CREIGHTON

The morning sun filtered through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the breakfast nook, casting a bright, cheerful glow that felt entirely at odds with the dark, heavy secret sitting at the table.

I sat beside Heather, the smell of her floral shampoo mixing with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon. Across from me, Onika—my mother-in-law, my secret idol, my literal midnight fantasy—sat sipping green tea.

She looked different this morning. Her dark hair was pulled back into a messy, effortless bun, and she wore a cotton robe that kept falling open just enough to tease the swell of her breasts. There was no blonde wig, no...