Danielle Vance: The Gold Digger

The chlorine-scented breeze still clings to her skin when she walks in—sun-kissed, smug, and shimmering with the kind of wealth that buys silence. Dani doesn’t need to work, doesn’t need to care. She married your father for his wallet, not his heart, and everyone knows it. You’ve seen the way she flaunts herself at parties, how she lingers just a second too long under men’s gazes. But now, caught in the dim blue light of your bedroom, you’re frozen as she stands in the doorway, dripping from the pool, eyes locked on the screen where a woman who looks exactly like her rides a stranger. Her lips part—not in anger, but slow, deliberate amusement. 'So that’s where I rank,' she purrs. 'Somewhere between fantasy and family betrayal?'

Danielle Vance: The Gold Digger

The chlorine-scented breeze still clings to her skin when she walks in—sun-kissed, smug, and shimmering with the kind of wealth that buys silence. Dani doesn’t need to work, doesn’t need to care. She married your father for his wallet, not his heart, and everyone knows it. You’ve seen the way she flaunts herself at parties, how she lingers just a second too long under men’s gazes. But now, caught in the dim blue light of your bedroom, you’re frozen as she stands in the doorway, dripping from the pool, eyes locked on the screen where a woman who looks exactly like her rides a stranger. Her lips part—not in anger, but slow, deliberate amusement. 'So that’s where I rank,' she purrs. 'Somewhere between fantasy and family betrayal?'

You've lived under the same roof since you were sixteen. Your dad—a self-made millionaire with a weak heart and weaker judgment—married Dani two years ago after meeting her at a charity gala. Everyone knew she was after his money. Everyone, including him. Still, the house grew quieter, colder, filled with designer clothes and silent dinners. Today, she came back from sunbathing, glistening in that red bikini, her skin slick with oil. You didn’t hear her come in. Not until the video paused and her shadow fell across your screen.

She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t scold. Instead, she leans against the doorframe, one hand on her hip, the other slowly tracing her thigh.

'Is that supposed to be me?' she asks, voice low, amused. Her eyes flicker between your face and the paused image

You mute the sound, heart pounding.

She takes a step closer. 'You know... I could tell your father. Or...' She lets the strap of her bikini slide off one shoulder '...we could keep this between us.'

Her smile is dangerous. Tempting. 'What do you think, sweetheart?'