Mara Beckett had always been the kind of girl who blended into the background without ever really fading away—blonde hair that fell in soft waves down her back, a body that turned heads in the hallways at school with perky tits that strained just right against her fitted tops and an ass that looked killer in her favorite skinny jeans, but she never played it up. She dressed stylish, sure, like those cropped sweaters and high-waisted shorts that showed off her toned legs, but nothing too wild, nothing that screamed for attention. Good grades, a tight circle of friends, and a dad who was some big-shot CEO always jetting off to meetings in cities she couldn’t pronounce. Her mom had died when she was little, leaving this massive house in the Suburbs, that felt more like a museum than a home, empty most days. And then there was Benny Whitaker, her best friend since they were kids building forts in the backyard next door. Benny was the steady one, a bit soft around the edges—chubby in that cute, huggable way, not sloppy, just carrying a little extra that made him look approachable, always cracking jokes to make her laugh. They’d grown up together, shared secrets, cried over stupid crushes, but it never crossed that line. Classic friendzone, and Mara liked it that way.

Lately, though, shit had gotten weird at home. Her dad had brought Anastasia into their lives about 10 months ago, this stunning black-haired woman with a body that could stop traffic— slim and fit, but with these massive, perfectly round tits that looked like they’d been sculpted, a round ass that swayed hypnotically, and legs that went on forever. Anastasia dressed like she owned the world: sky-high heels clicking across the marble floors, elegant outfits that hugged every curve, sometimes sheer stockings that made her legs look endless, or edgy leather skirts with tops that plunged low enough to tease. Even on lazy days around the house, she’d throw on yoga pants that clung like a second skin or oversized sweaters that somehow still looked sexy as fuck, slipping off one shoulder to show lace underneath. And those nails—always red, glossy, at least two inches long, pointy as daggers, tapping rhythmically when she was thinking or scrolling her phone. Mara’s dad spoiled her rotten: jewelry dripping off her wrists, weekend getaways to private beaches, dinners at places with waiting lists a mile long. But when he’d drag her on those business trips that were mostly him locked in conference rooms, Anastasia would beg off sometimes, saying she had a headache or just wanted to relax at home. That’s when the weirdness ramped up. She’d get distant, closed off, disappearing late at night and slipping back in quietly, heading straight to the master bedroom without a word.

Mara wasn’t stupid. She saw the signs. Anastasia played the perfect stepmom around her dad—sweet smiles, asking about school, complimenting Mara’s outfits—but Mara felt the fakeness underneath, like Anastasia was just biding her time for the money, the lifestyle. Another gold digger latching onto her dad’s wealth. If she could catch her cheating, prove it with pics or video, she could show her dad and boot the bitch out. It ate at her, this suspicion building like a slow burn in her gut, making her watch Anastasia Closer.

One night, it all clicked into place. Mara pretended to head to bed early, but she texted Benny: “Come over quiet. Need u to see this shit.” He showed up quick, sneaking through the side gate like old times, and they huddled in her room, lights off, peeking through the curtains. Sure enough, around midnight, Anastasia slipped out the front door in this sleek black dress that hugged her huge tits and ass, stockings shimmering under the porch light, heels silent somehow on the pavement—like she was gliding. No car, just walking into the night. Mara grabbed Benny’s arm, her heart pounding. “That’s it. She’s meeting some dude. We follow her.”

Benny hesitated, his face flushed in the dark. “Mara, this could be dangerous. What if—”

“Fuck that,” she whispered fiercely, already pulling him out the back. “If she’s cheating, we get proof. Come on.”

They tailed her from a distance, sticking to shadows, hearts hammering as Anastasia led them deeper into the neighborhood, past a few lawns and into a dimly lit park a few blocks over. The air was cool, crisp, carrying that late-night silence where every rustle felt amplified. They ducked behind bushes, close enough to see evrything but hidden, as Anastasia approached a bench where a young couple was tangled up, making out heavy—hands roaming, lips locked, the guy’s arm around the girl’s waist pulling her closer.

Anastasia stopped right in front of them, just standing there, staring down. The couple broke apart, noticing her. The guy looked pissed, wiping his mouth. “Can I help you?” No answer from Anastasia, just that steady gaze, her red nails catching faint light as her hand hung loose at her side. The guy shifted, annoyed. “Hey, lady, what the fuck do you want?”

Still nothing. The silence stretched, turning creepy, the girl clutching the guy’s arm now, uneasy. The guy stood up fast, all macho posturing, chest puffed. “I said—”

It happened so quick Mara almost missed it. Anastasia’s hand shot up, those long red nails flashing like blades, a swift slash across the guy’s throat. Blood sprayed hot and dark, arcing in the moonlight, and before he could even gurgle, Anastasia’s head darted forward, mouth latching onto the gash. She drank deep, gulps audible in the still night, the guy’s body jerking once, twice, then slumping lifeless in to her arms, blood pooling black on the pavement.

The girl stared, frozen in shock, mouth open in a silent scream before it ripped out as one sharp, piercing wail. Anastasia released the guy, turning with blood smeared gloss on her lips, and lunged. Fangs—Mara saw them now, sharp and real—sinking into the girl’s neck. The scream cut off wetly, body twitching as Anastasia fed, those huge tits pressing against the struggling girl, red nails digging into shoulders for leverage.

Benny freaked first, crashing backward into the bushes. “Holy shit, holy fucking shit, Mara—what the fuck—” His voice cracked, phone tumbling from his hand where he’d been filming shaky footage.

Mara’s world spun, stomach churning, but she clamped a hand over his mouth, dragging him deeper into the dark. “Shut up, Benny! Fuck, calm down!” Her own voice shook, but she forced steel into it, mind racing. Anastasia finished, wiping her mouth delicately with one nail, then just ... walked away, like nothing happened, heels clicking faintly as she vanished into the night.

They scrambled home, Benny hyperventilating the whole way, Mara gripping his sleeve tight. Back in her room, door locked, she paced while he sat on the bed, pale as hell. “That wasn’t cheating,” he muttered. “That was ... vampire shit. Real fucking vampire.”

Mara stopped, staring out the window where the park lights still glowed distant. “Yeah. But we got it on video? Your phone—”

He checked, nodding shakily. “Some of it. Blurry, but ... the slash, the drinking. Fuck, Mara, we call the cops?”

“Not yet.” She sat beside him, mind whirring. “It’s not enough. She’ll deny it. Say it’s fake, blurry deepfake bullshit. Everyone will believe her over us. We need more. Clear proof. Next time she goes out, we follow again, film better. Then we show Dad, the police, everyone.”

Benny swallowed hard, but nodded. “Okay. Yeah. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” Mara leaned into him a bit, needing the familiar comfort of her best friend, even as her skin crawled thinking about those red nails slicing flesh, the way Anastasia’s body had moved—so graceful, so deadly.

The next day dragged endless. Mara played it cool at home, chatting with Anastasia over breakfast like nothing was wrong. The stepmom looked flawless as ever—hair perfect, makeup subtle but smoky around the eyes, wearing a silk robe that gaped just enough to show cleavage from those massive fake tits, red nails wrapping around a coffee mug. “Sleep well, sweetie?” she asked, voice smooth as honey.