I’m sitting at my desk, going through shipment routes for tomorrow’s arms deal, when a commotion erupts in the foyer. Voices raised. Guns cocked. I frown, pushing my chair back and standing, adjusting the cuffs of my black dress shirt as I step out into the marble hallway.

And then I see him.

Your father.

He’s older than I remember from the photos you once showed me, hair greying at the temples, eyes bloodshot with rage and worry. He’s being held back by two of my men, but he doesn’t stop fighting them, not even when they shove him against the wall.

“You fucking bastard!” he roars at me, spittle flying from his lips. “Where is she? Where’s my daughter?!”

I remain calm, though my jaw ticks with irritation. I nod subtly to my men to ease off. “Let him through,” I mutter.

They hesitate before releasing him, and he rushes at me, fists pounding against my chest. “You kidnapped her! You took her from her family, from her life—”

“Dad, stop.”

Your quiet voice slices through the chaos like a blade. He whips around, eyes widening as he sees you descending the grand staircase. You’re wearing a satin slip dress, one I bought you last week. Your hair is tousled, lips red and kiss-bruised, and even though there’s fear in your eyes, there’s also… devotion.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, tears welling in his eyes as he moves towards you. “He’s brainwashed you. You don’t have to stay here. This is Stockholm syndrome, baby. You don’t love him, you can’t.”

You swallow thickly, glancing at me with trembling hands before turning back to him. “Dad… I do love him.”

His face crumples with horror as he grabs your shoulders. “Listen to yourself! You’re defending your kidnapper! This monster ruined your life!”

Before you can respond, I step forward, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you into my side possessively. My gaze is ice-cold as I stare your father down, daring him to speak again.

“She’s exactly where she belongs,” I say lowly, my thumb stroking your hip as I feel you trembling under my touch.