JULIAN'S POV
The door closed behind Avery, and I stood there like an idiot, shaking.
Actually shaking.
I was forty-three years old. A senior partner at one of Vancouver's top law firms. I'd argued cases in front of Supreme Court judges without breaking a sweat. I'd negotiated million-dollar deals while men twice my size tried to intimidate me.
None of that had ever made me shake.
But watching that boy's hands on Avery—watching him touch her like he owned her, like she was something he'd bought instead of someone precious—it took everything in me not to drag him off her and throw him into the street.
The jealousy had been so strong I could taste it, metallic and poisonous in my mouth.
I pressed my palms flat against my desk, trying to steady myself. My reflection stared back at me from the dark window—a man coming apart at the seams.
"Get it together," I muttered. "She's your stepdaughter. Your wife's daughter. You have no right—"
But the words felt hollow because I'd been lying to myself for six years, and tonight, the truth had finally clawed its way out.
I heard Avery's voice in the hallway, talking to Derek. Her tone was apologetic but firm. Good. She was sending him away.
The relief that flooded through me was wrong on every level.
"This is insane," Derek's voice rose. "Your stepdad's got some serious control issues, you know that?"
If he only knew.
"Just go, Derek. Please. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Whatever. This whole house is messed up."
The front door slammed. Silence fell.
I waited for Avery to come back to the study. She didn't.
I heard her footsteps on the stairs—slow, hesitant. Then her bedroom door clicked shut above me.
I was alone.
And I couldn't stop shaking.
Six years ago, I met Avery Chen on the worst day of her life.
Her mother Diane and I had been dating for two months—a comfortable relationship between two lonely people who understood loss. My first wife had died of cancer. Diane's husband had dropped dead of a heart attack at forty-four.
We were companions more than lovers. It was enough.
Then Diane got the call that her husband had collapsed at work. By the time they got him to the hospital, he was gone.
I drove Diane home that night. That's when I met Avery.
She was seventeen, curled up on the couch in an oversized hoodie, her eyes red from crying. When Diane told her the news, Avery didn't scream or fall apart. She just went very, very quiet, like someone had turned off all the light inside her.
"I'll make some tea," I'd said, because I didn't know what else to do.
Avery had looked at me then—really looked at me—and something passed between us that I should have recognized as danger.
But I told myself it was just grief. Just two people who understood what it meant to lose someone you loved.
I married Diane three months later. Too fast, probably. But Diane needed stability, and I needed... I don't know. A family. A purpose. Something to fill the empty house.
Avery became my stepdaughter.
And I spent six years pretending I didn't notice her.
Pretending I didn't hear her laugh and feel my chest tighten.
Pretending I didn't watch her walk into a room and forget how to breathe.
Pretending I didn't lie awake at night, hating myself for the thoughts I couldn't control.
Six years of being the perfect stepfather. Respectful. Appropriate. Distant.
Six years of control.
And tonight, watching that mediocre boy put his hands on her, all that control had shattered like glass.
I poured myself three fingers of whiskey and downed it in one burning gulp.
It didn't help.
My hands still shook. My heart still pounded. And upstairs, Avery was in her bedroom, probably confused and scared because I'd acted like a jealous maniac instead of a concerned parent.
"Lock your door tonight."
Had I really said that to her?
Yes. Because some part of me—the part I'd kept chained up for six years—had looked at Avery in that moment and wanted things I had no right to want.
The worst part? She'd understood exactly what I meant.
I'd seen it in her eyes. The flash of awareness. The quick intake of breath.
She knew.
God help me, she knew, and she hadn't run away screaming.
A knock on the study door made me jump.
"Julian?"
Avery's voice. Soft. Uncertain.
Every muscle in my body went rigid. "You should be in bed."
"I can't sleep."
"Avery—"
"Can I come in? Please?"
No. Absolutely not. The smart thing—the right thing—would be to send her away. Tell her we'd talk in the morning when I had my control back.
But I'd already made so many mistakes tonight. What was one more?
"Come in."
