The Choice

by Stella Gray

  Still, I imagined the details would come as a shock.

  But she had to know.

  “There was another woman,” I said haltingly, taking her hand in mine again. She only nodded. “Her name was Anja. They met through Konstantin—Stefan’s father.”

  I didn’t say anything about the trafficking—I didn’t know if it was safe for her to know too much about what was happening behind the scenes at KZ Modeling—but I told her everything else. About my father’s indisputable infidelity, and how there was a child.

  “He refused to submit to a paternity test, and he swore Max wasn’t his, but…”

  Michelle’s hand flew to her mouth when I showed her the photo—the same one I’d shown my dad. But instead of ignoring it or shoving it away as he had done, she gently took my phone from me and looked down at the screen with affection and awe.

  “He looks just like Mitch,” she said. “And like you did at that age. He’s beautiful.” Her finger traced the boy’s face in the picture.

  “He’s a really cool kid,” I told her. “Sweet and smart and…I kind of love him already.”

  Michelle shook her head, looking devastated. “I knew your dad fooled around, and I accepted it, but…it’s just a damn shame his last act was to deny his son.”

  She handed my phone back to me.

  “I think it was kind of a shock, to be honest,” I admitted. “Maybe if he had more time to get used to the idea of Max, I don’t know…it could’ve been different.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt,” Michelle agreed. “I think he would have realized how much he’d always wanted a son and embraced him full stop. You know, we tried to have a baby back in the early days, thinking it might be fun to have a bigger family—of course we loved you to pieces—but we stopped after a few years went by. I just wasn’t able to get pregnant.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I never knew.”

  “I bet Max would have filled a hole in the family that always existed,” Michelle finished. She blotted the corners of her eyes. “Well. Maybe I never was cut out for motherhood.”

  “You were great at it,” I said firmly. “You still are. I’m lucky to have you.”

  Tears began to fill her eyes again.

  “As much as it breaks my heart that your father didn’t step up for the boy, I’m not going to let that be his legacy. Just because there won’t be anything for Max in the will, it doesn’t mean I won’t support him financially and emotionally. And his mother, too. As far as I’m concerned, they’re part of the family.”

  We hugged and then went to find Stefan, who told us that Anja had gone home to be with Max. Michelle mentioned that she would like to meet him—if and when Anja was ready.

  “I think she’d be open to that,” Stefan said. “It’s been just the two of them for so long, and to be honest, Max has welcomed all the new faces lately with open arms.”

  The three of us went back to our condo, and Stefan helped me set Michelle up comfortably in our guest room. On the drive over, she’d already started making calls to my father’s staff, breaking the news and telling them to start preparing a statement.

  I made a tray of tea and toast for Michelle and left it with her in the guest room, where she was still dealing with the logistics of everything. It wasn’t until I was in bed, makeup off, pajamas on, Stefan in the bathroom taking a shower, that the reality of the day finally sunk in.

  Tears welled up in my eyes as I grappled with the drowning flood of my conflicting feelings. My dad was gone, and I hadn’t even been able to say goodbye. We’d long had a complicated relationship, and it had only become more difficult and strained in the past months. I’d been mad at him for a while. He’d proven he was a not-so-good man, and he’d done a lot wrong over the course of his marriage and his life. He was as flawed as any human could be.

  But even though he was a tyrant of a father, he was my father. He’d given me everything—even though it sometimes came with strings—and I loved him despite his flaws.

  What was harder was trying to forgive his connection with my father-in-law and KZ Modeling’s illegal business practices. To forgive how he had treated Michelle and Anja and probably countless other women, and how he had denied Max. Maybe I’d never be able forgive those things.

  Still, the tears flowed hot and fast when I thought about the fact that he’d never have a chance to make things right, to reconcile things with Anja or meet his son. He and I would never have a chance to mend our relationship.

  I heard the shower shut off and I dried my tears, grateful that Stefan would soon step into the room and slide into bed with me. I knew that he would hold me close when I cried, and that he would bring comfort to me when I needed him the most. I’d never been more thankful for his presence and his strength.

  Tori

  Chapter 24

  With a sigh, I kicked off my black shoes and sank onto my bed. I’d been standing in them for hours all day and my feet and back ached. Everything ached, from the arches of my feet to the insides of my cheeks, which I had taken to biting when I wanted to hold in my tears.

  The funeral had ended several hours ago in Springfield. Michelle had offered to let us stay at the house another night since the drive back to Chicago would take so many hours, but all I wanted was to be home so I could sleep in my own bed again. Stefan and I had been away too long already—helping Michelle with the funeral arrangements, reaching out to friends and family and colleagues, making sure that things would be perfect and go off without a hitch.

  It was hard to remember everything that had happened in the past week. The morning after my father died, his staff (under Michelle’s supervision) had put out a press release informing the public that Senator Mitch Lindsey from Illinois had suffered a fatal heart attack. Since the news of his first heart attack had been kept fairly under wraps, the news came as a shock to many people. Especially his constituents, who had always bought into my father’s image as a man of quiet, but resilient strength.

