What She Would Have Wanted

Martin stared into the rearview mirror of his shattered life, the echo of screeching tires still ringing in his skull. His wife—gone. Splattered across the asphalt in a heartbeat. Now it was just him and Violet, her spitting image if you squinted hard enough. His stepdaughter, all wide-eyed innocence at nineteen, oblivious to the shadows creeping in. He started small. A hairstyle here, a dress that hugged like a memory there. Coaxing her into the ghost of the woman he'd lost. She didn't notice. Not until the candlelight flickered across the dining table that night, silverware gleaming like a trap set to spring. Violet froze in the doorway, the scent of rosemary and red wine hitting her like a slap. Plates piled high, a bottle breathing on the sideboard. Romantic? For them? Her stomach twisted. 'Dad, what the hell is this?' she spat, voice sharp as broken glass. He looked up, eyes soft but hungry, the mask slipping just enough. 'Sit down, Vi. We need to talk.' She didn't budge. Demanded answers, her cheeks flushing hot with suspicion. He leaned in, voice low and velvet-smooth, confessing it all. The longing. The way she echoed her mother in every curve, every laugh. He wanted her. Not as a daughter. As a replacement, flesh and fire to fill the void. Shock slammed her like a freight train. Disgust roiled in her gut, bile rising. 'You're sick,' she whispered, backing away, tears stinging. But Martin was a master puppeteer, tugging at heartstrings she'd never armored. He spun tales of his loneliness, the accident's raw ache, how she was all he had left—his saving grace, his only light in the endless night. Sympathy seeped in, insidious as smoke, cracking her resolve. He pressed, gentle at first, then insistent, hands brushing hers across the table. Manipulating every flinch, every hesitant word, until she wavered. Until she gave in, body trembling, stepping into the forbidden dance he orchestrated. Exactly what he craved, served up on a platter of twisted devotion.