Page 61 of Daddy's Princess

Andre scoffs. “You’re either naïve or dumb if you think that’s true. If you can honestly tell me you aren’t already in love with Oliver, then I will leave you to rot in that bed.”

“I’m not!” I lie. Andre knows it’s a lie. I know it’s a lie. The whole world probably knows it’s a lie.

“How about we try the truth? I would hate to have to spank your ass for lying. I have a feeling that even though it’s well deserved, Oliver will take offense to me spanking his sub.”

It’s my turn to scoff. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Andre grabs my ankle and yanks me down the mattress and effortlessly flips me to my stomach. His big hand cracks down on my panty covered bottom. I cry out more from outrage than hurt. “I can’t believe you did that!”

“If you’re not careful, I’ll do it again. Get your ass out of bed, take a shower, and get dressed. I’m going to make you breakfast—and not one of those shakes you try to pass off as a smoothie, but we all know it’s more chocolate than anything—and after you eat, I’m taking you to work.”

I could argue, but what’s the point? Andre always gets his way, and I definitely don’t want to dare him to spank me. I have zero doubt that he will do it if I push him. Thirty minutes later, I have showered, shaved, gotten dressed in real clothes, and fixed both my makeup and hair. I look one-hundred percent human, which is amazing considering I feel about twenty percent human.

Andre gives me an appraising look when I walk into the kitchen. “Good girl, now sit down and eat.”

I sit at the table and smirk when I see French toast slathered in syrup with big fat blueberries and raspberries on top. My stomach growls hungrily at the sight. I don’t hesitate to tuck into my food. Thirty minutes ago, I would have sworn I wasn’t hungry, and now I’m so ravenous I eat every bite.

Andre completely ignores my protests about going to work. “If I go to work, I’m for sure going to run into Oliver.”

“That’s the point. You’re in love with Oliver, and he’s in love with you. He’s fucking perfect for you. Stop letting your fear make decisions for you.”

“I’m not ready…”

“You have two options here. You can either pull up your big girl panties and face the truth, or you can quit a job you love and live a lie. Is that what you want to do? Do you want to quit?” Andre’s words are harsh, but it’s exactly what I need to hear.

“No. Titan-Rose is my dream job. I love it there.”

“And you love Oliver…” Andre adds.

I nudge his shoulder. “And I love Oliver. That doesn’t change the fact that I’m scared.”

“Life is a scary thing sometimes, but that doesn’t mean you should stop living it. Now go and live the life you deserve, sweetheart.”

With Andre’s hard truths echoing in my ears, I go to work.

* * *

Everyone is tense.Apparently, things aren’t going well with Wildwood, and Britney is being difficult about selling the illustrations to Titan-Rose.

“I heard she told Mr. Titan that she would rather burn them than let him have them,” Taylor says quietly.

“Why doesn’t he just hire another illustrator to do the work?” Once again, I wish I had my sketchbook. Why didn’t I show my pictures to Oliver before? All of this mess might’ve been avoided.

“Have you seen them?”

I shake my head. “No, I’ve been… sick the last few days.”

He wakes up his computer and pulls up a file. “The problem is she drew exactly what Mrs. Titan-Rose wanted, and now we can’t replicate it for fear of copyright infringement. I don’t know how the bitch did it, but she seriously killed it with these.” Taylor opens the first image, and my stomach sinks. “I mean look at this one…” He clicks to a very familiar sketch of the naterwhal that I drew after reading the book for the first time. “It looks like you could pick the little guy up right off the page, and he’d be real. Even with it being a pencil sketch, you can totally imagine the fluffy pink fur the author described.”

He flicks through several other drawings, all of them mine. All of them from my lost sketchbook. No, not lost. Stolen. My stolen sketchbook. With anger coursing through my veins, I storm into Oliver’s office without knocking. He looks up from his desk, lips posed to scold whoever barged in on him. “Sugar,” he says instead.

“We need to talk.”

“Do you want to sit?” The formal way he asks makes me want to cry. Thankfully, I’m too pissed off to cry.

I shake my head. “No, I don’t want to fucking sit!”

“Language,” Oliver snaps the command automatically, then adds, “please.”

---