  The truth about his final moments at his condo during the confrontation with me and Anja and Stefan—and the knowledge of Max’s existence, as well as his history of involvement with KZM and its sex workers—was going to stay in the family. My father’s name would remain untarnished. There was no point in dragging it through the mud now. His darkest secrets would never see the light of day.

  Michelle had been incredible throughout the entire process, from fielding interviews to releasing carefully-worded statements to planning the funeral in his hometown of Springfield. She was the very picture of poise and confidence. I had to admit there was something satisfying about watching her, a woman who had remained on the sidelines for most of my father’s career, stepping out and standing in the spotlight. And doing a damn good job of it.

  She’d managed everything from the memorial’s flowers to the venue to hosting the catered reception for VIPs at the house afterward. The entire affair was a huge deal, since my father was a US senator. Even the President made a brief appearance, embracing Michelle and me and offering us the kindest condolences. My stepmother had succeeded in orchestrating the perfect event to pull off the delicate balance of grief and deference to other people’s need to be seen attending. There had also been press everywhere, and when I closed my eyes I could still see the flashbulbs from the hundreds of photos that had been taken.

  Before the funeral this morning, she’d pulled me aside for one of her trademark pep talks.

  “This isn’t about us,” she had reminded me. “It’s about honoring his memory and offering the public closure. So as hard as it’s going to be, we’ve got to keep our chins up.”

  “I will,” I’d said.

  But the only closure there seemed to be that day was to my father’s service. Everything else, everything to do with his personal life, still felt unresolved.

  Then she’d handed me a huge pair of Dior sunglasses.

  “Just in case. And I’ll have about five hundred tissues in my purse, so don’t hesitate to reach in
there if you need one. But you can only let a few tears slip out in front of the cameras. The rest you hold in. Can’t be making any of the VIPs feel uncomfortable, can we?”

  “Sure,” I said, but I caught her impatiently swiping away a few tears of her own.

  Still, I figured I’d be okay following Michelle’s lead in decorum. The uncontrollable sobbing only hit me at night. The days were easier for some reason.

  I sat on the bed, watching her put her makeup on. A touch of foundation, a hint of blush. We’d both opted for simple black dresses, almost identical sheaths with long sleeves and boat necks. They were demure but form-fitting. Michelle had said we should look like we were appropriately in mourning, but also not like we were too devastated to pull ourselves together.

  “People expect a show, so we’ll give them one,” she went on as she pinned her hair into a neat bun. “But I’m sticking to the script. Nothing more. I won’t let this be a media circus.”

  My own hair hung in a loose ponytail, also at Michelle’s request. She said I needed to look a little younger than my eighteen years, to emphasize that I was the senator’s daughter. We needed to look similar, but not too similar. His surviving family, grieving in quiet dignity.

  She’d worn simple diamond studs in her ears and a platinum bracelet my father had given her. I wanted to wear my wedding rings, but Michelle had vetoed the engagement ring.

  “The diamond is too big,” she’d said sympathetically. “Beautiful, but that means it’ll catch the eye. We don’t want people distracted by your wealth, or Stefan’s. Just wear the band.”

  I agreed, and once we were in the private car taking us to the church, I asked Stefan to hang on to the ring for safekeeping.

  “We won’t wail or carry on,” Michelle was saying. It was her mantra. “We can be sad, but not overly emotional. A few tears, at the most, and we’ll save them for the funeral itself.”

  “We’ll do our best,” I told her gently. “And I’m sure it will be fine, either way.”

  I knew to anyone else, my stepmom’s words might seem cold or unkind, but I was grateful for them. And while I doubted I’d actually break down crying in front of the press and all my father’s political connections—my tears were private, and I’d excuse myself if it really came down to it—I was glad Michelle was laying out some guidelines to follow. I also took comfort knowing that I could watch her at any point during the day and follow her lead.

  The second we pulled up outside the church, her eyes began to well with tears again. I watched her take a deep breath, dab her eyes with a tissue, and then carefully touch up her face.

  “Here goes nothing.” She snapped her compact shut and straightened her shoulders.

  As soon as the driver opened our door, the flashbulbs started. Just like she’d said.

  Standing next to Michelle inside the church doors to greet people and have them sign the guestbook, I realized how grateful I was for my stepmother. The past week she’d been a constant source of support, and I was so glad to have her at my side. I couldn’t imagine going through this without her.

  Once we got home to the condo, I’d expected to climb into bed and pass right out, but now that I was lying in bed in just my slip, my mind and heart wouldn’t stop churning with emotions. I wasn’t ready to deal with any of them.

  As drained as I was in every possible way, though, I was too sad and anxious to sleep. I needed something to distract me. To make me feel good. Or at least feel anything other than this overwhelming grief that stole up on me every single night when things got quiet.

  Sitting in the church had been the hardest part. So many people had spoken, but their speeches all seemed to blend together. I was glad no one had requested that Michelle or I speak; it seemed a given that we would be too distraught to say anything. I hadn’t been able to stop staring at my father’s casket the entire time. It was black and gleaming under the lights of the church, at least the parts of it that weren’t covered in beautiful white flowers. But it was still a box. It seemed so…final. The thought of him in there…

  I was crying when Stefan entered our bedroom with a tea tray for me. He’d brought me my favorite chamomile blend, I could tell by the smell wafting from the steaming cup.

