FORBIDDEN: CRAVING DADDY TOUCH

006

I snatch the crumpled card from the wastebasket, my fingers brushing against a cold, coffee-stained napkin before I grasp the thick, textured paper. Thank God it’s still there. I shove it deep into the front pocket of my jeans, grab my bag, and stride out the door, letting the cool night air slap my face. The ride home is a nauseating blur of streaking streetlights and gnawing anxiety. By the time I shove my key into the lock of my cramped apartment, the card feels like it’s burning a hole through the denim, branding my thigh.

I sit on the edge of my bed, the ancient mattress springs groaning in protest under my weight. My phone sits heavy and slick in my sweating palm. I stare at the number scrawled on the card, then at the black screen. Don’t do it, a voice screams in the back of my head. Find another way. But there is no other way. Not fast enough. I take a shaky breath, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird desperate to escape, and dial.

It rings once. Twice. The silence stretches, vibrating in my ear.

"I wondered how long it would take you to breathe my air again."

The voice is deep, smooth, and utterly infuriating. It slides down my spine like warm oil, unwanted and unsettling. He knew. He knew before I even spoke a word.

"Don't flatter yourself," I snap, though my blood runs cold and the room tilts sideways. "How... how do you know that I was going to call?"

"I know everything, Anastasia. I make it my business to know things," he says, the tone dropping, becoming darker, more intimate. "Especially about pretty girls who are drowning in debt. I know exactly how much those chemotherapy bills cost. I know you’re desperate. So, are you calling to beg, or are you calling to negotiate?"

"I don't beg," I spit out, gripping the phone until my knuckles turn white, the plastic creaking under the pressure. "I’m calling about your offer. It’s a mutual benefit. You get what you want, and I get what I need."

"Mutual benefit," he repeats, tasting the words like a fine wine. "I like that. It sounds so much cleaner than 'whoring yourself out for a hospital bed.' Fine. 8 PM. Don't be late."

He rattles off an address in the Hills—a place where the lawns are manicured by landscapers who earn more in a day than I do in a year.

"I'll be there," I say, my voice trembling, but the line is already dead.

"Asshole," I whisper to the empty room, tossing the phone onto the duvet where it bounces once and settles.

By 7:30 PM, I am dressed. I didn’t go for anything fancy— Just a pair of dark jeans that hug my hips and a fitted t-shirt. If this is just business, I don’t need to pretend it’s a date. My stomach churns, a violent mix of nausea and a strange, fluttering nervousness I haven’t felt in years.

I haven’t been with a man since... him. My first. A college crush who held my hand and whispered he loved me before we fumbled in the dark of his dorm room. It was sweet, awkward, and over in minutes. Since then, my vibrator has been my only companion, buzzing me to sleep in the lonely dark. The thought of spreading my legs for a stranger—for him—makes my thighs clench instinctively. I’m not ready for this. I have no choice.

I flag down a taxi outside my building. The driver, an older man with a thick mustache and weary eyes, glances at me in the rearview mirror when I give him the address. His eyebrows shoot up.

"The Hills? You sure, miss? That’s a long fare for a Tuesday night," he says, his tone skeptical.

"I'm sure," I say, staring out the window.

"Okay," he mutters, shifting gears. "You don't look like the usual type for that neighborhood. No offense."

"None taken," I whisper, watching the city blur past. I’m trapped in my own head, replaying the scenario over and over. What if he hurts me? What if I can’t go through with it? The money. I have to think about the money. The zeros that will keep my father alive.

"Miss? Miss!"

I jump, pulled out of my spiral. The driver is turned around in his seat, looking at me impatiently.

"We're here. You didn't hear me call you three times? You were miles away."

"I... sorry," I stammer, fumbling with my wallet. "I was just... thinking. Thank you."

I hand him a wad of cash, more than the fare, and stumble out onto the pavement. The air up here is cleaner, thinner. I stare up at the building in front of me and my breath catches in my throat. It’s not a hotel. It’s not an apartment complex. It’s a sprawling mansion, constructed from pale stone and dark timber, sitting behind high iron gates that scream old money and secrets. Vines crawl up the walls, and the windows glow with warm, inviting light. It looks like something out of a magazine, a place where people drink champagne and don't worry about chemotherapy bills.

I check the address on the card again. It matches. I take a shaky breath and walk toward the intercom, but before my finger can even graze the button, a voice buzzes through the speaker.

"Name?"

"Anastasia Volkova," I say, my voice shaking.

