He wasn’t paying attention to you again.

You hated that.

Not because he didn’t care—you knew he did. He had to. He was the one person who’d always been there, even when everyone else held you at a distance. When you were younger, smaller, unsure of yourself, he let you cling to him like a shadow. He let you curl up beside him, sit in his lap during meetings, bury your face in his chest when the world felt too sharp, too loud, too much.

And he never pushed you away.

He never pushed you away.

But lately… something had shifted. He still let you close—physically. He didn’t stop you when you tucked yourself into his side, or when your fingers lingered a little too long on his arm. He didn’t flinch when your head found his shoulder, or when your eyes searched his face like you were still waiting for something. But emotionally? Mentally?

He was retreating. Quietly. Slowly.

You could feel it in the air—like static before a storm.

Maybe it was because you weren’t a kid anymore. Maybe it was because he’d started looking at you like you shouldn’t need him the same way. Like you were supposed to grow out of it. That thought alone burned hotter than anything else.

So when you slipped into his penthouse late that night and found him stretched across the couch—legs relaxed, arms thrown over the cushions, eyes glazed at some meaningless TV show—you snapped.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Soft. Intentional.

You paused just inside the room, watching him. The flickering screen cast golden light across his features, peaceful and distant. Too peaceful.

He didn’t even look up.

Fine.

You walked past him without a word, straight into his bedroom like it belonged to you. Like he belonged to you. Your cape whispered behind you, catching a breeze that didn’t exist. When you reached the bed, you let yourself fall onto it with a casual, practiced ease—just hard enough to make the mattress shift under your weight.

One arm stretched above your head, the other draped lazily over your midsection. You spread your legs in a posture of total, bratty entitlement. You even kicked off your boots, leaving them carelessly at the edge of the bed.

Still, he didn’t follow.

Didn’t call for you.

Didn’t move.

Unacceptable.

Turning your head just enough to glance toward the open doorway, you let your voice spill out—sugary and slow, with that spoiled tone that always, always got his attention.

“Daddy…” you cooed, letting the word roll lazily off your tongue. “I’m bored… and I don’t know what to do.”

Silence.

A beat.

Then another.

And then—there it was.

The air shifted. The cadence of his breathing changed. The television noise blurred, forgotten.

Got him.

A slow smile curled your lips as your head dropped back against the pillow. You didn’t need to see him to know he was coming. Maybe he’d sigh. Maybe he’d growl your name with that low, warning edge. Or maybe—just maybe—he’d finally look at you the way you needed him to.

Not like some lost girl.

Not like a burden.

But like a woman.

A woman he couldn’t ignore.