Wanting her

Chapter five: Daniel's Games

The soft chime of jazz music filled Daniel’s penthouse, its mellow notes drifting through the spacious room like a distant memory. He stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of scotch in his hand. The ice cubes clinked softly—like tiny bells tolling for a sorrow he refused to admit. Outside, the city sprawled beneath him, its lights twinkling cold and distant, like stars he could see but never reach.

He took a long, measured sip, the sharp burn of the alcohol a poor substitute for the knot tightening inside his chest.

“She’ll be fine,” he muttered to the empty room, voice low and almost bitter. “She always bounces back.”

But the silence that followed his words was louder than any reassurance he could muster.

He slammed the glass down on the marble countertop, shattering it into jagged pieces. The crash was brief but satisfying—a physical release for the tension he couldn’t otherwise expel. His fingers dug into the cold stone, nails pressing into the hard surface.

Why do I feel like this? The question haunted him.

He had done what he believed was necessary. His father was gone—finally—and with him, the burden of obligation. For years, Daniel had been the dutiful son, dating Sheila because it pleased the old man, because it maintained the fragile peace within their family.

Sheila. Sweet, earnest Sheila. Always trying to please. Always there when needed.

He scoffed, running a hand through his hair, his voice rough with disbelief. “She doesn’t fit this world,” he said aloud, trying to convince the walls, the night, even himself.

But deep in the back of his mind, a small, unwelcome voice whispered: Then why does it feel like you ripped out your own lungs?

He shook the thought away and moved toward the lounge, where his phone buzzed insistently on the table. The screen lit up with messages, but one stood out.

Lena: Heard you and Sheila are done. Took you long enough. Coming over tonight?

He stared at the message, thumb hovering over the reply button. Lena was a distraction—flattering, glamorous, and uncomplicated. She reminded him of the man he wanted to be: powerful, desirable, free.

His fingers twitched as he opened the app to reply.

But then, his mind flickered to Sheila’s face—the stunned hurt in her eyes, the trembling of her lips when he said “fat,” the desperate fight in her voice.

He hadn’t meant to be so cruel.

Something inside him snapped when she argued, when she begged. It gave him a sharp, sick sense of control.

Because deep down, he knew the truth Sheila couldn’t face: she was too good for him. And that terrified him.

He typed a reply to Lena: Maybe another night.

Then, without another thought, tossed his phone onto the couch.

What he didn’t know was that somewhere across the city, Sheila wasn’t crying alone. And someone else was gathering the shattered pieces Daniel left behind—carefully, gently.

Daniel poured himself another drink and gazed out over the cityscape once more. The lights blurred into streaks through the rain on the glass.

No matter how far he looked, one thing was unmistakable.

He had won the freedom he thought he wanted.

And somehow, it tasted like regret.

that's when his phone started buzzing. he glanced at the screen and saw it was the guard he left with shiela.

after listening to everything, he felt twisted...

---

The next morning, Daniel appeared at work like a man unshaken. Crisp charcoal suit, sunglasses masking the emptiness in his eyes, stride steady and unyielding. He moved through the office as if nothing had changed—though whispers floated through the corridors.

Not about the breakup—at least, not yet.

No, the rumors were about the power shift. With his father gone, Daniel was now king of an empire he neither wanted nor knew how to rule.

He entered his office and closed the door with a deliberate click. His assistant stepped in, tablet in hand.

“Anything urgent, sir?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes,” Daniel said flatly, dropping his briefcase. “Lance Morgan scheduled a meeting with the PR team this afternoon.”

The assistant glanced down at her screen. “He said it’s regarding the upcoming charity gala... and your availability.”

Daniel’s jaw tightened. “Lance?”

“Mr. Morgan is taking a more active role, sir. It was your father’s request.”

Of course. Lance, the golden boy. The reliable right-hand man. The man who watched silently, waited patiently.

And now, Daniel knew with cold certainty, Lance was circling Sheila.

His mind flashed back to last night—the call from the guard outside the bar, the sobbing voice on the line, and then the unmistakable sound of Lance’s calm, steady voice comforting her.

He hadn’t intended to listen. But he did. Long enough to know Sheila had turned to someone else.

Not him.

The knowledge twisted inside him like a knife.

Daniel’s lips curled into a sneer. “Pull up every file on Lance Morgan,” he ordered. “Background, contracts, anything.”

The assistant hesitated. “Sir, Mr. Morgan has been a key partner to your father. He’s protected—”

“I didn’t ask for a lecture,” Daniel snapped. “I want leverage. Find something—anything.”

She nodded quickly and left the room.

Alone, Daniel sat at his desk, fingers drumming against the polished wood. The ache in his chest was not love—it was possession. Ego. The desperate need to control what was slipping from his grasp.

He pulled up Sheila’s employee profile on his screen. Her photo stared back at him—soft, unaware, trusting.

He leaned back in his chair and smiled coldly.

“If she thinks she’s moving on that easily,” he murmured, “she doesn’t know me at all.”

---

Elsewhere, Lance sat in his own office. The document in front of him blurred into insignificance as his thoughts raced back to Sheila—her pain, her denial, the fierce vulnerability he’d glimpsed.

He wrestled with the fine line between protection and interference. How much was too much? How could he help without crushing her under the weight of his own feelings?

He remembered the real Daniel—the man behind the polished facade. The side Sheila had never seen, but Lance knew all too well.

And while Lance might not have Sheila, he was certain of one thing:

He would never let anyone hurt her again.