Page 70 of Misconducts & Temptation

A humorless laugh escaped him. “Tense doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. The silence settled back in, thicker than before. My stomach twisted in knots as we turned onto my street. My old street. The houses here were small and worn down, a stark contrast to his neighborhood. Keaton pulled up in front of my house and cut the engine.

“I don’t give a shit what anyone else says. They can’t annul the marriage. We’ve already consummated it. Everything is legal. You’re my wife.”

My mouth went dry, and I struggled to find my voice. The weight of his statement settled in my chest, making it hard to breathe. I hadn’t expected him to be so... adamant.

“They will not take you from me,” he insisted, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my heart race.

I didn’t understand why, but his words brought a sense of comfort I hadn’t anticipated. Maybe it was the finality in his tone, the assurance that for once, someone was fighting for me, not against me.

“Okay,” I whispered, the word barely audible.

He reached out, placing a hand on my knee. The touch was both grounding and electrifying. “We’re in this together now,” he said softly, the hardness in his voice giving way to something gentler.

I nodded again, unable to trust my voice.

We stepped out of the car, the cold air biting against my skin. Keaton moved beside me, his arm wrapping protectively around my waist. It was strange, feeling someone’s warmth so close. I wasn’t used to it.

He led me up the steps to my old house, and I could hear the faint sounds of arguing inside. It was a familiar chorus—my stepsisters bickering over whose turn it was to do something now that I was gone. The noise grew louder as we stood there, waiting for someone to answer.

Keaton knocked firmly on the door. No one responded at first, the arguing continuing unabated. His grip on my waist tightened slightly, a silent promise of support.

Finally, the door swung open and Stephanie stood there, glaring at us with an expression that could curdle milk. Her eyes flicked between Keaton and me, clear disdain on her tight features.

“Well?” Keaton’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. “You going to invite us in?”

Her mouth opened as if she wanted to say something, but then closed it again. Her eyes narrowed, and I wondered if our stepmother had given her strict instructions not to speak out of turn.

I felt a pang of unease but stood firm beside Keaton. Stephanie’s hesitation hung in the air like a thick fog. She glanced over her shoulder briefly before stepping aside to let us in.

As we entered, the familiar scent of home—dust and cheap air freshener—washed over me. The bickering from my stepsisters ceased abruptly when they saw us. I braced myself for whatever would come next, drawing strength from Keaton's presence.

I led Keaton through the narrow hallway, my feet moving on autopilot toward the dining room—or what we called the dining room. In reality, it was a small, cramped kitchen with a rickety table squeezed into one corner. The house felt different with him here. It was like seeing it through a new lens, one that highlighted every crack in the plaster, every faded piece of wallpaper.

The linoleum floor creaked under our weight, and the dim light overhead flickered as if protesting our presence. I noticed the mismatched chairs around the table, each one a relic from garage sales or hand-me-downs from neighbors. The chipped paint on the cabinets seemed more glaring now, and the lingering smell of last night's dinner—burnt onions and something vaguely resembling chicken—hung in the air.

I wondered what he thought of this place, so different from his world of luxury and opulence.

My stepmother entered the kitchen then, her lips puckered in that perpetual scowl she wore so well. Her eyes narrowed as they took in the sight of us standing there together. She had an uncanny ability to make you feel small with just a look. Her fury was palpable, rolling off her in waves that seemed to darken the already dim room.

She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against the doorframe as if to block our escape. “What’s this about?” Her voice was icy, dripping with disdain.

I felt Keaton’s grip tighten on my waist. My heart pounded in my chest as I met her gaze head-on, drawing strength from his unwavering presence beside me.

“Just wanted to let you know that Elodie won’t be coming back here,” Keaton said calmly, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

My stepmother’s eyes flicked to him then back to me. “And who are you to decide that?”

He stepped forward slightly, not breaking eye contact. “I’m her husband.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. For a moment, I thought my stepmother might explode from sheer rage. But instead, she took a deep breath, her nostrils flaring.

“This isn’t over,” she hissed finally, her voice low and venomous.

"Where's dinner?" Keaton asked, his voice slicing through the tension like a knife. "I specifically said we were coming for dinner."

My stepmother's eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a disdainful sneer. "We don't answer to you," she snapped.

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