Wet For Daddy

Chapter 10

Chloe’s POV

Three days of enforced silence felt like a geological era. My life had shattered, been temporarily reformed in a burst of forbidden heat, and was now placed on a high shelf, waiting for Drake Humphrey’s permission to move again.

I was drowning in his rules. Every minute felt governed by his absence. I kept the black dress I’d worn to his office crumpled in a ball beneath my pillow, inhaling the faint, masculine scent of his expensive cologne mixed with my own climax, a brutal souvenir of his control. I was a puppet whose strings had been abruptly severed, and the inertia was maddening.

I checked my personal phone every fifteen minutes, despite knowing he had blocked the anonymous number I used. The phone screen was a constant source of anxiety and disappointment. I was caught in a cycle of desperation, and it made me despise him and myself for needing him so completely.

I couldn't escape the memory of his mouth, not just the initial, hungry kiss, but the devastating, cold finality of him wiping his hand across his lips, erasing my taste like a smudge on a corporate ledger. That act was more humiliating than Jack’s chuckle. It implied I was disposable, a moment of fleeting weakness he could simply sanitize away.

Hilda was trying, bless her fierce, loyal heart. She brought me tubs of ice cream and made loud, cheerful plans to introduce me to her 'responsible, non-Humphrey-adjacent' friends.

“Seriously, Chloe, a change of scenery is what you need. Stop staring at that wall. Get out there. You’re single, gorgeous, and rich men are lining up to treat you right,” she said one evening, trying to pull me toward the TV.

“I’m fine, Hil. Just… tired,” I muttered, pulling my blanket higher.

The truth was, I was exhausted from the internal conflict. When I was with Drake, I felt powerful, defiant, and completely alive. When I was here, waiting, I was reduced to the pathetic girl Jack had called a ‘dandiprat.’

I kept going over his words, the ones full of guilt and fear: “The risk is not worth the temporary satisfaction.” And my own defiant retort: “It was never Jack. It’s only you.”

He wanted control? He wanted me to exist only on his terms?

Fine. I would play his game, but I would twist the rules until they choked him. The only way to win against a man obsessed with control was to prove I was the one thing he couldn't control, the thought that infiltrated his corporate armor.

The first step was severance from my traceable life. I had to stop associating Drake with the phone number he had blocked. I needed a clean slate, a ghost phone, dedicated only to breaking his icy resolve.

I told Hilda I was running out for shampoo. Instead, I drove to a convenience store miles away, deep in a part of the city Drake would never look twice at. The store was neon-lit and smelled of stale coffee. I felt utterly out of place, but the anonymity was key. I purchased the cheapest burner phone I could find, a simple flip phone, and a prepaid card, paying in cash. The act felt ridiculously clandestine, a move straight out of a spy movie, but the danger of it thrilled me.

Back in my car, parked under the anonymity of a highway overpass, I unwrapped the new phone. No social media, no personal contacts, just one number to program. His private line, the one he used for "urgent business calls,” the one he’d answered the night he walked out on me. I’d memorized it that night, knowing it was the true key to his fortress.

I didn't call. I wouldn't be desperate. I would be calculated.

I spent the next hour simply looking up Humphrey Enterprises online, using my personal phone for the research. I scanned business news, board reports, and articles about Drake’s public appearances. I was no longer interested in Chloe Anthony’s life; I was immersed in Drake Humphrey’s world, learning the pressure points of the man I was going to ruin with desire.

I saw an article detailing a highly publicized acquisition his company was attempting—a complicated, multi-million-dollar deal with a tech firm in Asia. The article included Drake’s latest public statement on the matter: a quote that was all cool confidence and calculated optimism about the merger's inevitable success. I read between the lines, noting the careful language used to minimize the risk mentioned by market analysts.

This was it. The perfect wedge.

I typed the message slowly on the burner phone, carefully crafting the words that would pierce his corporate shield:

The acquisition deal with Apex Asia is structurally weak. Your confidence won't mask the risk of the liability clause in the shareholder agreement. You need to close that loophole fast.

It was just enough corporate jargon to be terrifyingly specific. It was a clear warning that someone outside his highly paid circle knew his business.

Then, the punchline. The single, devastating line designed to shatter his focus entirely, referencing the moment he had left me aching on his desk:

Remember the taste of control?

I hit send.

The phone immediately felt hot in my hand, heavy with the weight of the risk. I held my breath, waiting for an immediate, furious call, demanding to know who I was and how I knew his business.

The phone remained silent.

I tossed it onto the passenger seat, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. He might ignore the number. He might even block it. But I knew, with a terrifying certainty, that he would read the message. He would see that warning, and then he would see the final sentence, the signature of his illicit weakness. It would sit in the mind of the most powerful man in the city like a toxic, beautiful thorn.

I drove home, no longer feeling pathetic or broken, but focused, defiant, and dangerously obsessed. I walked back into the apartment, tossing my keys onto the counter, feeling the quiet victory of having successfully executed my first play.

Hilda looked up from her magazine, eyes narrowed. “The drugstore must have been packed. You were gone for ages. Did you run into someone?”

“I ran into traffic,” I lied, not meeting her eye. I poured myself a glass of water, trying to keep my breathing even. The lie felt easier this time. It felt necessary.

“You’re shaking, Chloe. Are you okay?” Hilda asked, immediately worried.

I forced a casual smile. “Just cold. That corner store is drafty.”

I retreated to my room, locking the door. The moment I was alone, I stripped, not because I was tired, but because the lingering ghost of Drake’s rejection was still a physical weight on my skin. I reached for myself, my fingers seeking the ache he had left behind.

I didn't need Drake’s physical presence to feel his power. I closed my eyes and vividly reconstructed the scene: the cold desk, the scent of his whiskey, the way his eyes hardened as he withdrew his mouth. I didn’t just focus on the pleasure he gave; I focused on the anger, the dominance, and the exquisite cruelty of his control.

I m*********d with savage intensity, channeling all my frustration, my defiance, and my new, terrifying obsession into the release. With every desperate thrust of my fingers, I whispered a mantra: You can’t control me. I will make you beg. I came hard, gasping Drake’s name, collapsing back onto the pillow, triumphant and exhausted.

The small, cheap burner phone was now buzzing relentlessly in my car, but I didn't care. The message had been sent. The gauntlet had been thrown. The first chess piece was moved, and Drake Humphrey was now on the clock.