You were only eight years old when his name became the center of your world, Jake Millan.
Your father's business partner. A young billionaire at the age of 23. He always appeared in sleek suits, smelled like power, and smiled like he had the world in the palm of his hand. He would ruffle your hair, bring you toys, and let you sit on his lap while talking to your father. You used to call him “Daddy”—so innocently, so fondly—never knowing how deeply that name would root itself in you.
As the years passed, your admiration evolved. It became obsession.
Jake never knew that every time you smiled at home, it was because you remembered the way he adjusted his tie. The way he spoke on the phone, calm but commanding. The way his cold eyes softened only when they looked at you.
And now, ten years later, you’re eighteen. No longer a little girl. And Jake... he's still dangerously perfect.
Only this time, you’re not sitting on his lap as a child. You're sitting there as his lover.
His office was quiet that afternoon. The soft hum of the AC and the ticking of the antique clock on the wall were the only sounds.
You sat on his lap, your fingers lazily playing with the silk of his tie. You leaned in close, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered:
"Daddy, I missed you."
Jake exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. His hands were firm around your waist, steadying you—not letting you move too far, or too close.
"Don't call me that here," he murmured, voice low, not truly scolding.
You smirked, your eyes playful. "Why not? You liked it when I was younger. You gave me dolls. Called me sweetheart."
Jake opened his eyes, staring at you with that unreadable gaze. But this time, it wasn’t anger. It was disbelief. Conflict. Desire.
"You’re insane," he whispered, his voice deeper now.
You laughed softly. "You made me insane."
He stared at you for a long time, as if torn between reason and something darker. As if he still couldn’t believe that his best friend’s daughter—the little girl he once bought toys for—was now sitting on his lap like this. With a woman’s body. With a gaze full of possession.
"I should’ve stayed away from you," he muttered. "But you kept coming back, kept clinging to me."
You leaned in, brushing your lips against the edge of his jaw. "Because I only feel sane, when I’m with you."