Chapter 1

Lillian sank into the plush leather sofa in the mansion’s sprawling living room, a glass of crisp Chardonnay cradled in her manicured hand. The day had been a ritual of maintenance—hours at the salon taming her fiery red hair into soft waves, a grueling Pilates session to keep her curves taut as she edged toward forty.

She twirled a lock of that hair around her finger, its vibrant hue catching the dim light, and glanced at her reflection in the turned-off big-screen TV across the room. The woman staring back was still a knockout—emerald eyes sharp and piercing, alabaster skin smooth from facials, lips full and painted a subtle rose. Her figure, hugged by a tailored silk blouse and fitted leggings, boasted long legs and a generous bust, the kind that had turned heads since her teens. She smirked faintly. She still had it, and she damn well knew it.

The quiet hum of her thoughts shattered with a sharp knock at the front door. Lillian’s grip tightened on her wine glass as heavy footsteps thumped down the stairs—Tyler, her spoiled eighteen-year-old stepson, a perpetual thorn in her side. He bounded into view, all wiry limbs and unearned swagger, his dark hair a mess, jeans slung low on his hips as he sauntered to the door and opened it.

A high-pitched squeal pierced the air. “Oh my God, you’re so hot!” chirped a young woman, her voice dripping with excitement as Tyler slung an arm around her and steered her upstairs. Lillian caught a glimpse as they passed—bleached blonde hair, a skimpy crop top barely containing her, legs wobbling in cheap heels. Typical. Another of Tyler’s Tinder sluts, disposable and loud, just like the rest.

She took a long sip of wine, the cool liquid doing little to quench the irritation bubbling in her chest. Tyler was a little shit—crude, entitled, a leech sucking dry the wealth his father, Richard, had built. She’d married Richard five years ago, a deliberate choice at thirty-three. He’d been sixty, a tech mogul dripping with money, and she’d been pouring champagne at a gala, her black dress clinging just right. He’d fallen for her elegance, her practiced smile; she’d seen a ticket out of waitressing and into a life of luxury. It was transactional, and she owned it—security for her beauty, a fair trade. Richard wasn’t a bad man, just absent, always jetting off to close deals, leaving her to play the perfect trophy wife.

But Tyler—he was the part she hadn’t bargained for. Even while he was still in high school he’d known what was up with her marriage to his father. Five years of his smirks, his taunts about her “gold-digging ass,” his sheer existence under her skin like a splinter she couldn’t dig out. As Tyler had aged, it had only gotten worse as he’d started bringing home “girlfriends”, fucking them loudly in his bedroom. She’d tried to prevail on him to show a little more consideration for the other occupants of the house, but Tyler had just smirked, saying he couldn’t help it. She’d tried to get Richard to intervene, but her husband was away on business trips more often than not, striking multimillion-dollar deals while leaving his gorgeous younger wife home and frustrated with his teenage son.

Lillian set her glass on the coffee table and picked up her book—a literary novel, something to match her cultivated image—determined to reclaim her evening. She’d barely turned a page when the noises started. A rhythmic thump rattled the ceiling, followed by a sharp bang, the headboard slamming against the wall upstairs. Her jaw clenched. Then came the girl’s voice, shrill and unrestrained: “Fuck, yes, harder!” The walls shook, the tempo picking up, and Lillian cursed under her breath, slamming the book shut.

She tried to focus on the words swimming on the page, but the sounds grew louder—moans, gasps, the unmistakable slap of skin on skin. “Oh my God, it’s so big!” the girl shrieked, her voice cutting through the mansion like a siren. Lillian’s fingers dug into the sofa, her nails leaving faint crescents in the leather. That little bastard. Couldn’t he keep it quiet for once?

Lillian snatched the remote from the coffee table, her patience fraying like a cheap hem. She jabbed the power button, the big-screen TV flickering to life, and scrolled until she landed on a reality show—Trophy Wives of the Elite, all Botox and Birkins, a mirror to her own polished existence. She cranked the volume, the shrill chatter of rich women arguing over diamonds filling the room, a perfect match for her vanity and a lifeline to drown out the chaos upstairs. She sank back into the sofa, willing herself to sink into the drama, to focus on their petty squabbles instead of the one shaking her house.

But the noises from Tyler’s room cut through like a blade. The thumping grew insistent, the headboard slamming harder, the girl’s shrieks climbing higher—”Yes, yes, it’s so fucking big!” Lillian’s grip tightened on the remote, her knuckles whitening. The TV blared louder, but it was no match; the blonde’s voice pierced every decibel, climaxing with a wail that rattled the chandelier overhead.

Lillian’s jaw locked, her breath shallow as the banging intensified, the girl hitting a second peak, her screams a jagged symphony of ecstasy. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the rhythm stuttered, and a loud, shuddering moan signaled the end—Tyler’s date collapsing into a final, ear-splitting orgasm. Silence fell, heavy and mocking.

