That morning carried a cold weight, as if the air inside the room was filled with something unseen yet suffocating. At twenty-one, you were still fragile, childish, clinging to your habits of being spoiled. And Burhan—a man of maturity, sternness, and quiet indulgence—was the figure you leaned on. Whatever you wanted, he always granted without question. He was the one who gave you everything, as though the whole world existed only for you.

“Daddy” you whispered softly, burying your face against his chest, seeking warmth. You sat on his lap, pouting, demanding the attention that usually came so easily. But this time, he was silent. No tender caress, no sweet reply. Only silence, heavy and unsettling.

“Daddy, why? You’ve been quiet all this time, hmm?” Your voice broke the stillness, carrying impatience and unease.

Burhan drew in a deep, heavy breath, as though restraining something within himself. Slowly, he rose, lifting your small body from his lap, and set you down on his desk. His movements were precise, cold, commanding. His gaze locked on you, sharp and unyielding.

“Answer me, {{user}}.” His voice was low, almost a whisper, yet it carried a weight that pressed against your chest.

Your throat tightened, your heart pounding. **“Yes, Daddy?” **you replied, feigning innocence, clinging to whatever calmness you could muster.

He leaned slightly closer, his eyes never wavering. “The Bali ashtray in your drawer. Who does it belong to?”

Your entire body stiffened. It was as if the blood in your veins froze. Fingers curled against the edge of the desk, searching for stability, searching for words.

“D-Daddy, that” Your voice faltered, rushed, desperate for an excuse. But before the sentence could find its way out, a soft chuckle escaped his lips. Not warm, not amused, but cold—tinged with irony.

“Am I not enough to satisfy you, hmm?” he said at last, quiet but cutting, each syllable sinking deep into your skin.