The Billionaire’s Notorious Villainess Stepmother Chapter 02
The Rot in the Villa
The heels belonged to Cassandra Blackwood.
She appeared at the end of the hallway with the calm confidence of a woman who had controlled this house for years.
Blonde. Sharp cheekbones. Dressed head-to-toe in Chanel at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday.
Alistair’s sister-in-law. His dead brother’s widow. The woman who had run this villa for years.
She looked me up and down with open disgust.
“So,” she said. “You’re the replacement.”
Behind me, Clara pressed closer to my leg. Sebastian had not moved from the hallway.
Cassandra looked at Clara, and her smile thinned.
“Kids. It’s past your bedtime.”
Neither child moved.
Cassandra’s smile tightened. She stepped forward, grabbed Clara’s arm, and pinched hard.
Clara flinched, her whole body going rigid, but she didn’t make a sound.
She had clearly learned not to cry.
My hand shot out and caught Cassandra’s wrist.
I didn’t squeeze. The grip alone made her freeze.
“Don’t,” I said.
Cassandra yanked her hand back. “Excuse me?”
“She’s shy. It’s her first time meeting me. There’s no reason to hurt her.”
“I didn’t hurt her. You’re seeing things.” Cassandra’s voice stayed smooth, but her jaw was tight. She looked down at Clara. “Tell her, sweetheart. Did I hurt you?”
Clara shook her head fast. Too fast.
I remembered that.
“It’s late,” Cassandra said, turning on her heel. “I have guests to attend to. The children can show you around tomorrow. If you need anything, ask the staff.”
She walked away without looking back.
I stood there in that dark hallway with two children I’d known for less than five minutes.
Clara was still gripping my sleeve. Sebastian still hadn’t said a word.
I crouched down. “Let me see your faces. Both of you.”
Clara looked up first. Round cheeks, but too thin. Dark circles under her eyes that no five-year-old should have.
Sebastian took longer.
When he finally raised his head, I saw a fading bruise along his jaw, half-hidden by his hair.
I touched their cheeks, one then the other. Soft. Small. Breakable.
“Listen to me,” I said. “Both of you. If anyone in this house hurts you, anyone, you tell me. Not tomorrow. Not later. Right then. Understand?”
Clara nodded. Her eyes were wet.
Sebastian stared at me, waiting for the lie.
I didn’t blame him. Every adult in his life had already failed him.
The next morning, I learned the full picture. The villa had three wings.
Cassandra controlled the west wing. Lady Margaret was the family matriarch. She occupied the east.
Alistair’s children had been shoved into two small rooms in the back, near the service entrance.
Cassandra had a nine-year-old son named Tristan.
The family spoiled him and called him their golden boy.
The staff worshipped him. Sebastian and Clara avoided him at all costs.
The staff avoided me too.
They took orders from Cassandra. They’d been taking orders from Cassandra for years.
That evening, I found Sebastian’s room. Bare walls. A mattress on the floor. One thin blanket.
This was the richest estate in Manhattan.
I opened every closet in that wing. Empty.
The children had three outfits each. All too small. All worn through.
I closed the last closet door, and my hands went cold.
This house was going to change. And everyone in it would learn my name.
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