Stepmom's Second Chance: Transmigrated Into His Cold Heart

Chapter 3: Viscount's Venom

The security feed flickered on the library's wall screen, casting Viscount Reginald Hale's smug mug in harsh blues and whites. Mid-forties, slicked-back hair greasier than a fast-food fryer, gold chains peeking from his unbuttoned shirt like he was auditioning for a mobster reboot. In the novel, he was Elara's side fuck—slimy enabler of her schemes, skimming Voss funds for his gambling debts. Now, post-Agnes purge, he was circling like a shark smelling chum.

"Fuck me," Kim muttered, pausing mid-sip of her chamomile. Harlan's head snapped up from his bourbon, those steel eyes locking on the screen.

"Hale?" His voice dropped an octave, pure arctic rage. "What the hell does he want?"

Kim's borrowed memories supplied the dirt: Reggie boy had been balls-deep in Elara's plots, funnelling cash through Agnes for his underground casino habit. Post-divorce in the book, he'd sold her out for a plea deal. Now, with her "personality transplant," he was here to... what? Blackmail? Rekindle? Either way, savage mode: full throttle.

"Old business," she said coolly, setting her mug down. "Let him in. Time to end this shitshow."

Harlan's jaw clenched hard enough to crack walnuts. "You let that parasite into my house?"

"Wasn't me, big guy. Agnes's doing. But yeah, let's gut him." She stood, smoothing her silk blouse—Elara's wardrobe had some wins: fitted, powerful, no frills.

He loomed, blocking her path. Inches apart again, that sandalwood cologne mixing with bourbon heat. "You're not facing him alone."

Possessive? Or control freak? Slow burn simmered—his hand twitched like he wanted to grab her arm. Didn't. Progress.

"Fine. Backup accepted." She brushed past, hip grazing his. Intentional? Maybe.

Security patched Reggie through the gates. Minutes later, he strutted into the foyer like he owned it—crocodile loafers clicking marble, a bottle of bottom-shelf champagne dangling from manicured fingers. "Elara, darling! Heard you canned Agnes. Sloppy, love."

Eyes raked her, lingering on curves. Creep alert. Kim's med instincts screamed STIs probable.

"Reggie." She drawled it like vomit. "To what do I owe the slime?"

He chuckled, oily. "Business. Our little accounts—"

Harlan materialized like a storm cloud, six-three of tailored menace. "Viscount. State it and get out."

Reggie faltered, then recovered with a smirk. "Harlan, old sport. Just dropping by for Elara. Private chat?"

"No such thing." Harlan's arm brushed Kim's back—protective stance. Tingles. Focus.

Kitchen cleared—staff dismissed. Trio at the island: Kim pouring scotch (neat, medicinal), Harlan brooding, Reggie preening.

"Spit it out," Kim snapped. "Kids upstairs. No games."

Reggie leaned in, breath like ashtrays. "Agnes blabbed. You found the transfers. My cut—50K monthly. Cough it up, or I go to the press. 'Voss Heiress Funds Lover's Debts.' Scandal city."

Classic extortion. Novel plot twist incoming— in the book, this blew up Elara's marriage. Rewrite.

Kim laughed, genuine belly laugh. "Press? Honey, you're a footnote. But sure, let's play."

She slid the ledger across—forged trail she'd planted earlier, pointing to his casino. "Your signature, dumbass. Agnes rolled on you. Cops en route."

Bluff. But his face drained to chalk. "You bitch—"

Harlan lunged, collaring him one-handed, lifting Reggie onto tiptoes. "Threaten my family again, and I'll bury you in a shallow grave. Voss lawyers will rape your empire first."

Reggie wheezed, champagne crashing to the floor. "Elara, you set me up? After everything?"

"Everything? Your limp dick and bad breath? Pass." Savage burn. Kim sipped scotch, watching Harlan manhandle him to the door. Security frog-marched Reggie out, threats echoing.

