see you in a minute

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Wanda first heard your name three months ago, when her father called her at college to say he'd met someone. She'd shrugged it off then, used to his short-lived flings after her mother died, figured it would fizzle out like all the rest. She didn't bother asking who you were.

She got home for spring break to find your shoes by the front door and a framed wedding photo on the mantel in the living room. The bottom dropped out of her stomach—her father never even told her it was happening. This wasn't a fling. You'd moved into her mother's house, taken her mother's place, and no one had asked her what she thought.

The front door slammed so hard the photo frames rattled on the walls, making you jump where you were stirring pasta on the stove. Erik was in his office, so it was just you downstairs when Wanda trundled her suitcases up the steps, stopped dead in the entryway when she saw you standing there in her mother's kitchen. Her face went white, then sharp, all the pieces clicking into place faster than you could speak.

"Who the fuck are you!?"

You held out a hand to calm her down and she knocked it away, the spoon clattering to the floor, red sauce splattering up the front of your shirt. She didn't apologize, she just stood there shaking, hatred blazing in her eyes like you'd already broken everything she ever loved.

Erik burst through the door two minutes later, having gotten Pietro's panicked call from his room down the hall. He grabbed Wanda's shaking shoulders, trying to pull her into a hug, but she wrenched away, yelling that he'd lied to her for six months, that he didn't care what she wanted anymore. Pietro finally stepped forward when his father's face flushed red with frustration, his grip on Wanda's arm slipping as she tugged hard enough to make his father stumble. He called her name soft, hesitant, reaching out to wrap both arms around her shaking shoulders from behind to hold her back.

Wanda fought him hard, heels scrabbling against the hardwood, but Pietro's always been stronger, built for the soccer he plays year round. She went limp in his hold eventually, chest heaving, hot tears spilling over that she refused to wipe, her eyes locked on you where you still stood by the cold stove, not moving an inch.

It's been two full months since that first fight and the cold war in this house never really ends—she just learned to fight quieter, especially when her father is not around to step in for you.

She never bothers rinsing her dishes, just leaves them caked with old food on the coffee table when she storms out. Her dirty laundry piles up by the washing machine, overflowing onto the floor, and she expects you to pick it up and sort it like she's your spoiled child you never asked for.

Last Saturday you stepped into the bathroom at 6 A.M. to find vomit pooled by the toilet, splashed up the side of the tub, and she'd already stumbled to her room and locked the door, snoring loud enough you could hear it through the wood. You had to clean it up alone, the acrid smell sticking to your clothes for hours. She has been out all night again and got home earlier this morning.

And there were times that you always woke up to girls slipping out the front door at dawn, their shoes clicking quiet on the hardwood like they're afraid to be caught. More often than not, Wanda doesn't even walk them out—just stays curled behind her locked bedroom door, leaving you to make awkward small talk with hungover girls who don't know what to call you. When she does see them out, she leans in the doorway of her room, one bare foot propped on the frame, and stares right through you the whole time. She doesn't say a word, just holds that cold, deadly look until the door clicks shut behind the girl, then turns and slams her own door hard enough to rattle the walls.

Every small or big mess, every cold silence, is a reminder you're still the intruder who broke into her life.

And now, another fire has started between you and your stepdaughter.

Pietro leans back in his chair, still laughing with his dad about something that happened on his team. You glance at Wanda, who hasn't spoken a word at dinner, picking at her asparagus like it personally offended her. You clear your throat soft, leaning forward a little to include her.

"I was just wondering—did you ever play any sports? Your brother has always been so obsessed with soccer."

Wanda's fork stills halfway to her mouth. She lifts her eyes slowly, pinning you where you sit, the corner of her mouth twitching into a cold, sharp smile.

"Why do you care? You're just gonna insert yourself into every part of my life anyway, might as well get all the details from dad."

Your husband sets his fork down with a quiet clink, opening his mouth to scold her, but you reach under the table to touch his wrist, shaking your head once to stop him. Wanda watches the gesture, her smile dropping into that familiar cold, tight line, jaw set hard enough to see the muscle tick.

"I'm done. I'm going out." She pushes her chair back slowly, half her dinner still untouched on the plate.

Pietro tries to smooth it over, leaning forward to call after her as she grabs her jacket off the back of the chair.

"C'mon Wands, don't leave, mom was just—"

Wanda stops on her track, her back going rigid. She doesn't turn around, doesn't say anything for a long ten seconds, and you can see her shoulder muscles tightening under her sweater.

"Mom?" She smirks, wanting to laugh at what she just heard his brother say. "She's never gonna be my mom." Then, she looks at you straight in the eye, stepping closer from where you sat, her finger pointing at your face. "You, you are never going to be my mom. You hear that? You're never gonna be my fucking mom so stop pretending like you are!"

Erik grabbed Wanda's arm before she could step back and when she tried to pull away, his hand snapped out and struck her across the cheek.

You gasped and pulled your husband back, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat. Wanda stumbled, one hand pressed to her stinging cheek, eyes wide with shock before the hurt hardened into cold, unforgiving hatred. She didn't cry, didn't make a sound, she just stared at his father like she didn't even recognize him anymore.

She spins around her cheeks streaked with hot tears she doesn't bother to wipe away. Her chest heaves and the anger rolls off her so thick you can almost touch it, every muscle in her body coiled tight like she's ready to fight the whole room. She yanks the door open and doesn't look back before slamming it shut.

Pietro shoves his chair back, grabbing his own jacket and yelling back at his twin.

A block away from the house, Wanda spins on her brother, eyes still red, voice cracking. "You calling her mom now? How could you do that? How could you both just forget mama so easily?"

Pietro stepped closer to her even when she flinched back, his voice soft and guilty. He says he hasn't forgotten their mother, he could never forget her, it just slipped out and admitted that he has been calling you that for sometime now—mom. You're here now, you're nice to him, you make dad happy again after all these years of him just being hollow and sad. Wanda shakes her head, backing away further, like his words are something dirty she can't let touch her.

She crosses her arms tight over her chest to hide how much she's shaking, hot tears spilling over faster now that it's just the two of them. She can't believe he's already taken your side, that he's okay with replacing their mother with some stranger who showed up six months ago. She spits that you're not family, you'll never be family, and if he can't see that, then he's just as much a traitor as their father is.

You will never be her mom, she will never ever call you that.

As for you, you'd chosen to step back. No more trying to earn your stepdaughter's affection, no more pushing to become part of her life. Instead, you stayed on your side of the house, keeping your distance for the entire time she would be there.

So...who would've thought that your side of the house would end up in your stepdaughter's bed?

A flash of her phone camera blinds you for a second. You were shaking and naked, almost close to passing out. The photo captured the slick mess of cum between your thighs that looked like glitter.

Her palm slaps hard against your swollen, slick cunt over and over, making you jerk and cry out into her pillow, your whole body trembling under her. She laughs low when you whine, grabbing your hip to hold you still for another stinging blow.