Page 11 of My Daddy Valentine

I’m tired. My eyes burn from the hours of staring at the computer screen, and my hands ache from typing out endless emails. I’ve been working all day, and now, at this late hour, the gallery is quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning. It’s peaceful, almost too peaceful, and I should be grateful for the silence, but all I can think about is the tension that has been building up in the pit of my stomach for days.

Ella.

She’s been on my mind, in my thoughts, in my every waking moment. Every time I see her, it’s like my brain short circuits. I try to push it away, to focus on the work, but it’s impossible. And now, I’m sitting in my office, running my fingers through my hair, trying to ignore the pull in my chest whenever she’s near.

And then, the door opens.

She steps in, her figure framed by the doorway, her presence unmistakable.

“Simon?” Her voice is soft, tentative, like she’s not sure if she’s interrupting or if I’ll be angry.

I look up, forcing myself to focus. She’s holding a small stack of papers in her hands—an invoice, most likely. Her blonde hair falls over her shoulders, and the way she stands, so sure and graceful despite the weight of the tension between us, makes my heart beat louder in my chest.

“Hey,” she says, stepping inside. “I just need you to sign these before I leave for the night.”

I nod, trying to keep my expression neutral. But everything about her istoo much—her beauty, her energy, the way she walks into the room like she owns it. I feel like I’m suffocating, but I can’t escape.

I swallow and gesture toward the front of my desk. “You can leave them there. I’ll sign them when I’m done.”

But she doesn’t leave. She hesitates for a moment, her eyes flickering to the door, then back to me. I watch as she walks over and places the papers on my desk. Her fingers graze the surface for a brief second, and my mind goes to places I know it shouldn’t.

I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending I’m not affected by her. She’s got this pull on me, this gravitational force that I can’t escape.

And then I hear myself say it, the words coming out before I even realize what I’m doing.

“Shut the door.”

Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of hesitation in her gaze. But then she nods, slowly walks backtoward the door, and shuts it. The sound of the door clicking shut feels like a finality, like we’ve crossed some invisible line that neither of us can step back from.

I stand up from my desk, my mind racing. My heart pounds against my ribcage. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be standing up, closing the distance between us. But I am.

I take a slow step toward her, and she freezes, her breath catching in her throat. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t say anything. But I see the way her eyes widen, the way her body tenses, like she knows something is coming—like she knows this moment is different from all the others.

I stand right in front of her now, too close. I can feel the heat radiating from her body, the electric tension in the air. The way she smells—faintly like vanilla and something warmer, something morealive—is driving me insane.

“Simon?” Her voice is barely a whisper, but it’s enough to make my chest tighten.

I look down at her, and it’s almost too much. She’s standing there, looking up at me with those big, innocent eyes, and all I want to do is lean down and kiss her. To erase the distance between us, to erase all the rules I’ve set in place.

But I can’t.

I can’t lose control.

I take a step back, but it’s like my body is fighting me. Every muscle in my body wants to pull her close, to taste her lips, to let everything go. But I know better. I know I can’t do that. She’s an intern. She’s here to learn, to grow, and I can’t let myself be the one to distract her from that.

“I know who you are,” I say, my voice low and strained. The words slip out, a confession I’ve been holding inside for too long. “I know who your father is.”

Her breath catches, and I watch as her face goes pale. I don’t know why I said it. I don’t know why I feel the need to confront her, to make her understand that I know her secret—that I know she’s not just some art-loving intern, but the daughter ofJames Williams, a man who could buy this entire gallery and everyone in it without blinking.

But the moment I say it, I know it’s too late. I know I’ve crossed a line I can’t uncross.

Ella stands there, staring at me, her lips parted like she’s unsure of how to respond. “You… you know?”

I nod, feeling the weight of it press down on me. “I’ve done my research.” The words come out harsher than I intend, but I can’t stop myself. “You think I didn’t notice? You think I wouldn’t recognize you?Ella Williams, daughter of one of the biggest names in the art world?”

Her eyes flicker, and for the first time, I see a crack in her mask—a moment of vulnerability, ofhumanity.

“I didn’t want anyone to know,” she whispers, her voice trembling just slightly. “I wanted to make it on my own. Not because of my father’s name. I don’t want to be treated differently.”

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