Dirty Daddies Underground

Chapter Six

Harper’s POV

A familiar sickness stirs in my stomach, not the sharp edge of fear I’ve grown used to, but something deeper, more hollow. I want to lean into this conversation, to let myself get caught up in curiosity, in wondering who they are and how they might speak to me if they weren’t separated by screens and usernames. I want to explore it like I would a new book, something I haven’t read yet but might love. But with Mark hovering nearby, checking my phone every time it buzzes, every word I write feels like it has to pass through his approval first.

Eventually, I set the phone down and walk away from it, forcing myself not to look back. He’ll be leaving soon, off to whatever job he’s convinced me is too important to talk about, and until then, I need space to breathe.

“I’m going to finish stitching that dress,” I say quietly, moving through the apartment toward the corner where I’ve carved out a space just for myself. It’s not much, only a small desk, a sewing machine, and two mannequins, but it’s mine. In a life where almost nothing belongs to me, this small sanctuary does.

It’s one of the few things that still brings me peace. I don’t know if I’d call it a dream exactly, but I know it makes me feel better. Some days, it feels like the only thing that does. I’ve always thought that if I could just get good enough, if I could just give it enough time, maybe I could sell my designs, maybe I could turn it into something that matters.

But Mark doesn’t see it that way. He never has.

He doesn’t like that a dress might take weeks to make when the money it brings in wouldn’t pay for more than a night or two of groceries. He sees effort as wasted if it doesn’t immediately translate into cash.

I stand in front of the two mannequins, eyeing the pieces I’ve assembled so far. The bodice is nearly finished, delicate and soft, hand-stitched with small, careful patterns I mapped out in my notebook weeks ago. The skirt, draped across the second form, still feels wrong to me. I’ve redone it twice, and now I’m wondering if I should have tried a completely different fabric.

Behind me, I hear the floor creak.

“It’s been two months,” Mark says, his voice light but already lined with judgment. He perches on the edge of the desk, arms crossed. “How much are you going to sell this one for?”

I don’t want to answer, not really, but I make myself speak. “I don’t know. Five or six hundred, maybe.”

He raises his eyebrows like I’ve just suggested selling lint wrapped in ribbon. “For two months of work?”

I chew my lip and try not to flinch. “It’s not like I worked on it full-time. Maybe an hour or two a day. That’s around sixty hours, give or take.”

“Sixty hours wasted,” he says, his tone sharper now, “when you could’ve been doing something that actually earns money.”

My eyes drift back to the dress. “I enjoy it,” I whisper, not because I expect it to change his mind, but because it’s the truth and saying it aloud makes it real.

He snorts, not laughing, just mocking. “Yeah, but you’re not good enough to charge much. Come on, Harper, let’s be honest. You’re not Coco Chanel or whoever makes the fancy runway stuff. Your clothes look like rags some kid glued together at arts and crafts.”

I open my mouth to speak, to defend myself, to ask for more time, more space, more belief, but he cuts me off.

“If you had more time,” he says, his voice dripping with dismissal, “you’d just waste more of it. No amount of time can fix this mess.”

He waves a hand toward the dress like it’s something offensive, and then he’s gone, walking out without waiting for a response.

I stand there for a moment, breathing in the silence he leaves behind. The room feels smaller now, tighter, like the air itself is pushing in against my skin. I force myself to turn away from the mannequins, grabbing a coffee from the counter before curling up on the couch.

From this distance, the dress looks different. The colors no longer feel bold or creative, they clash, uncomfortably loud against each other. The stitching that once seemed intricate now appears sloppy, rushed, uneven.

I lower my head, pressing my forehead into my palm as the doubts rush in, heavy and fast. Maybe it would be better to rip it apart and start again. Or maybe I should just quit altogether and accept that I was never meant to make anything beautiful.

“Hey, babes.”

Mark’s voice is suddenly soft again, warm like melted butter. I look up to find him beside me, slipping an arm around my shoulders like nothing just happened.

“How do you feel about a few days away?” he asks, leaning close, his lips brushing my cheek. “No work. Just us.”

I blink at him, confused by the shift, unsure how to respond.

“What?”

He chuckles like I’m being ridiculous. “We’ve been working a lot. You’ve been doing so much. I thought maybe it’s time I treat you. Pick somewhere nice. Somewhere quiet. Let me take care of you.”

I search his face, looking for the catch, but all I find is that carefully constructed smile, the one he uses when he wants something, or when he’s already taken it and needs me to thank him for the privilege.

“Really?” I ask, cautious but unable to hide the small curl of hope rising in my chest.

“Of course,” he says, pressing a kiss to my cheek before snatching up his keys. “Let me know what you pick.”

Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving the silence to swell in his absence.

A few days away.

No work and no stress. It sounds like everything I’ve been begging for.

But somehow, even now, I can’t bring myself to believe it’s real.

Now that Mark is gone, I can finally breathe like the air in the apartment belongs to me again. It’s a small thing, but it matters. I move toward the couch and grab my phone from where I left it, already half-expecting to see nothing, already bracing for disappointment. But there are new messages waiting. My stomach tightens, then flips as I draw in a deep breath and open the chat.

The_Triumvirate: It’s nice to speak to you, BruisedLace. Nerves are perfectly acceptable and understood, but try not to let them get to you. Always see them as a good sign, it means you’re taking a step you’ve never taken before.

The_Triumvirate: In regards to teaching you to be a good girl, we can do that. We’re not the kind to groan or complain over those who aren’t experienced. I do have a question for you, though.

The_Triumvirate: Would we be your first Daddies? Have you done similar to this? I understand you said it’s new to you, but is that the app, or the world?

I sink into the cushions, curling my legs up beneath me, pulling the blanket across my lap like it’s armor. There’s a surprising calm in me as I reread their words. I don’t know them, not truly, and they don’t know me, but something in the tone of their messages loosens the tension in my shoulders. They feel patient. Not calculating. Not urgent. Not circling like vultures.