Daddy's Girl: Raised To Please Him

Chapter 3

Sydney woke to the faint rustle of luggage wheels against the polished hardwood floor. Blinking away the remnants of her restless sleep, she propped herself up on her elbows, the early morning light filtering through her curtains.

The door creaked open, and her mother, Euri, stepped in, dressed immaculately in a tailored suit. Her expression was as unreadable as always-cold and distant, as though every interaction with Sydney was a formality rather than a bond.

"I'll be gone for two weeks," Euri said briskly, glancing at her watch as if even this announcement was stealing precious seconds from her schedule. "Business in Zurich."

Sydney rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "Two weeks? You didn't mention anything about-"

"I don't need to report my schedule to you," Euri interrupted, her tone clipped. "Alan will handle things here. Try not to disturb him."

The words stung, though Sydney wasn't surprised. She merely nodded, swallowing the lump rising in her throat.

As quickly as she'd come, Euri turned to leave, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. But before she stepped out, she paused. "Stay out of trouble," she said without looking back, then disappeared down the hallway.

The sound of the front door shutting echoed through the house. Sydney sank back onto her bed, her chest tightening with the familiar ache of her mother's indifference.

The day passed in relative silence. It seemed like nothing new was happening in her day, just home and work, over and over again... and she's starting to feel bored.

Sydney busied herself in the library, pouring over documents and taking notes for work. Alan had vanished into his office as usual, and the mansion felt cavernous and empty without the presence of anyone else.

It wasn't until late at night when the world outside had quieted, that she found herself restless. The shadows of the mansion seemed to stretch and shift, pulling her from her room. She padded downstairs in search of something-anything-to ease the unease that clawed at her.

In the dimly lit kitchen, she froze. Alan was already there, standing by the counter, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His tie was loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone, a rare glimpse of vulnerability in his otherwise rigid demeanor.

"You're up late again," he remarked without turning around, his deep voice breaking the silence.

"I couldn't sleep," she admitted, moving toward the fridge to pour herself a glass of water.

"Nightmares?" he asked, glancing at her sideways.

Sydney hesitated. "Something like that."

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. She leaned against the counter, cradling her glass, her eyes fixed on the marble floor.

"Do you ever get them?" she asked suddenly, her voice soft.

Alan took a sip of his whiskey, his gaze distant. "Sometimes."

She studied him for a moment, the sharp lines of his face softened by the warm kitchen light. "What keeps you up?"

He set his glass down, his fingers tapping lightly against the countertop. "I don't know... maybe memories," he said simply, his tone flat but laced with something she couldn't quite place.

Sydney frowned. "Good ones or bad?"

His lips curved into a faint, bitter smile. "Does it matter?"

For a moment, they stood in silence, two strangers bound by the weight of their own histories.

"I envy you," she said quietly, surprising even herself.

Alan raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"You always seem so... in control. Like nothing can touch you."

He let out a low chuckle, devoid of humor. "That's the trick, isn't it? Make them believe you're untouchable, and they'll never know where to strike."

Sydney looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time, she saw the cracks in his armor. "That sounds... lonely."

Alan met her gaze, his eyes dark and unreadable. "And what about you, Nymeria? What keeps you running?"

The use of her work name sent a shiver down her spine. She swallowed hard, gripping her glass tighter. "I'm not running," she said, though the words felt like a lie.

He tilted his head, studying her. "No? Then what are you doing?"

She didn't have an answer, and the silence that followed was suffocating.

Alan sighed, pushing off the counter. "Get some rest, Sydney," he said, his voice softer now. "The ghosts don't disappear just because you're tired."

As he walked past her, their shoulders brushed, and she felt the warmth of his presence linger long after he'd left the room.

Alone once more, Sydney stared into her glass, her reflection rippling in the water. For the first time, she wondered if Alan's ghosts weren't so different from her own.

She stood for a moment longer, staring at the space he had occupied, her mind clouded with the strange tension that always seemed to linger between them. She downed the rest of her water and decided there was no point in going back to her room.

