Daddy's Girl: Raised To Please Him

Chapter 1

Sydney stepped off the plane, the platform bustling with the usual clamor of travelers. As she made her way through the airport, her suitcase trailing behind her, she felt a strange mix of anxiety and determination. Returning to her hometown was something she had avoided for ten years, but now there was no turning back.

The drive to her home was a blur. Her thoughts were consumed with memories she had tried so hard to suppress. The laughter of a little girl, the warm embrace of her mother, and the dark shadow that had ultimately driven her away.

She had thought she had left it all behind, but now it was all rushing back, as vivid as ever.

The Evans Company appeared instead of their house at the end of the street.

"Why are we here?." Syd asked the driver in confusion.

"Your Mother is waiting for you."

A very wealthy and prestigious family adopted Syd. Eularia Evans adopted her not by choice but by needs. Euri's late father wanted her to have a heiress before giving up everything to her. But when the old man died, she sent Sydney away to America.

"Thanks," Syd said then got out of the car.

"Miss Sydney?!" said the man in the tuxedo.

"Yes?"

"I'm Theo, your Mom's secretary... and will escort you inside, Madam" Theo said and let out his hand for her.

She immediately took the man's hand and led her inside.

"Wait for a moment, Mam..." Theo said before leaving her.

Sydney stood quietly at the edge of the grand stage, her heart pounding against her ribs. The applause in the lavish hall echoed like a distant storm in her ears. She hadn't expected this—the spotlight, her foster mother's booming voice introducing her as the "sole heiress of the Evans legacy," and the flood of curious eyes fixated on her.

"Nymeria Sydney Evans," Eularia Evans declared, her voice sharp and commanding, as though the announcement were the final act of a carefully orchestrated play.

Sydney froze, her breath caught in her throat. The name felt foreign to her now, heavy with expectations she had never agreed to shoulder. Before she could compose herself, a firm nudge from an organizer sent her stumbling forward. Her legs moved on autopilot, her palms damp as they clutched the sides of her dress.

Ascending the stage, the heat of the spotlight bore down on her. Her mother stood tall, her sharp smile more performative than genuine. The embrace that followed was brief, the kiss on her cheek cold and mechanical.

"Smile, Nymeria," Eularia whispered, her voice clipped.

Sydney obeyed, forcing her lips into a curve she didn't feel. Then, her attention shifted to the man standing beside her foster mother—a man she had never seen before.

He stood just behind Eularia, his posture relaxed but composed as if he were merely observing rather than participating. His presence was understated but unignorable, the kind that drew attention without demanding it. His silver-brown hair, neatly combed, caught the light of the chandeliers above, and his narrowed, pale gray eyes swept over her with a detached, almost clinical curiosity. There was no warmth in his expression, only a cool, calm assessment that made her feel exposed.

"This is Alan Turner," Eularia continued, gesturing toward the man. "My husband. He has been instrumental in steering this company's success."

Husband? Sydney's mind reeled, but she masked her surprise, keeping her expression neutral. Her mother had sent her away years ago, and she never mentioned remarrying. The announcement felt like a slap, but she forced herself to remain composed.

Alan stepped forward, extending a hand toward her. His movements were measured, his face betraying no emotion beyond mild courtesy.

"A pleasure to meet you," he said, his voice deep and even, as though the words held no personal investment.

Sydney hesitated for a moment before placing her hand in his. His grip was firm but cool, his palm steady against hers. "Sydney," she corrected softly, almost instinctively.

For a brief moment, his eyes flicked to hers, unreadable. Then, as if dismissing her correction entirely, he released her hand and stepped back without another word.

The rest of the evening was a blur of forced smiles and polite nods. Sydney endured the endless introductions and handshakes, her mother's iron grip on her arm a constant reminder to perform her role. But even as she played the perfect daughter, she could feel Alan's presence in the room. He moved with an ease that belied his cold demeanor, his every interaction marked by the same detached politeness he had shown her.

Later that evening, seeking refuge from the suffocating atmosphere, Sydney froze in place as the dining hall's heavy doors creaked open, revealing Alan stepping into the dimly lit room. His tie was loosened, his silver-brown hair slightly tousled, as if he had just run a hand through it in frustration or fatigue. He stopped short upon seeing her, his calm gray eyes narrowing slightly, though his face remained impassive.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, his voice low and even, with the kind of measured tone that carried more weight than the words themselves.

Sydney clutched the edge of the counter, her knuckles pale. "Just needed some air," she said, her voice quieter than she intended.

Alan nodded, moving to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of water. The silence between them was thick, punctuated only by the soft clink of glass against wood. He carried his drink to the opposite end of the long dining table, his movements unhurried but precise, as though he was always in control, always aware.

He sipped the water and looked at her, his expression unreadable. "Quite the introduction tonight," he said, his tone laced with a faint hint of something she couldn't place—curiosity, perhaps, or something more elusive.

Sydney managed a thin smile. "It was... unexpected," she replied.

"I imagine it would be," he said, setting the glass down. "Thrown into the spotlight without warning. Not exactly the warmest welcome home."

Sydney chuckled nervously, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I've learned to adapt," she said.

Alan tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharpening just a fraction. There was something about her voice, her presence—something faintly familiar, like a memory teetering just out of reach. And then there was her scent, soft and distinct, like jasmine warmed by the sun. It tugged at something buried deep in his mind, a memory that refused to fully surface.

He straightened slightly, his fingers brushing the edge of his glass. "You remind me of someone," he said, almost to himself.

Sydney blinked, startled. "Do I?"

He studied her for a moment longer, then shook his head, his expression smoothing over. "No. It's nothing," he said dismissively, though the faint crease in his brow betrayed his unease.