Ten minutes later, the stairs creaked. Lillian glanced up from her wine, now lukewarm in her glass, as the blonde stumbled into view. She was a wreck—hair a tangled nest, mascara streaking her cheeks, thighs mottled with fresh bruises peeking from under her crumpled skirt. She wobbled on her heels, a disheveled mess, and Lillian’s lip curled in disgust. At the top of the staircase, Tyler lounged against the railing, shirtless, his dark hair mussed, a smirk plastered across his face. The girl turned, giggling airheadedly, and waved up at him with a limp hand. “Bye, babe!” she chirped, her voice grating, before she fumbled with the front door and slipped out, the latch clicking shut behind her.

Lillian’s eyes flicked to Tyler, catching his gaze as he shifted his smirk to her. That smug, shit-eating look burned into her, and something snapped. “You’re a filthy little animal,” she snarled, her voice low and venomous, the words spilling out before she could stop them.

Tyler’s grin widened, all teeth and insolence, not a flicker of shame in his hazel eyes. He shrugged, casual as ever, and sauntered back toward his room, leaving her stewing in the living room, the TV still blaring about caviar and couture. Her fingers twitched around the stem of her glass, the urge to hurl it at his retreating back almost overwhelming.

Two days later, Lillian stood before the full-length mirror in the master suite, smoothing the fabric of a slinky black dress over her hips. She’d spent the afternoon primping—red hair swept into a loose, sultry cascade, lips painted a deep crimson, mascara lengthening her lashes until her green eyes popped. The dress clung to her like a second skin, plunging low at the neckline to showcase her ample cleavage, the hem riding high on her toned thighs. She twisted, admiring the way it hugged her curves, the result of relentless workouts and will to defy middle-age.

She was horny ... no, horny didn’t cover it—she’d endured Tyler’s parade of sluts every damn night, their shrieks about his “big cock” rattling her skull. Richard’s car from the airport would pull up any minute, and she needed something, anything, to scratch the itch. She spritzed perfume on her wrists, a final touch, and smirked at her reflection. Irresistible.

The front door clicked open just as she slipped into stilettos, and she grabbed a chilled bottle of champagne from the fridge, two flutes dangling between her fingers. Richard shuffled in, his silver hair mussed, suit wrinkled from the jet lag of a grueling business trip. His tired eyes brightened at the sight of her, and she greeted him with a sway of her hips, popping the cork with a practiced flick.

“Welcome home, darling,” she purred, pressing a glass into his hand. They settled in the living room, the same leather sofa where she’d stewed through Tyler’s latest fuck-fest, and clinked their glasses. Richard sank back, sipping slowly, his voice gravelly as he talked about the trip—deals closed, exhaustion earned. She nodded, half-listening, her mind on the bedroom.

“How’s Tyler been?” he asked, swirling his champagne.

Lillian’s smile tightened, her fingers brushing the stem of her glass. “Fine,” she said, clipped and cool, dodging the truth—He’s a loud, disgusting little shit who’s driving me insane. She wasn’t about to ruin the mood with that.

Richard nodded, satisfied, and murmured, “Good, good,” too jet-lagged to press.

She seized the moment, leaning in to graze his jaw with her lips, her voice husky. “Let’s take this upstairs.”

In the bedroom, she pulled him close, her mouth crashing into his with a fury born of pent-up need. Her hands roamed his chest, tugging at his tie, her tongue demanding more. Richard responded, willingly enough, his lips moving against hers, his hands settling on her waist—but there was no fire, no urgency. She pressed herself tighter, the silk of her dress sliding against his shirt, her kisses fierce and hungry. He matched her pace, sort of, his touch polite where she wanted it rough, his breath steady where hers hitched. She dragged him toward the bed, desperate to feel something, anything, to erase the echoes of Tyler’s bimbos screaming through her nights.

Lillian tugged Richard’s tie loose, her fingers deft as she stripped him down, peeling away the wrinkled shirt and slacks until he stood bare in the dim bedroom light. He swayed slightly, jet lag heavy in his limbs, but she wasn’t deterred. She shoved him gently onto the bed, the crisp sheets rustling, and climbed over him, her dress hiked up around her thighs.

Her hand found his cock, stroking firmly, coaxing it to life with a determination that bordered on desperation. Richard groaned, groggy and half-hearted, his hands fumbling at her chest. He squeezed her tits through the silk, a clumsy knead, then slid a hand between her legs, brushing her pussy with all the finesse of a sleepwalker. She gritted her teeth—frustrated, horny, sick of Tyler’s loud sluts getting theirs while she got nothing. Tonight, she’d have something.