The library was calling to her.

She pushed open the heavy oak door, the smell of old paper and polished wood wrapping around her like a comforting cloak. The mansion's library was enormous, with rows of towering shelves and soft armchairs tucked into cozy corners. The dim light of a single lamp illuminated the space, casting long shadows that danced against the walls.

Running her fingers along the spines of the books, she searched for something-anything-that might distract her restless mind. She pulled out an old novel with a weathered cover, its title faded from years of handling. Settling into one of the armchairs, she tucked her legs beneath her and began to read.

But the words on the page began to blur as her eyes grew heavier. Before she realized it, the book slipped from her grasp, landing softly on the carpeted floor.

The dream was vivid, like stepping into a memory she had tried to bury.

She was in a dimly lit hotel room, the hum of distant city traffic muffled by the thick curtains. The man's face was blurred, but his presence was undeniable-towering, commanding, and achingly familiar. She remembered the way his touch had sent shivers to her, the way he had unraveled her with a single look.

It had been her first and only time, a reckless decision made in the haze of a night when she had wanted to forget everything. To feel something.

"You're sure?" his voice had been low and rough, filled with a restrained hunger that made her heart race.

"Yes," she had whispered, her voice trembling with anticipation and fear.

She remembered the way he had kissed her, the way his hands had explored her like she was a map he wanted to memorize. For one fleeting night, she had let herself be vulnerable, free, and utterly consumed.

But the dream shifted, darkening at the edges, and she felt the sting of regret that had followed her ever since. She didn't even know his name.

Alan pushed the library door open, drawn by the faint creak of the old hinges. He had been pacing his room, restless and irritated, unable to shake the feeling that Sydney had gotten under his skin.

He found her there, curled up in the armchair, her head tilted to one side, her chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep. The book she had been reading lay forgotten on the floor, and a strand of her hair fell across her face.

He stood there, watching her, his jaw tightening. There was something about her that unsettled him, a familiarity he couldn't place. It was more than the way her voice lingered in his mind or the way her scent clung to the air whenever she was near.

It was the way she occupied space-as if she belonged in it, even when she tried to disappear into the background.

He stepped closer, his eyes tracing the curve of her face, the delicate line of her neck. She shifted slightly in her sleep, a soft sound escaping her lips that sent a jolt through him.

Why did she seem so familiar?

Alan's hand hovered for a moment, as though he might brush the hair from her face, but he stopped himself, clenching his fist instead. This was dangerous. She was dangerous-to his focus, to his control.

He didn't even notice how his breathing had quickened, or how his gaze lingered a moment too long.

Shaking his head, he turned and walked out of the library, leaving her to her dreams.

Sydney woke with a start, her heart pounding from the remnants of the dream. She pressed a hand to her chest, the vivid memory of that night still clinging to her.

The library was silent, but she couldn't shake the feeling that someone had been there. The air felt charged, the scent of cedar and spice lingering faintly.

She stood, picking up the book and placing it back on the shelf. Her gaze drifted to the doorway, and for a moment, she thought she saw a shadow move.

Shaking off the thought, she made her way back to her room, unaware that Alan, once again, had left her feeling exposed without her even realizing it.

The morning light seeped through the curtains, soft and golden. Sydney sat at the grand dining table, her hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea, staring out at the sprawling garden. Her mind was restless, thoughts tangled between the dream of the faceless man and the nagging sense of familiarity she couldn't shake.

Who was he? Why did the memory feel so vivid, so raw, even after all this time? And why did it feel as though Alan's presence was somehow tied to it?

Across the room, Alan stood near the entrance, his hands tucked into his pockets. His dark eyes lingered on her, unblinking and heavy with an intensity that would have made her squirm if she had noticed.

The way she sat there, so serene yet so distant, tugged at something deep within him. He couldn't stop replaying the moment he had found her in the library last night, her sleeping face etched into his mind.

She looked so familiar. Not in the superficial way of someone you vaguely recognize, but in a way that reached into his bones and set them on edge.

