Chapter 21: Power Plays and Promises.

The next afternoon, dressed again in my sharp skirt suit, a tailored black blazer and knee-length pencil skirt, paired with a crisp white blouse, the top button undone to hint at control laced with danger, my badge gleaming on my chest like a twisted crown, and polished black stilettos that clicked with predatory authority—I drove to the Stewart estate. Jessica was with me, pale and quiet, dressed in the same expensive but simple dress as yesterday, a pale lavender chiffon number that flowed softly to her knees, the fabric clinging to her still-soft post-birth curves with a delicate, almost innocent elegance. The thin spaghetti straps exposed her pale shoulders, the subtle V-neck hinting at her vulnerability, while the small silver locket around her neck seemed to weigh heavy with unspoken pain. Her wrists bore no adornment, hands fidgeting nervously in her lap, and her low, nude ballet flats, scuffed at the toes, whispered of her subdued state. Her hair remained in a loose, messy bun, strands escaping to frame her drawn face, a fragile facade cracked by yesterday’s horrors. Eleanor was not with us. Her mother was a broken thing now, silenced by a depravity she couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t speak of since our encounter in the Johnsons’ kitchen yesterday. The leverage was absolute, a chain of sin bindin’ her tighter than any threat.

The Stewart home was a monument to old money and quiet power, a sprawling mansion set back from the road, flanked by manicured lawns that stretched like a goddamn kingdom under the late afternoon sun, imposing columns guardin’ the entrance like sentinels of superiority. Through the wrought-iron gates, I glimpsed a rose garden to the side, blooms blood-red against the pristine green, a fountain tricklin’ in the center of the circular driveway, mockin’ the raw filth I carried within. The air here was different from the ranch’s gritty stink or Eleanor’s curated suburban perfection. It was thick with history, with expectation, a subtle, ingrained sense of entitlement that made my skin crawl even as it sharpened my focus. My pussy throbbed under my skirt, a familiar ache from yesterday’s conquest, but my mind was calculatin’, assessin’ the threat, the opportunity. This was Leon’s world, or a world parallel to it, built on connections and influence, a chessboard where I’d carve my fuckin’ name.

Malcom’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Stewart—Robert and Martha, their names echoed with generations of wealth—were polite, reserved, their smiles practiced but their eyes sharp, assessin’ me, assessin’ Jessica. Robert Stewart, Malcom’s father, was a man in his late fifties, silver-haired and broad-shouldered, clad in a tailored charcoal suit, the crisp white shirt beneath unbuttoned just enough to hint at a casual power, a gold watch glintin’ on his wrist with every measured gesture, polished black loafers silent on the hardwood floor. His face, lined with a lifetime of makin’ deals, held eyes that burned with cold calculation. Martha, his second wife, was strikingly younger at 35, a gorgeous beauty whose elegance seemed almost out of time with Robert’s weathered authority. Her trim frame was draped in a cream-colored silk dress that hugged her curves, endin’ at the knee with a subtle flair, paired with pearl earrings and a matchin’ necklace that rested against her flawless collarbone, her ash-blonde hair swept into a flawless chignon. Her feet bore nude kitten heels, understated but sharp, clickin’ faintly as she moved, her porcelain skin and sharp green eyes carryin’ a cool, predatory beauty that hit me like a fuckin’ punch, her gaze particularly piercing on Jessica, lingerin’ on her still-soft belly, on the faint shadows under her eyes with a mix of pity and judgment. I noted her allure, the way her lips curved with a subtle power, and a dark thought coiled in my gut—someday, I’d fuck her raw, break that cool facade, make her scream under me, taste that beauty twisted into submission.

Robert’s first wife, long divorced and moved to New York decades ago, had left behind a daughter, Malcom’s older half-sister, Eliza Stewart, who was also present in the room. At 21, Eliza was already managin’ some of her father’s business affairs, a stunnin’ beauty in her own right, with high cheekbones, full lips painted a deep berry shade, and long, dark hair fallin’ in sleek waves over one shoulder. She wore a fitted navy blazer over a white silk camisole, paired with a tailored gray pencil skirt that ended just above the knee, accentuatin’ her long legs, and black pointed-toe pumps with a modest heel that added a sharp edge to her poised demeanor. A simple silver chain with a small diamond pendant adorned her neck, catchin’ the light as she shifted, her hazel eyes—mirrors of her father’s calculatin’ stare—flickin’ over me with a mix of curiosity and wariness. Her presence radiated a quiet, inherited power, and fuckin’ hell, she was gorgeous, a vision of youthful control I wanted to shatter, to bend over that antique furniture and fuck till she begged, her beauty another prize I’d claim at some point, alongside her stepmother Martha, a twisted duo to add to the Legacy’s filth.

Malcom was there too, earnest and uncomfortable, hoverin’ awkwardly in a navy blazer over a white dress shirt, khaki slacks, and brown leather loafers, his gaze fixed on Jessica with a mix of love and worry, a boy trapped in a man’s game, oblivious to the predators circlin’ him, includin’ his own family and me.

We sat in a formal livin’ room, all antique furniture and hushed tones, heavy velvet drapes framin’ tall windows that looked out onto a terrace overlookin’ the rose garden, the settin’ sun castin’ golden streaks across the polished mahogany floor. The air carried a faint scent of lavender polish and aged leather, a sterile wealth that choked me even as I played their game. They spoke of Malcom’s proposal, of the twins, of their “concern” for Jessica, their words polite but laced with a clear desire for control, for assimilation, for ensurin’ the Stewart name wasn’t tarnished by scandal. Martha was particularly direct, her questions pointed, hintin’ at custody lawyers, the push for a quick, quiet marriage, her pearl necklace shiftin’ slightly as she leaned forward, voice smooth as silk but cuttin’ like a blade. Eliza chimed in occasionally, her tone measured, businesslike, echoin’ her father’s need for order, her silver chain glintin’ as she adjusted her posture, her beauty a quiet weapon I couldn’t ignore, my mind already imaginin’ the taste of her under my hands.