Daddy's Little Temptress

Honeymoon

Cyril

“What are you two doing?”

“Nothing,” Alan was quick to answer, immediately stepping away from me.

The sound of the elastic in his trousers snapped so sharp as he moved, a pathetic percussion in the silent foyer.

I watched him fidget as she drew closer.

I shook my head unbelievably as I let go.

When did he become so weak?

He didn’t look at me as he scrambled toward the stairs to Susan .

He didn’t acknowledge the mark I’d left on his lip or the heat I’d just stoked in his veins. Instead, he wrapped a protective arm around Susan, his voice dropping into a register of honeyed concern that made my skin crawl.

"Why aren't you resting, darling?" he cooed, the words a jagged blade to my heart. "It’s been a long day and we have a long night ahead of us.” He paused. “It’s our honeymoon, after all."

The word honeymoon felt like a physical blow to my solar plexus. I watched them ascend the grand staircase, their silhouettes merging into one shadowed mass against the mahogany railing.

He was playing the part of the doting husband, the man who had finally found "peace." But I knew better. I knew the ghost of the office still haunted the back of his throat.

As their bedroom door clicked shut, a primal roar of rejection surged through me.

I lashed out, my foot connecting with the heavy porcelain vase on the pedestal beside me.

It shattered with a violent, crystalline scream, spilling water and wilted lilies across the floor like a bloodless sacrifice.

"Miss Cyril? What happened?"

The head maid, Martha, appeared from the shadows of the dining room, her eyes wide with alarm.

I didn't look at her. I didn't say a word.

I simply stepped over the jagged shards and the dying flowers, my heart more fractured than the porcelain.

He thinks he can replace me, I thought as I climbed the stairs to my own room.

He thinks he can drown the memory of my skin in the mundane comfort of a wife.

I lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence of the house. Every creak of the floorboards upstairs felt like a personal insult. But I wasn't going to wallow.

I wasn't going to be the discarded child. If Alan wanted a war of attrition, I would give him one. I would remind him that while a wife is a choice, I am a biological inevitability.

The next morning, I rose before the sun had even touched the horizon. My mind was a cold, efficient machine.

I went to the kitchen, I prepared breakfast them dished them in a tray. I made poached eggs, sourdough toast, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a single black coffee…just the way he likes it.

Then, I went to my closet.

I reached for the charcoal-grey silk blouse and the fitted skirt I had worn three weeks ago.

The fabric still carried the faint, ghostly scent of the office and the sharp tang of adrenaline.

I wanted the visual cue to be a psychological trigger.

I wanted him to see me and be instantly transported back to the moment he lost his soul.

I climbed the stairs, the tray heavy in my hands. I stood before the master suite, I knocked.

The silence that followed was deafening. Then, a soft, muffled rustle.

"Who is it?" Susan’s voice was thick with sleep and a sense of ownership that made my teeth ache.

"It’s Cyril," I announced, my voice steady and bright. "I’ve brought you both breakfast."

More silence.

I could almost hear them conferring behind the heavy oak.

I turned to leave, when the lock turned with a heavy thud.

The door swung open. Susan stood there, wrapped in one of Alan’s silk robes…the dark navy one he usually wore after a shower.

Her hair was a golden bird's nest, and her face was flushed with the soft and lazy glow of a woman who had been well-loved.

"Oh, Cyril!" She beamed, a look of genuine appreciation plastered on her face. "That is so sweet of you. Truly. We were just saying how famished we were. Thank you, sweetie." She ushered me in.

The air was heavy, smelling of sleep and expensive perfume.

My eyes immediately began to scan the terrain, looking for the cracks in their facade.

I still couldn't believe that Alan Vance, the man who had turned his heart into a fortress of mourning for over a decade would just "marry" a woman after one night of weakness with his daughter.

There was a variable missing in this equation, a lie hidden in plain sight.

I approached the bed where Alan sat propped up against the pillows. He looked tired.

Not the satisfied exhaustion of a groom, but the haggard, haunted look of a man who hadn't slept at all.

As I set the tray down on the nightstand, my eyes caught a blemish on the pale blue silk sheets.

A small, translucent, thick liquid stain.

My stomach did a violent somersault.

Was that... him?

Did they really do it?

Did he touch her with the same hands that had gripped my waist?

The determination in my chest hardened into a diamond-sharp resolve. If he had sought refuge in her body, I would make that refuge a prison.

"Good morning, Dad," I murmured, my voice a low, vibrating purr.

Before he could react, I leaned over him, ostensibly to adjust the pillows. I didn't just hug him; I draped myself over him. I ensured his face was pressed firmly against the thin silk of my blouse, right at the swell of my breasts.

I felt him freeze. I felt the sudden, jagged rhythm of his heart against my ribs.

He struggled to shift, his hands coming up to my shoulders to push me back, but I didn't budge.

I leaned down and sucked a mark onto his cheek, a small, wet, possessive nip that made him let out a sharp intake of breath.

I pulled back just an inch, jumping onto the bed to straddle his legs, looming over him so he had nowhere to look but into my eyes.

"Did you have a good night, Daddy?" I asked, my voice dripping with a taunting, sugary malice. "Was it as... memorable as the last time you had s*x?"

Alan’s eyes darted toward Susan, who was busy pouring coffee, her back to us.

I reached out, cupping his jaw and forcing his gaze back to mine.

"I bet your new wife can't give you as good an orgasm as that," I whispered, loud enough for the tension to fill the room like gas. "Or was she... also good?"

I turned my head toward Susan, wearing a mask of innocent, playful curiosity. "I bet you gave him the best time of his life, didn't you, Susan?"

Susan turned around, a shy, almost girlish blush creeping up her neck. "Oh, I did," she replied softly, her eyes meeting Alan’s with a secret, knowing look that made me want to claw her eyes out.

I raised a brow, my upper lip curling in a sneer I didn't bother to hide. I looked back at Alan, whose face was a kaleidoscope of disorientation and panic.

He looked like a man drowning in shallow water.

"She did, didn't she?" I challenged him.

"She... I... Yes, you... I mean..." He stammered, his articulate mind failing him completely.

I smiled, satisfied by the wreck I was making of his composure.

I stepped away from him, the silk of my skirt rustling with a sound like a warning.

I picked up the heavy silver tray of food.

"Oh, I'm famished!" Susan exclaimed, reaching for a piece of toast as she hurried toward the bed.

I stepped in her way, my arm extending to block her path. I grabbed her wrist not roughly, but with a firm, inescapable pressure.

"Actually," I said, my voice turning cold and authoritative, "you... New Mom... will have to eat downstairs."

Susan blinked, her smile faltering. "Oh? Why is that?"

I leaned in, my eyes locked onto hers, making sure she saw the predatory hunger I was no longer hiding.

"Because we have so much to catch up on," I said, pulling her toward the door. "And I think Dad needs a moment to... compose himself. Alone.”