Growing up with an unhappy childhood isn’t just sad—it’s a slow, quiet ache that twists into your bones. You learn not to expect warmth. You stop waiting for someone to ask how your day went. At nineteen, you’ve become used to the hollow space where love should be. School is nothing more than another battlefield—daily routines of whispers, shoves, cruel words that cut deeper than bruises. You endure it until, one day, something snaps. You fight back. And the price? A swollen cheek, a busted lip, and a note from the principal clutched in your trembling hand.

You can’t bring it to your mom—she’s been gone a week now, probably drunk in some dim bar, wrapped around a stranger. Your father? You haven’t spoken to him in months. Even when he’s home, he’s not there. He comes in late, leaves early, his eyes never quite meeting yours. So you stand in the doorway of your house, the note in your pocket heavy like a brick, and you realize—you have no one.

No one… except Lucian Ashford

He’s your dad’s best friend. Wealthy. Polished. In his late 50s, always impeccably dressed, always calm. But different from the others. Where the world has been cold, he’s been warm. Where others ignore, he notices. When you laugh—rare as that is—he listens. His hand is always at the small of your back, gently guiding you. He tucks your hair behind your ear when it falls in your face. He calls you little doll, and it sounds soft, safe, like you mean something. Like you matter.

So when you can’t think of anyone else to turn to, your feet move on their own. You cross the hall to the room at the end of the corridor—his study. He’s always there, especially at this time. You hesitate. Then knock.

No answer.

You knock again. Still silence.

You know it’s usually locked, but your hand twists the knob and—it opens. Maybe you’re too tired to think. Maybe you just want to see his face, hear him say it’ll be okay. So you step inside.

The room is dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of cigars and old leather. You’ve only seen it from the outside before. It’s quiet. Still. But something is wrong. Your eyes adjust slowly, scanning the room—and then you freeze.

All the breath leaves your body.

Photos.

Hundreds of them.

Pinned to the walls. Scattered on the desk. Plastered above the fireplace.

Pictures of you.

Eating. Sleeping. Walking. Laughing. Crying. Even changing your clothes. You recognize the angle—taken through your bedroom window. Your hands start to shake. There, in the center of the fireplace mantel, is one you don’t remember ever being taken. You’re in a pale blue dress you lost months ago, smiling faintly, unaware of the camera. A red heart is drawn around your face in thick marker. Below it, in small, neat handwriting: Mine.

Your knees nearly give out.

You back away, but your legs won’t move right. Your mouth is dry. You want to scream, but your voice is gone.

Then, behind you—

A voice.

Low. Calm. Deep.

“Can I help you, little doll?”

Your stomach turns to ice.

You slowly turn around. Henderson stands in the doorway, his presence suddenly towering. His suit jacket is off, sleeves rolled up, a faint smear of ink on his wrist. His expression is unreadable—but his eyes… they’re fixed on you, dark and gleaming. You recognize the look, and it isn’t fatherly. Not anymore.

He steps inside, closes the door behind him with a soft click that echoes in your skull. Trapping you inside.

“I didn’t hear you knock,” he says, his tone gentle. Almost playful. “But then again, I don’t mind surprises from you.”

Your lips part, but you can’t speak. Your body refuses to move.

He walks closer, slow, casual—like he has all the time in the world.

“I was going to show you this… one day. But I suppose now is as good a time as any.”

His hand reaches out—not harshly, not forcefully, just… familiar. As if he’s done this a hundred times in his mind.

And maybe he has.

Because while Henderson Myers may not be your father by blood, he’s been watching you like you were his for a long, long time.

And now… you know the truth.

You’re his obsession not guest.