Alan clenched his jaw and stepped further into the room, his footsteps quiet but deliberate. Sydney's gaze flicked to him briefly before returning to her tea. Neither spoke. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension.

He sat down across from her, his movements slow and measured, as if trying to control the chaos within himself. His sharp suit had been replaced with a casual black shirt and jeans, but his demeanor remained as cold and authoritative as ever.

Sydney didn't flinch under his scrutiny, though her heart beat faster. She was used to his lingering stares, the way he seemed to study her when he thought she wasn't looking.

But this morning felt different. There was something darker, something hungrier, in his eyes.

"I'll be out for the day," Alan said abruptly, his deep voice breaking the silence.

Sydney raised an eyebrow, not bothering to ask where he was going. It wasn't her business, and she doubted he would tell her even if she did.

"Okay," she replied simply, taking another sip of her tea.

Alan's hands curled into fists beneath the table. He wanted to say more, to probe, to demand answers. But every time he got close to her, the need to touch her, to break every rule he had set for himself, consumed him.

So he did what he always did-he fled.

Hours later, Alan was still restless. He had driven aimlessly around the city, visited the Turner Enterprises office briefly despite it being the weekend, and even stopped by a café, hoping the routine would clear his head.

But nothing worked.

No matter how far he went, she lingered in his mind-her scent, her voice, the haunting way her lips moved when she spoke. He couldn't get her out of his head.

The speculation that had been simmering for weeks was reaching its boiling point. Could she be...? No. It wasn't possible.

And yet, the pieces fit too perfectly.

Back at the mansion, Sydney wandered aimlessly through the halls. She hated weekends like this-long, empty, and filled with nothing to distract her from the weight of her thoughts.

She found herself back in the library, running her fingers along the spines of books she'd never read. Her dream from the night before still lingered, the faceless man a ghost she couldn't seem to banish.

With a sigh, she plucked a random book from the shelf and settled into the armchair where she had fallen asleep the night before. But the words on the page couldn't hold her attention.

Her mind wandered to Alan. His coldness. His intensity. The way he looked at her sometimes, like he was on the verge of saying something but always stopped himself.

There was something about him that unsettled her, but it wasn't fear. It was something deeper, something she couldn't quite name.

Alan returned late in the afternoon, his frustration evident in the way he slammed his car door. He stalked into the house, his mind a storm of conflicting emotions.

He didn't expect to find her in the library again, curled up in the same armchair as last night, the afternoon sun casting a golden glow around her.

For a moment, he just stood there, watching her.

Sydney felt his presence before she saw him. She looked up, her eyes meeting his, and the air seemed to shift.

"Didn't think you'd be back so soon," she said, her voice calm despite the tension crackling between them.

Alan took a slow step forward, his dark eyes locked on hers. He wanted to ask her a thousand questions, to demand the truth he suspected she was hiding. But all he could think about was how close she was, how her scent filled the room, how his self-control was hanging by a thread.

"Couldn't stay away," he said, his voice low and rough.

Sydney blinked, surprised by his honesty-or was it sarcasm? She couldn't tell.

Alan took another step closer, his towering presence making the library feel smaller, more intimate.

"Tell me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why do you feel so familiar?"

Sydney's heart skipped a beat, her breath catching in her throat. For a moment, she couldn't move, couldn't think.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her voice trembling slightly.

Alan leaned down, his face inches from hers. His eyes burned with something she couldn't name, a mix of anger, desire, and something deeper.

"Liar," he whispered, his breath warm against her skin.

Sydney's pulse raced, her mind screaming at her to move, to push him away, to say something. But she couldn't.

Alan straightened abruptly, his jaw clenched as he took a step back. He raked a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath.

"Stay out of my way, Sydney," he said coldly, his voice sharp and commanding. "Or Nymeria, or whatever you want to call yourself."

With that, he turned and walked out of the library, leaving Sydney shaken and breathless, her heart pounding in her chest.

She stared at the door long after he was gone, her mind racing.

What just happened? And why did his words feel like a warning and a promise all at once?