The door opened. Avery stood in the doorway in pajama shorts and an old college t-shirt, her long dark hair falling loose around her shoulders. She'd washed off her makeup. She looked young and vulnerable and so beautiful it hurt.
"Derek's mad at me," she said, hovering at the threshold like she wasn't sure she was allowed inside.
"He'll get over it."
"Will he?" She stepped into the study and closed the door behind her. "He said some things before he left. About you. About this being weird."
My jaw clenched. "What did he say?"
"That you have control issues. That I let you treat me like a kid." She wrapped her arms around herself. "He said it was creepy."
The word hit me like a fist. Creepy. Was that what I was? A creepy older man obsessing over his stepdaughter?
"Maybe he's right," I said roughly. "Maybe I overstepped. You're an adult. I had no business—"
"Why did you do it?"
I looked at her. Really looked at her. And saw something in her dark eyes that made my pulse spike.
She wasn't scared. She wasn't confused.
She was testing me.
"Do what?" I asked carefully.
"Send him away. Get jealous." She took a step closer. "You were jealous. I saw your face when we came in. You looked like you wanted to hurt him."
"I did."
The confession came out before I could stop it.
Avery's eyes widened. "Why?"
This was my chance. I could lie. Laugh it off. Tell her I was just being protective, playing the concerned stepfather, looking out for her safety.
But I was so tired of lying.
"Because he was touching you," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "And I hated it."
The air between us went electric.
"Julian—"
"You asked. That's the truth." I set down the whiskey glass before I threw it. "I hated watching him touch you. I hated the way he looked at you like you were his property. I hated that he got to put his hands on you when I—"
I stopped. Clenched my fists.
Too much. Way too much.
"When you what?" Avery whispered.
I looked at her—this girl I'd raised, this woman I'd protected, this person who'd somehow become the center of my entire world without me realizing it.
And I told her the truth that would destroy everything.
"When I've spent six years wanting to do the same thing."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Avery stared at me, lips parted, breathing fast.
"You..." She swallowed hard. "You want to touch me?"
"Yes."
"How long?"
I laughed, bitter and broken. "Since the beginning. Since the first time I saw you. I told myself it was wrong. I buried it. I married your mother thinking it would fix me, make me normal again. But it never went away. You never went away."
"I'm your stepdaughter."
"I know."
"This is—"
"Wrong. Disgusting. Inappropriate. I know all of it, Avery." I turned away from her because looking at her hurt too much. "I've called myself every name you can imagine. I've hated myself for six years. But it doesn't change what I feel."
Silence.
Then her footsteps, soft on the carpet.
She was leaving. Good. She should run far away from me.
But the footsteps came closer.
I turned, and Avery was right there, inches away, looking up at me with something fierce and wild in her eyes.
"What if I told you," she said softly, "that I feel the same way?"
The world stopped spinning.
"What?"
"I've had a crush on you since I was seventeen years old, Julian." Her voice shook but didn't break. "I compared every boy I dated to you. Every single one. And they all failed because none of them were you."
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
"You're twenty-three years old," I said desperately. "You don't know what you're saying. This is just—"
"Don't." She pressed her hand against my chest, right over my racing heart. "Don't tell me what I feel. I've spent six years lying to myself too. Pretending. Being good. But I'm done pretending."
Her hand was fire against my shirt. I wanted to cover it with mine. I wanted to pull her close and never let go.
Instead, I took her wrist and gently removed her hand.
"Go to bed, Avery."
"Julian—"
"Please." The word came out like a prayer. "Before I do something we'll both regret."
She looked at me for a long moment. Then she stepped back.
"You won't do anything," she said quietly. "Because you're too good. Too controlled. You'll keep pretending nothing's changed."
She walked to the door, and I felt her leaving like a physical wound.
Her hand touched the doorknob.
"But something did change tonight," she said without looking back. "And we both know it."
The door closed behind her.
I stood alone in my study, shaking worse than before, staring at the spot where she'd touched my chest.
I raised my hand to that same spot. My heart hammered against my palm.
And I finally admitted the truth I'd been running from for six years:
I was in love with my stepdaughter.
God help me.
I was in love with Avery Chen, and I had no idea how to stop.