  “Tori,” he said gently, setting the tray down and taking me in his arms. “Let it out.”

  But now that he was holding me, I found that I didn’t want to cry anymore.

  We’d slept in my childhood bed every night for the last week in Springfield, but it had all been chaste—Stefan pulling me close and rocking me when I fell apart after long days dealing with the funeral home or my father’s staff—and my body was hungry for more.

  I didn’t want to be held or stroked or touched tenderly. I wanted to be fucked. To be completely diverted from my feelings and to have my husband take me the way I wanted to be taken. Hard. Rough. Relentless.

  When I slid my hand down inside his boxer briefs to wrap my hand around him, my pulse sped up. My husband was so gorgeous. It made my mouth water just feeling his cock in my grip.

  “You’re exhausted,” he said, gently moving my hand.

  “No,” I told him. “I want you.”

  It was obvious that he wanted me too, judging by the fact that he was already hard, but still, he shook his head.

  “I don’t expect this, kitty cat,” he said. “Let me tuck you in and I’ll hold you.”

  I got up off the bed to slowly pull my slip over my head, then let it drop to the floor. As I slid my panties off I locked eyes with him. Soon I was wearing only my thigh high stockings.

  “You’re beautiful,” Stefan breathed. “But—”

  “Shh.” I came toward him, putting my finger over his lips. “I don’t want to be held,” I told him. “I want to be fucked. I want to be touched and tasted and dominated.”

  Desire sparked in his gaze, and I crawled onto the bed and pressed my mouth to his. He instantly opened to me, and as we kissed I let my hands trail down his shoulders, raking his abs with my fingernails, stroking him through the fabric of his briefs.

  I needed to feel connected, needed an outlet for the complex feelings roiling inside me.

  “I want you too,” he growled, rolling me onto my back and hovering over me.

  “Then give me what I need,” I said. My life had been a rollercoaster for the last few weeks, and I needed a release. Needed him to give it to me.

  I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him down toward me for another kiss, arching my body against his, shamelessly grinding on him until he let out a soft groan.

  “I want to take care of you,” he protested.

  “Then take care of me like this,” I said, reaching up to grab the waistband of his briefs and tugging them down. We were both naked now. I could feel his control starting to break.

  “Please, Stefan,” I pleaded as I looked up into his eyes, knowing he could never say no to me when I begged. “Please fuck me.”

  We kissed again but it was different this time. More aggressive, more raw. His hands fisted in my hair and he plundered my mouth, his cock already driving against the wet lips of my pussy. I moaned with relief. This was what I wanted. This was what I needed.

  Spreading my legs, I angled my hips to give him better access.

  “You want this?” he demanded, reaching down to trace my opening with the tip of his dick. God, he felt good.

  “Yes,” I panted. “I want it. I want you.”

  He pulled away and dragged his hand roughly up between my thighs, slipping a finger into me where I was slick and hot and ready for him.

  “You’re so wet for me,” he groaned, adding another finger and pumping in and out.

  “Fuck!” I cried out, already close to an orgasm. It had been too long, and I needed him so bad I could barely see straight.

  He fingerfucked me roughly, pushing deeper, three fingers now, stretching me out in the most delicious, perfect way. I was panting his name between breaths, grinding hard against his hand. So close no
w. His thumb found my clit and he pressed it hard as his fingers continued to thrust. I was right on the edge as he leaned over to kiss me, his tongue stroking deep into my mouth, matching the pace of his fingers inside my body, and just like that my whole body crested the wave of ecstasy and I was coming right in his hand, shuddering with the power of my release.

  I clung to him as I moaned, pressing my teeth into his shoulder, my knees going weak.

  “Are you ready for more?” Stefan asked, positioning himself between my thighs.

  “Yes,” I whimpered. His cock was nudging at my soaking wet pussy. “I want you.”

  I arched up toward him, but he kept himself still.

  “Tell me exactly what you want,” he ordered.

  “I want you to fuck me with that hard, perfect cock,” I said, one orgasm hardly enough to satiate the intense desire I felt for him. “I want you to fuck me hard and fast. Please. I need it.”

  He didn’t drag it out like he usually did, but instead rammed his cock into me with one brutal, perfect thrust. I gasped as he filled me, his hips rolling against mine, his length stretching me wide. It was exactly what I needed, exactly what I wanted.

  Immediately he began to move, fucking me hard and fast like I’d asked, his hands spreading my thighs so wide the muscles ached so he could go even deeper. Then, without warning, he lifted my legs up, looping my ankles around his neck as he fucked me.

  I gasped at the intense pleasure this position gave me, the exquisite fullness I felt. He had never been this deep inside me before, had never fucked me like this before.

  My head fell back on the bed as he thrust into me over and over again, pounding out a rhythm, his grip now tight around my thighs. So tight I thought I might have bruises tomorrow. The thought of his fingers imprinted on my skin just made me hotter, more desperate for release.

  “More,” I gasped, my head thrashing back and forth. The pleasure was building inside me again, pulling me inexorably closer to another orgasm. “Please, Stefan. Make me come.”