Sydney shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. There was something about him, too—a magnetic pull she couldn't explain. His voice, his demeanor, even the way he carried himself—it all felt strangely familiar, as though she'd known him in another life.

The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken tension. Alan finally broke it, his voice calm but firm. "You should get some rest. Tomorrow's another long day."

Sydney nodded, but as she turned to leave, a flicker of a memory surfaced—just a glimpse, blurred and fleeting. A hotel room bathed in golden light. The faint scent of sandalwood and whiskey. A man's low, commanding voice murmuring in her ear, his touch searing yet achingly gentle.

She paused mid-step, her breath catching in her throat.

Alan noticed her hesitation, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Something wrong?" he asked.

Sydney turned back to him, her pulse racing. "No," she said quickly, forcing a smile. "Goodnight."

As she hurried out of the room, Alan watched her go, his gaze lingering on the space she had just occupied. The faint scent of jasmine still hung in the air, stirring something deep within him.

He rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. It was impossible, he told himself. Just a coincidence. And yet, as he stared into the empty hallway, the memory of that night—of her scent, her laughter, her touch—gnawed at the edges of his mind.

Whoever she was, he hadn't forgotten her. And for the first time in years, he wondered if she might still be closer than he ever imagined.

The next morning, Sydney woke to the sound of rain tapping against the window. She sat up, disoriented for a moment before remembering where she was. The familiarity of her bedroom was both comforting and unsettling. Dreams haunted by fragmented memories had left her feeling more exhausted than rested.

"Home sweet home," she murmured dryly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

She took a quick shower, letting the warm water wash away the tension lingering in her muscles. After dressing in a tailored blouse and slacks, she made her way downstairs. The silence of the old mansion was oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of the wooden floors under her feet.

In the kitchen, she found Alan, her mother's husband, sitting at the dining table with a coffee mug in hand. His gaze flicked up briefly as she entered.

"Morning," Sydney greeted, attempting a neutral tone.

"Morning," Alan replied, his voice calm and measured. "I made coffee if you'd like some."

She hesitated, eyeing the coffee pot. "We have maids," she said awkwardly.

"I prefer doing it myself," he said simply, taking another sip.

Sydney nodded, stepping forward to pour herself a cup. Accepting it felt oddly intimate, but she couldn't exactly refuse. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken thoughts and tension.

"Where's Mom?" she asked, breaking the quiet.

"Work, I suppose," Alan replied, his tone as even as ever.

Sydney took a cautious sip of coffee, unsure how to navigate the conversation. "I didn't know my mom got married," she said after a moment, her words deliberate. "What's your whole name again, sir?"

Alan raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly in his chair. "Seriously? We've been married for five years, and you never heard anything about me?"

"We're... not that close," Sydney admitted bluntly, her voice soft.

"I shouldn't be surprised," Alan said with a faint smirk. "She's not exactly warm and fuzzy. I'm Alan Aemon Turner, by the way. But feel free to call me Alan—I don't mind."

"I doubt I can call you that, Mr. Turner. She might get upset with me."

"So proper," he remarked, his gray eyes glinting with faint amusement. "Well, your mother doesn't care much about little things like that. Call me Alan."

With that, he stood and carried his mug to the sink. "Nice meeting you, Sydney," he said over his shoulder before leaving her alone in the dining area.

The room fell silent again, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Sydney stared down at her coffee, feeling as though she had just passed through an unspoken test—one she wasn't sure she had passed.

After finishing breakfast, she returned to her room to dress formally. Her plan was clear: apply to her mother's company and prove her worth without relying on her new title. Starting at the bottom was the only way she could truly understand what it meant to work hard, to build something from the ground up.

"Your name is Nymeria Turner?" the interviewer asked, looking up from her résumé.

"Yes, sir," Sydney replied evenly, though she inwardly winced. She hadn't meant to use Alan's last name, but when the moment came, it had slipped out instinctively.

The man studied her face for a moment, his brows furrowing. "You look familiar, Ms. Turner. Have we met before?"

Sydney's heart skipped a beat. Of course, she would be familiar; her mother had just declared her the successor to the Evans empire the night before. Thankfully, it seemed no one had put two and two together yet.

"No, sir," she said with a polite smile.

The interviewer nodded slowly, tapping his pen against the desk. "Very well. Let's proceed."

By the time the interview ended, Sydney felt both relieved and drained. The questions had been challenging but fair, and she had held her own. As she stepped into the elevator, she exhaled a long breath, leaning against the cool metal wall.

Just as the doors were about to close, a hand shot between them, forcing them open. Alan stepped into the elevator, his calm expression betraying nothing as his eyes briefly met hers.

"Fancy seeing you here," he said, his voice low and smooth.

Sydney straightened, gripping the strap of her bag tightly. "I didn't know you worked here."

"I don't," Alan replied, pressing a button for the top floor. "But I've been asked to assist with a few matters. Family business, you could say."

The elevator hummed softly as it ascended, the confined space amplifying the tension between them. Alan shifted slightly, the faint scent of sandalwood and coffee reaching Sydney's nose. She swallowed hard, her pulse quickening.

"Are you nervous?" he asked suddenly, his calm gaze fixed on her.

She blinked, caught off guard. "No, not really," she lied.

He tilted his head, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "You're a terrible liar, Nymeria."

Her breath hitched at the sound of her first name, his voice wrapping around it like a secret. Before she could respond, the elevator dinged, signaling their arrival.

Alan stepped out first, glancing back at her over his shoulder. "Good luck... Nymeria Turner, my last name suits you better," he said, the way he said her name lingering in the air like a challenge.

Sydney stood frozen for a moment before stepping out, her heart racing. She had wanted to keep a low profile, but Alan's presence made that feel impossible. Worse, there was something about him—something familiar yet dangerous, like a storm she couldn't see coming but could already feel in her bones.