Page 9 of Forced Bratva Hostage

Over the years, I'd tried to hate him, to despise him for all the pain and agony he'd put me through. But no matter how much I put into it, I just couldn't hate the man who'd broken my heart more times than anyone else ever had.

All I wanted was to be regarded as a daughter, to be loved and adored, appreciated, and pampered by my father. But apparently, that was asking too much.

My relationship with him had always been toxic and one-sided. He rarely called me and only stopped by when he was in trouble. I was always the last resort in his plans.

Sometimes, I spent whole nights wondering whether or not this man ever really loved me as his own.

However, he wasn't always like this—cold, distant, and irresponsible. Which was why I couldn't fathom his sudden transformation from being a loving father to whatever he was now.

The father I remembered would never treat me the way he did—he'd never abandon me—and every day, I longed for that man again.

I wished things hadn't gone so terribly wrong. I wished Mom had never passed away and Dad didn't have to hit the bottle to deal with that pain.

Once upon a memory that refused to fade, he was a fun dad who'd spend hours with his wife and kid. Nothing was more important than the two most beautiful women in his life, as he preferred to call us.

I missed the Sunday morning pancakes and the bliss that came with it. Dad had a secret recipe that made to-die-for pancakes, and not even Mom knew his little secret. He'd always tease her about being the best pastry chef to ever walk the Earth.

A quiet smile touched my lips as memories flooded back, and I strolled through the gardens of my past.

“Good morning!” Dad's voice boomed, accompanied by the creaking of my door, which pulled me out of the dream world.

My eight-year-old self groaned, eyelids groggily fluttering open as sleep's weight still pressed on, its heavy haze lingering over me with a strong grip.

I rolled over to the other side of my bed and squinted, a hand flying to shield my face as Dad parted the curtains, unleashing a flood of sunlight.

“Rise and shine, kiddo!” His eyes sparkled with mischief, lips curling into a broad smile.

“I don't wanna rise and shine.” My voice was a soft murmur as I rubbed the remnants of sleep from my eyes.

“Then I'm afraid you're gonna miss out on the cakes.” He folded his arms, his teasing gaze lingering.

My eyes widened with excitement, and I tossed my sheets aside. “It's Sunday already?” I hopped off the bed, slipping into my flip-flops.

“You bet.” He laughed, walking out of my room.

“Hey, wait up!” I called, quickly wiping my face with my palms and checking my reflection in the mirror.

“I'll race you downstairs.” He turned to me, his brows wiggling.

“Oh, it's on.” My voice dropped to a deadly whisper.

I giggled and sprinted toward him, the soft thud of my flip-flops echoing down the hallway.

We descended the staircase, our footsteps pounding against the wooden floor as we stormed into the kitchen. “Yay! I win!” I threw my hands up in triumph.

“What, do you have rockets for legs now?” Dad stopped at the entrance, hands resting on his knees, pretending to catch his breath.

Mom laughed, sitting on a stool by the kitchen island. “Children. I live with two children.” She sipped from her cup of freshly brewed coffee.

The sweet scent wafted through the air, invading my nostrils.

“Morning, Mom.” I cackled, drawing in the amazing aroma that enveloped the atmosphere.

“Morning, sweetheart.” She beamed a charming smile at me, ruffling my hair.

“Today's pancakes are gonna make the other pancakes of the world jealous. I can assure you that.” Dad walked over to the counter, his tone dripping with confidence.

“You never pass on the chance to boast about your pancakes being better than mine, do you?” Mom said, letting out a whispery laugh. Her hazel-brown eyes roamed his masculine form.

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