat myself at the opposite end of the table, where the sunlight is less aggressive.

Only then does he lower the paper, folding it with a rustle so deliberate it sounds like a threat. He levels his gaze at me: blue, steady, and unbothered by my choice of nightwear, which is a Nicolette sample sale white nightgown that barely covers my ass. I tug at the hem, but it’s a lost cause. His eyes flick down, then back up, his face unreadable.

“Sleep well?” he says, and there’s just enough curve in his mouth to make the words dangerous.

I shrug. “I would’ve, but apparently someone brought in a whole cleaning crew at sunrise.”

He doesn’t apologize. “Your father’s orders,” he says, as if that explains everything. “Also, there were four bags of trash on the front lawn. And a pair of panties in the mailbox.” He takes a casual sip. “Not yours, I assume.”

I fight the urge to blush, but it’s a losing battle. My face prickles hot. I busy myself with the breakfast spread, which was laid out by our chef: a tiered platter of fruit, two covered dishes (one with bacon, one with scrambled eggs), a stack of toast slices arranged like dominoes, a butter dish with an actual tiny butter knife. There’s even a little pot of raspberry jam, the label in French. I load my plate with everything, even though I’m not hungry. I need something to do with my hands.

He waits until I’m settled, then says, “You’re not going to ask why I’m here early?”

I blink at him, twice. “Right. Because you weren’t supposed to show up until tonight.”

“Plans changed.”

I arch an eyebrow, then glance at the paper, as if the answer might be in the stock report. “You just love to keep people on their toes.”

He folds the paper again, sets it aside, and steeples his fingers. “I had a meeting canceled. Figured I’d check in on my favorite niece.”

The word stings, just a little. But I meet his gaze, refusing to let him see it. “Uh-huh. You came over on a Friday night, bone-tired after work, just to make sure I wasn’t dead.”

“I had a feeling you’d find a way to make things interesting.”

I almost laugh, but it comes out as a scoff. I chew my toast instead, refusing to look at him, aware of every inch of exposed thigh under the table. My legs feel like they belong to a stranger. It’s as if the body I wore last night isn’t quite the same as the one I have to live in this morning.

He leans back, the chair creaking. He’s wearing a charcoal sweater, the sleeves pushed to his elbows, and I can see the tan lines on his wrists. His hair is damp—he’s showered already, like a psychopath—and he looks even more like a CEO than he did last night. All business, no mercy.

I clear my throat. “The party’s over, by the way. You can relax.”

“Didn’t look very relaxing when I walked in,” he says, and this time there’s no mistaking the smirk. “If I’d been ten minutes later, I’d have walked in on your… what was his name?”

“Brad.” I set my fork down a little too hard. “And nothing happened.”

He makes a sympathetic noise, like he’s talking to a pet that just peed the carpet. “No need to be embarrassed. Not every guy is up to the challenge. He was what— two inches? Three?”