FORBIDDEN: CRAVING DADDY TOUCH

016

The morning light slams through the curtains like a physical blow, piercing my eyelids and dragging me out of a dreamless sleep. My head throbs with a rhythm that matches the pounding in my skull, a nasty reminder of exactly how much alcohol I poured into my system last night. I shift, feeling the weight of another body pressing against mine. Lila. She must have crashed here after I stumbled in last night. She’s still fully dressed, her makeup smudged on the pillowcase, looking like she collapsed the moment she hit the mattress.

Before I can even process the hangover splitting my skull in two, hands are on my shoulders, shaking me.

"Anastasia," Lila’s voice cuts through the fog. "Wake up. You need to start dressing."

I spring up, the room spinning violently for a second before settling. "What time is it?"

"Seven a.m.," she says, already moving around the room, gathering scattered clothes.

I groan, a long, raw sound dragging from my throat, and slam my head back onto the pillow, pulling the duvet over my face. "You have got to be kidding me."

"No time for that," Lila says. I feel the mattress dip as she sits on the edge. She presses something small and white into my hand along with a cold glass of water. "Here. I knew you were drinking last night. Take this. It’ll stop the hangover before it really starts."

I squint at the pill, then at her. I don’t have the energy to argue. I throw the pill into my mouth and wash it down with half the glass of water, the liquid cooling my dry throat.

"I packed your stuff already," Lila continues, her voice efficient, bordering on brisk. "Everything. I even threw in the girl package—the toys, the lingerie, the lube. It’s all in the main compartment."

I just hum, staring at the water swirling in the glass, unable to form a coherent sentence. The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. Lila stops moving. She notices my non-response, the way I’m deliberately avoiding her eyes. She walks closer, sits right on the edge of the bed beside me, her thigh touching mine.

"Are you still mad at me?" she asks softly.

The question snaps something inside me. I grip the glass tighter, my knuckles turning white, and slam the rest of the water down. Then I slam the glass onto the bedside table with a loud thud.

"Oh, what you did isn't enough to make me mad?" I snap, my voice raspy but sharp. "First, you buy me a dress with that woman’s money—without even asking me. Then you drag me to that restaurant without my consent. And then—and then you act like it’s all fine!"

Lila doesn’t flinch. She reaches out, grabs my hand, and turns it palm up. She pulls a piece of paper from her pocket—the check my mother, Valeria, gave her—and drops it squarely into my hand.

I stop talking. I stare at the check, then up at her face.

"Do you think I’m doing this for money?" Lila asks, her voice dropping an octave, losing its softness. She smirks, but there’s no humor in it, just a hard, knowing edge. "Anastasia, I know exactly what you went through when your dad was in that hospital."

The air leaves my lungs. The memory hits me like a truck—the smell of antiseptic, the beeping of the monitors, the way his chest rattled when he breathed. Lila was there. She held my hand while the doctors told us there was nothing left to do. She saw the bills pile up, the fear in my eyes. She knows I didn't have the luxury of pride back then.

"I’m not doing this for a paycheck," she says, standing up abruptly. "Safe journey."

She grabs her bag, shoulders it, and walks out the door without looking back.

I sit there in the sudden silence, the check burning a hole in my hand. I look at the amount, then let it fall to the floor. I pull my knees to my chest, hugging them tight. Why did I say that? Why do I always treat the people who actually give a s**t like trash? Why am I always chasing people away, pushing until they finally leave for good?

**************************************************

Two hour later, I’m dressed. I pull a oversized hoodie over my head, hiding my face, hiding the exhaustion. I stand in the middle of the room, staring at the empty walls, the rumpled sheets. One last look. Then I grab my bag and walk out, locking the door behind me with a decisive click.

Outside, the morning air is crisp. A black sedan is idling at the curb. The driver steps out immediately, opening the trunk and taking my bag from me before I can protest. I slide into the backseat, the leather cool against my legs. The driver pulls away smoothly.

I lean my forehead against the cold glass, watching the city streets blur past. Early commuters, trash trucks, people going about their normal lives. My eyelids feel like lead. I don’t remember closing them, but the darkness pulls me under.

A gentle tap on the shoulder wakes me.

I rub my eyes, disoriented. We’re at the airport. The noise is chaotic—the roar of engines, the garble of announcements over the PA, the chatter of hundreds of travelers dragging suitcases.

"Ma'am," the driver says, opening my door. "Mrs. Sinclair is waiting for you."

I climb out, grabbing my travel bag. The driver doesn't head for the terminal doors. Instead, he guides me across the tarmac, bypassing the queues, the security checks, the chaos. We walk straight toward a sleek, white private jet sitting on the tarmac like a predator. It’s massive. The Sinclair logo is stamped near the tail.

The driver stops at the stairs and gestures for me to go ahead. A stewardess in a crisp uniform meets me at the top, taking my bag with a polite smile.

"Welcome, Miss Anastasia," she says, her voice professional. "Please, take your seat. Mrs. Sinclair will be here in a minute."

I walk into the cabin. It’s luxurious—plush cream leather seats, mahogany tables, soft lighting. I sink into one of the chairs, the upholstery molding to my back. How rich is this man my mother married? This isn't just wealth; this is power.

I pull my phone from my pocket, the screen lighting up my face. I need to know who I’m dealing with. I type Sinclair Valeria into the search bar and hit enter.

The results flood in. The first image is my mother. She looks stunning—hair perfectly coiffed, diamonds at her throat, an elegant, icy smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. She looks like a queen. My finger hovers over the screen. I see a link for her husband. I do recognize the name. I’m about to click it, to see the face of the man who married my mother, when a voice stops me cold.

"You must be enjoying yourself."

I look up. Valeria is walking down the aisle of the plane. She’s holding a crystal wine glass, the red liquid swirling inside. She’s wearing a tailored suit that screams expensive, her heels clicking softly on the carpet.

She sits down right beside me, crossing her legs. She extends the glass toward me.

"Drink," she says. It’s not a suggestion.

"I don't drink," I say automatically, turning my face away.

Valeria smirks, a cruel twist of her lips. "But you take alcohol. How dramatic."

I look at her, really look at her. There’s a challenge in her eyes, a test. Slowly, I reach out and take the glass. The crystal is cool against my palm. I bring it to my lips and take a sip. The wine is rich, heavy, expensive.

"You know," Valeria says, her voice dropping, losing the polite facade. She leans in closer, her perfume—something floral and musky—invading my space. "I didn’t bring you here just for a trip."

I freeze, the glass trembling in my hand.

"There’s something about your father you need to know," she whispers, her eyes locking onto mine. "Something I’ve kept from you for years."