Don't Stop, Daddy

Chapter 7: Secrets On Paper

The night was thick with silence. Damien sat alone in his study, the glow of his desk lamp throwing shadows across polished wood. His tie lay discarded, his shirt collar undone, and the glass of whiskey beside him was nearly empty.

He should have been reviewing contracts. He should have been checking emails, aligning tomorrow’s meetings. But instead, his mind was tangled with images of Sierra her legs curled under her on the couch, the way she glanced at him with something like defiance, her lips parting just enough to suggest she knew exactly what effect she had on him.

He ran a hand through his hair and swore under his breath. She was his stepdaughter. His wife’s child. He had no business thinking about her this way.

And yet…

The next morning, Sierra left for a coffee run with a friend. Damien had lingered upstairs, restless, prowling the hallway as though avoiding his conscience. He paused outside Sierra’s bedroom door, half-open, the pink glow of morning light spilling in.

He shouldn’t go in. He knew that. But the thought of her world, her private things scattered across the room it pulled at him like gravity. Before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed the door wider and stepped inside.

The air smelled faintly of her perfume, sweet but not childish. The bed was messy, blankets tangled as though she’d tossed in restless sleep. Books lay stacked on the nightstand. And there, on the desk by the window, a slim notebook sat open.

Damien froze. He told himself not to look, to turn around, to leave this invasion of privacy behind. But the sight of ink across the page dragged him closer. He told himself he’d only glance. Just one line. Just to ease the gnawing curiosity about the things she wrote so furiously at night.

But when his eyes landed on the words, his breath caught.

I can’t stop thinking about him. The way he stares, the way he stands too close. Every time he looks at me, my skin burns. It’s wrong. It’s sick. He belongs to her. But I want him. God help me, I want him.

Damien’s pulse roared in his ears. His hand tightened on the edge of the desk. For a long moment, he simply stared, each sentence carving deeper into the fragile wall he’d tried to keep between them.

She wasn’t just flirting. She wasn’t just naïve. Sierra wanted him with the same hunger that had been tearing at him for weeks.

He closed the notebook abruptly, heart hammering. A rush of shame swept through him shame for reading, shame for wanting, shame for the heat curling low in his stomach even now. He backed away, turning sharply, leaving the room before he could betray himself further.

Sierra returned later, smiling faintly from the morning air, a coffee cup in hand. She found Damien in the kitchen, reading the paper, looking almost too composed. His jaw was tense, his posture rigid.

“Morning,” she said, setting her cup on the counter.

He looked up, meeting her eyes with a sharpness that made her falter. “Morning.”

Something in his tone made her pause. She studied him, but his expression was unreadable, his green eyes guarded.

She busied herself pulling out a muffin from the bag. “Mom already left?”

“Yes. Early meeting.” He sipped his coffee, then folded the paper with precise, controlled movements. “You were writing again last night.”

The words hit her like ice water. She blinked at him, nearly dropping her muffin. “What?”

“Your light was on late. I walked by.” His gaze lingered a fraction too long, deliberate. “You’re… dedicated.”

Her chest tightened. Did he know? Had he seen? Her mind raced, panic flickering behind her eyes, but she forced a casual shrug. “Just… helps me think.”

“About what?” His voice was softer now, dangerously probing.

She swallowed. “Stuff.”

“Stuff.” He tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he intended to solve. For one terrifying second, she thought he’d push further, demand the truth, confront her with the shameful ink of her confession. But instead, he leaned back, sipping his coffee again.

“Just don’t stay up too late. You’ll burn yourself out.”

The warning was casual, but she felt the undercurrent in it. Something about the way he said it made her flush.

That evening, Sierra sat at her desk, notebook open again. She stared at the blank page, unable to move her pen. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Damien had been in here, that he’d seen something he shouldn’t have. The thought both horrified and electrified her.

If he knew… would he despise her? Or would he finally admit what lingered in his eyes every time he looked at her?

Her hand trembled as she wrote:

If he ever read this, I’d die. But maybe I want him to. Maybe I want him to know how much I crave him. Maybe then he’d stop pretending.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway. Sierra’s heart lurched, and she slammed the notebook shut, shoving it under a pillow.

The door opened slightly. Damien’s voice slipped through, low and steady. “Goodnight.”

Her throat tightened. She managed to whisper back, “Goodnight.”

She waited until his footsteps faded before collapsing onto the bed, her body trembling with a mix of fear and longing.

Downstairs, Damien poured another glass of whiskey, staring out at the darkened yard. He couldn’t banish the words from her notebook from his mind. They replayed with every sip, every breath.

She wanted him.

The knowledge was a poison and a drug all at once.

He should tell Vanessa. He should draw a line so sharp it cuts this fantasy to pieces. But instead, he found himself replaying the look in Sierra’s eyes when she teased him, the way her lips parted when she caught him staring.

He thought of the way her handwriting curved across the page, desperate and raw. And he knew he was already too far gone.

The next morning, Sierra passed him in the hallway, her robe tied loosely, damp hair clinging to her neck. She smiled faintly. “Morning.”

His eyes flicked over her, lingering a moment too long before he caught himself. “Morning,” he replied, his voice clipped.

As she brushed past, her shoulder grazed his arm. The contact was nothing, innocent on the surface, but it sent a shock through him.

He closed his eyes, fighting for control. He had read her secrets. He knew the truth now. And yet, instead of extinguishing the fire, it had only fanned it higher.

Because knowing she wanted him only made him want her more.