Door slammed. Silence. Then Harlan turned, eyes blazing—not at her, but through her. Adrenaline high, chest heaving.

"You orchestrated that." Statement, not question.

"Duh. Survival 101." She poured him a refill. Hands brushed—spark city.

He downed it, slamming the glass. "Two days. You've fired staff, handled my son, buried a rat. Who are you?"

"Upgraded model." She stepped closer, bold. Height difference made her tilt chin—lips level with his throat pulse. "Question is, Duke: trust me yet?"

His hand shot out, cupping her jaw—not gentle, firm. Thumb traced her lip. Breath hitched. World narrowed: his heat, her racing pulse. Romance simmer? Barely bubbling.

"Trust is earned," he growled. "Don't make me regret this."

Pulls away. Gone upstairs. Kim sagged against counter. Holy slow burn, Batman.

Next morning: fallout. Liam's expulsion hearing. Private academy boardroom—stuffy pricks in tweed, judging the "troubled heir."

Harlan arrived late, Kim in tow with Theo on hip, Sophia fidgeting, Liam slouched defiant.

Headmaster droned: "Assault on teacher, vandalism. Expulsion recommended."

Liam: "He called Sophia a slut. Punched first."

Kim's radar pinged. Bullying cover for family issues.

She stood. "Bullshit. Show the footage."

Gasps. Harlan shot her a look—what now?

Security cam: teacher cornering Sophia, handsy. Liam intervening, teacher swinging wild.

Board squirmed. "Overlooked context..."

"Dismiss charges," Harlan commanded. "Or Voss pulls funding."

Kim added savage: "And I'll sue for negligence. Kid's psych eval on me—PTSD from your 'oversight.'"

Meeting ended: probation. Liam stunned. Ride home, fist-bumped her. "You're a beast."

Sophia hugged. "Thanks."

Harlan: silent approval.

Afternoon: nutritionist for Sophia. Dr. Lena, no-nonsense dietician. Mansion consult—smoothies, meal plans. Sophia opened up: "Mom died. Food feels... control."

Kim nodded. "Been there. Post-breakup binges. We got this."

Harlan eavesdropped from hall, expression unreadable.

Evening: corporate espionage alert. VossTech servers hacked—merger docs leaked. Harlan in war room, screens blazing.

Kim hacked in via tablet—med school coding elective. "Backdoor from Reggie's casino IP. Trace it."

He stared. "You code?"

"Basics. Like anatomy—systems talk."

They synced: her pinpointing, him deploying countermeasures. Hours blurred—pizza delivery (her call), kids crashing early.

3 AM: hack neutralized. Harlan slumped, head in hands. "Lost 20 mil in stocks today."

Vulnerable crack. Kim touched his shoulder—first contact. Solid muscle. "Bounce back. You're Harlan fucking Voss."

He looked up, raw. Grasped her hand. Held. "Why help?"

"Team Voss now." Pulse thrummed.

Moment shattered: Theo nightmare wail.

She pulled away. Duty.

Week blurred: routines solidified. Mornings—breakfast battles won. Liam tutoring (Kim's flashcards). Sophia meal-logging, gaining color. Theo glued to her.

Harlan: thawing edges. Shared coffees, briefings. No touches, but looks—heated, questioning.

Friday: charity gala. Black gown for her—sleeveless, thigh-high slit, savage elegance. Harlan in tux: sin incarnate.

Red carpet: flashes, whispers. "Elara Voss? Sober?"

Inside: Amelia in fairy-tale pink, clinging Harlan's arm. FL power move.

Kim sauntered up, champagne flute in hand. "Amelia. Slumming it?"

Blush. "Just supporting Sir."

Harlan extricated. "Dance?"

With her? Heart stuttered. Waltz floor: his hand lowback, possessive. Bodies synced—heat building.

"You're dangerous," he murmured in ear.

"Good." She pressed closer. Scandalized gasps.

Amelia watched, venomous.

Gala drama: Reggie crashes, drunk, accusing Elara publicly. "Thieving whore!"