The world collapsed for Roman's father the moment his eyes recognized the figure behind his wife. It wasn't just betrayal—it was annihilation. His stepson. Roman.
His mouth hung open as if trying to scream, but no sound came. The joy of his anniversary, the laughter shared just hours ago—it all shattered into a grotesque nightmare unfolding before him.
The guests who had accompanied him stood frozen at first—faces twisted in disbelief, disgust, or morbid curiosity. A few turned away in horror, others, shamefully captivated, watched as the woman moaned in ecstasy. Some even had the audacity to pull out their phones, recording her heaving, drugged body as her breasts bounced wildly beneath Roman. And a few slipped away, running to tell others what they'd just witnessed.
When Roman's stepmother finally looked up through half-lidded eyes, hearing the murmurs and gasps, her gaze met her husband's. For a moment, recognition flickered. Then she giggled—drenched in sweat and lust, intoxicated by drugs and pleasure.
"Darling," she purred, beckoning him with a delirious smile, "come… join us."
That was the final blow.
Roman's father clutched at his chest, a sharp pain stabbing through his heart. His knees buckled. Gasping for air, he collapsed, fingers clawing at his shirt. Some of the guests screamed and rushed to help. Others didn't move, too engrossed in the perverse spectacle to care.
And Roman—Roman walked leisurely into the room, hands in his pockets, eyes calm and unfeeling. He stood over his father's convulsing body without a flicker of emotion.
Ten minutes later, the piercing cry of an ambulance siren echoed through the neighborhood.
Someone had called for help.
Roman didn't flinch. He watched as paramedics lifted the old man onto a stretcher, placing an oxygen mask on his face. The man's breaths were shallow, his eyes rolling back.
Roman climbed into the ambulance with them, sitting across from his dying father. The nurse was too focused on the vitals to notice Roman's foot subtly resting on the oxygen tube—cutting off his father's air supply bit by bit.
The man wheezed violently, his chest rising and falling in desperate spasms.
The nurse panicked, trying to adjust the machine, unaware of the real cause. Within minutes, his heart flatlined.
By the time they reached the hospital, the man was already gone.
The doctors tried protocol—CPR, oxygen, adrenaline—but there was no pulse. They placed him on a ventilator out of habit, but after a few hours, he was officially declared dead.
Roman didn't cry. He didn't ask for an explanation. He simply nodded, then began the formalities.
Cold. Methodical.
He signed the necessary paperwork, collected the death certificate, and walked out of the hospital without claiming the body. Instead, he checked into a nearby hotel, ordered food, and slept like a man who had just completed a long overdue task.
Back at the house, Roman's stepmother and stepbrother were still lost in their haze of lust, unaware that their lives had just been turned upside-down —robbry, scandal and society are already on their way to ruined their life.
And they had no idea.
But Roman did.
And he smiled in the darkness of his hotel room, satisfied.
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The first light of dawn crept through the curtains, casting a golden hue over the disheveled room. Roman's stepmother stirred, a dull ache pounding at her temples. Her vision blurred. The air felt thick and unreal, as if she were submerged underwater.
She blinked slowly, struggling to piece her surroundings together. Something was wrong—her body felt heavy, sore. Her mouth was dry, her thoughts sluggish. As she shifted beneath the sheets, an icy jolt of horror shot through her.
She was naked.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She never slept naked. Not even with her husband.
Heart racing, she pulled the sheet closer and turned to the other side of the bed—only to freeze, her blood turning to ice.
There, lying peacefully beside her, equally unclothed, was her son.
Russo.
Her real son. Not Roman.
A silent scream echoed in her mind. For a moment, time fractured, and her brain refused to process what her eyes were seeing. But there was no mistaking it. That face. That body. That familiarity.
It was him.
Reality crashed in, shattering the fragile haze around her.
She gasped, her whole body jerking back. The sudden movement sent pain lancing through her back. Her legs trembled violently beneath her as she tried to stand. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the floor with a thud.
"No… no no no..." she whispered, barely able to breathe. Shame, confusion, and terror roared through her veins like wildfire.
She forced herself up, biting back the pain, every step a struggle. She grabbed her nightdress from the floor, the fabric torn and stained. The room smelled of sweat, liquor… and something else she couldn't name.
She dared not look in the mirror.
Her eyes flicked to the bed again. Russo stirred, then slowly opened his eyes, blinking like a child waking from a nap.
"Mom…?" he muttered groggily, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He looked down, confused at his own nakedness. "What… happened?"
Her heart seized. Panic overtook her senses, but she somehow managed to fake a motherly smile, even as her soul crumbled.
"You… you were sleepwalking again," she lied through gritted teeth, forcing calm into her voice. "You came to my room and passed out. You weren't well. I was too tired to move you back."
Russo, still foggy, nodded slowly. He didn't question her. He couldn't—his mind was too clouded.
She gave him a gentle push. "Go to your room, sweetie. Get dressed before your father sees you."
He complied without resistance, still dazed. As he stepped out, he didn't notice the terror in her eyes. He didn't see the quivering of her lips or the way her hands clutched the edge of the dresser.
The moment he was gone, she collapsed on the floor again.she cluched her first tightly as her nails digged into her own skin.
"What have I done…?"
She reached for her phone on the bedside table, desperate for distraction, and wanted to forget all of it as a nightmare.
But when she unlocked it, her screen lit up with hundreds of notifications. Telegram. WhatsApp. Messenger.
Her breath hitched.
Her fingers, stiff and trembling, tapped open the Telegram group she always muted.
And then she saw it.
Her world ended.
Dozens of videos.
Screenshots.
Captions with laughing emojis.
Her name trending.
The first video loaded, her heart pounding louder than the buzzing of her phone. She hit play with shaking hands.
It was her.
Bent. Moaning. Blind with desire.
Her face twisted in pleasure. Her body exposed. Her voice crying out for more.
And behind her, fucking her was?
Russo.
She slapped the phone on the floor, her scream caught in her throat. Tears flooded her cheeks. Her heart felt like it was splitting open inside her chest.
The comments were relentless:
"Damn, she's wild!"
"Isn't that her own son??"
"Holy shit, this family is f'd up…"
"Anyone got the full tape?"
Her sex tape—with her own son—had become viral gossip. Her name was being dragged through the social circles she could never silence. Not only she had sex with her son, she did it in front of the entire world.
It was over.
Her life. Her name. Her prestige. Her face.
All of it, ruined.
And worst of all…
She didn't remember a single thing.
But someone did.
Planned it.
Set it all up.
And now watched her crumble.
--------------------
Standing in front of the window and looking towards the house…
Roman smiled.😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈
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Author's Note:
Roman has chosen the dark path. The world will burn again... but under **his** rule this time.
If you're enjoying the chaos, don't forget to:
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Your support helps the story rise — and ensures Roman doesn't come after *me* for stopping. 😂
See you in the next chapter!
—Author