A heavy pause. Then, the heavy iron gates swing open with a slow, hydraulic hiss. A security guard steps out from a small booth, a burly man in a suit with an earpiece. He waves me through, his eyes scanning me with professional detachment. I walk through the entrance hall, my sneakers sinking into a plush carpet that feels like walking on clouds. The ceiling is two stories high, a chandelier dripping crystals hanging overhead, throwing fractured rainbows across the walls.

It’s beautiful. It’s obscene. I stop in the center of the room, turning slowly, taking it all in. The art on the walls, the sheer scale of the furniture—it’s a world I have no business being in. I feel small, dirty, and cheap.

"Like what you see?"

The voice comes from above. I look up toward the sweeping staircase. Tristan is standing at the landing, one hand resting on the banister. He’s wearing a dark suit, the jacket unbuttoned to reveal a crisp white shirt, a glass of amber liquid in his other hand. His eyes fix on me, dark and predatory, scanning me from my messy ponytail to my worn-out boots. He looks like he wants to eat me alive.

"It's... adequate," I say, lifting my chin, trying to fake a confidence I don't feel. "For a prison."

He descends the stairs, his movements fluid and silent, like a panther stalking prey. "A prison? Most people call it home. But then, most people don't have your... unique perspective on being owned."

He stops a few feet away from me. The scent of him hits me—sandalwood and something expensive, musky and undeniably male. It makes my skin prickle.

"Wine?" he asks, gesturing to a side table where a bottle sits breathing.

"I don't drink ," I say flatly, crossing my arms over my chest.

His lips twitch, a ghost of a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Direct. I like that. You want the money first? No trust?"

"I trust that you want to get your d**k wet," I say, the crude words feeling foreign on my tongue but necessary to build a wall between us. "I trust that you have the money to make it happen. Send it. Then we talk."

Tristan pulls a phone from his pocket, tapping the screen without breaking eye contact. "Account details."

I rattle off the numbers, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. A moment later, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I check it. The notification is undeniable. A transfer. A lot of zeros. Enough for the treatment.

"Happy?" he asks, taking a sip of his drink, his eyes mocking me.

"Ecstatic," I deadpan, shoving the phone back into my pocket.

Before he can say anything else, a ringtone cuts through the tension. It’s a generic trill, not the custom ringtone of a business associate. He glances at the screen and sighs, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face.

"I have to take this," he says, bringing the phone to his ear. "Hello? ... Yes, I’m aware. ... The trip is tomorrow, I told you. ... I’m not at the office, I’m handling something."

He walks a few paces away, his voice lowering, but the acoustics of the hall carry his words to me clearly.

"I can't just come home, honey. ... Stop. I don't care about the gallery opening. ... I transferred the money for the renovations this morning. Check the account. ... Yes, for f**k’s sake, check the account. I’m busy."

I stand frozen, my stomach twisting into a tight knot. His wife. He’s talking to his wife while he’s waiting to f**k me. He’s arranging her money while he buys my body. Disgust, hot and sour, rises in my throat. This woman—this stranger—is at home, worrying about gallery openings and renovations, while her husband is here, looking at me like I’m a piece of meat he’s about to devour.

He ends the call with a sharp jab of his thumb and turns back to me. He sees the look on my face, the judgment twisting my lips.

"Don't look at me like that," he says, his voice hardening, the playful veneer gone.

"Like what? Like you're scum?" I can't help myself. "You have a wife. She’s at home waiting for you, and you’re here... doing this. Does she know? Does she know you pay women to f**k you because you can't get it up for free?"

The air in the room seems to drop ten degrees. Tristan’s eyes narrow, the arrogance vanishing, replaced by something cold and dangerous. He takes a slow step toward me, then another, until he’s invading my personal space, towering over me. I can smell the whiskey on his breath.

"You think you have me figured out?" he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, vibrating against my chest. "You think a few zeroes in your bank account give you the right to judge me? You think you’re better than this?"

"I have the right to say you're disgusting," I spit back, though I take a step back, my heel catching on the carpet.

"You have the right to do exactly what I paid you for," he snaps, closing the distance again. He moves closer, forcing me back until my legs hit the edge of a velvet sofa. "Nothing more. I didn't buy your opinion, Anastasia. I bought your obedience. I bought that tight little hole between your legs, and I bought the right to use it however I want."

"f**k you," I hiss, my chin trembling despite my best efforts to hold it high.

He leans in, his face inches from mine, his breath hot against my cheek. "Yeah," he whispers, his eyes dragging down my body and back up, lingering on my lips. "I’m gonna do just that, baby. I’m going to f**k you until you can’t remember your own name. But first, you’re going to shut that pretty little mouth and crawl to me."