Page 9 of My Daddy Valentine

I’m drawn to it, though. Every detail about her, about them.

Ella Williams, the daughter of art royalty.

I can’t help myself. I’ve already crossed a line by looking her up online, but now I can’t stop. I look up her family’s estate, her father’s company, and then I dig deeper—searching for any mention of Ella herself.

And there it is.

A quote from her father in a 2018 interview with a prestigious art magazine:“My daughter Ella is the future of this industry. She’ll work with me, learning from me. She has no desire to create art. She’ll control it.”

That quote, in itself, is enough to stop me cold.

Ella Williams, no desire to create art.

I lean back in my chair, my head spinning with thoughts that don’t make any sense. What the hell am I doing? Why am I obsessing over her like this?

She’s here, doing her thing. I’m here, doing mine. She’s just another intern, just another young artist looking for her place in the world.

But there’s something in my gut that tells me it’s not that simple.

She’s different.

And no matter how much I try to convince myself I’m just curious, just trying to understand why she’s here, I know the truth.

I’m obsessed with her.

And I can’t seem to escape it.

I stare at the screen for a long time, the weight of my thoughts pressing down on me. I should go to bed. I should turn off the phone and forget this ever happened. But I can’t. Not yet.

Because deep down, I know I can’t stop thinking about Ella.

6

Ella

It’s a quiet evening at Ava’s apartment, the kind of evening I didn’t know I needed until I walked in, closed the door, and breathed in the familiarity of her space. The soft hum of the city drifts in from the open window, and the smell of fresh coffee hangs in the air. I’m on the couch, curled up in a blanket, sipping my cup as Ava sits across from me, her legs stretched out on the coffee table.

“So,” she says, raising an eyebrow at me. “How’s it really going at the gallery? Don’t just tell me it’s ‘fine,’ I want the details.”

I laugh, knowing she’s going to push for the juicy stuff. “It’s… fine, really. Busy, you know? It’s exactly what I expected. Lots of tasks, lots of things to learn. Margo’s been great, though. She gives me real responsibilities, which is awesome.”

“And Simon?” Ava asks, leaning in with that mischievous glint in her eye. “How’s your favorite grumpy mentor?”

I snort into my coffee. “He’s still grumpy. And distant. And impossible to talk to. I think he might actually be allergic to small talk.”

Ava chuckles, clearly entertained by my frustration. “I don’t get it, though. You’re talented, you’re driven. Why does he make things so hard? He’s got to see that you’re an asset.”

I take a deep breath, the words I've been thinking about him for days slipping out before I can stop them. “I don’t know. Sometimes, I think he’s purposely pushing me away. Maybe he thinks I’ve got no talent. I don’t know how to get through to him. It’s like he doesn’t evenseeme.”

Ava’s expression softens, and she leans forward, her gaze serious. “Have you thought about maybe... telling him about your family? About who your father is?”

I feel a knot tighten in my chest. I’ve always tried to keep that part of my life private—no one at the gallery knows who my father is, and I intend to keep it that way.

“I don’t want anyone to know,” I say quickly, my voice tight. “I want to make it in this world on my own, you know? Not because of who my father is.”

Ava tilts her head, studying me with a thoughtful expression. “I get it. You want to prove yourself, not just be handed things. But I’m curious—do you think Simon knows?”

I shake my head firmly, more than a little embarrassed by the question. “I don’t think so. If he did, I don’t think he’d give me a second look. And I don’t want him to. I want to be seen for my own work, for my art, not for my last name. Besides, I have something to prove to my father. He doesn’t believe in my art.”

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