What She Would Have Wanted

Martin stares at the empty spot where his wife used to sit, the ghost of that car crash still haunting every quiet night. Now it's just him and Violet, his stepdaughter—his late wife's real kid, all grown up and clueless. He starts small, slipping her hints: a dress here, a hairstyle there, molding her to echo the woman he lost. She doesn't catch on, not until he sets the table with candles and her favorite meal, turning their kitchen into some twisted love nest. Violet freezes, eyes wide, and blurts out, 'What the hell's this?' Martin leans in, confesses his dirty little secret—he wants her, bad, to fill that void. She's gut-punched, recoiling like he's poison, shock twisting her pretty face into disgust. But oh, he knows her soft spots. Plays the broken widower card smooth as silk, tugging at her heartstrings with tales of loneliness and that unbreakable bond. She wavers, trapped in his web, and soon enough, he reels her in—gets every filthy inch of what he's been craving.