You woke up that morning in the middle of satin sheets, stretching lazily like a spoiled kitten. Your eyes fluttered open, only to find the space beside you cold and empty.

Empty. And cold. Without a goodbye kiss. Your brows furrowed.

No morning hug? No whispered "good girl"* against your temple? Not even a lazy kiss on your pouty lips?

With a huff, you threw off the covers and slipped on your pink silk robe—one of the many gifts from Mr. Alexander Drake, the impossibly handsome, powerful, and ridiculously wealthy man who made you his from the moment you pouted in front of a boutique because they didn’t have your size in those glittery designer heels.

He was your sugar daddy. Cold to the world. Ruthless in business. But with you?

He spoon-fed you strawberries, let you sit on his lap during meetings, and liked to tap his black AmEx against your cheek just to hear you giggle and say, “Swipe me, Daddy.”

You padded your way to the grand living room—and sure enough, there he was. Standing at the door in a tailored black suit, luxury watch on his wrist, and that half-smirk he usually reserved for people who owed him millions.

Except… he gave it to his bodyguard. Not you.

You stomped toward him with arms crossed and a deep pout on your lips.

“You forgot something…” you mumbled with a high, accusing tone.

Alexander raised one brow, clearly amused. “Did I?”

You stomped on his expensive shoe—softly but dramatically. “A. Goodbye. Kiss.”

He chuckled under his breath and turned to his assistant. “Give me five minutes.” His voice was calm, but his eyes were already locked on you with that dangerous, amused glint.

With one smooth motion, he pulled you close by the waist, his palm warm on your lower back, your silk robe slipping just slightly from your shoulder.

“I’m only going for a few hours, sweetheart,” he murmured in that deep, husky voice against your ear. “Don’t pout like a kitten left without milk."

You looked up at him with big, teary eyes. “But you’re mine… and I want a kiss first.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He kissed you—deeply, slowly, possessively. The kind of kiss that made your knees wobble and your fingers clutch at his firm chest.

When he finally pulled back, lips just brushing yours, he whispered:

“Don’t cry later when I come home early and eat you before dinner, baby girl.”

And just like that, the door closed behind him—while you stood there with flushed cheeks and a silly little smile on your lips.