Page 23 of Mile High Daddy

Of course it’s dead.

I can’t call Mom. Can’t call anyone.

I glance around the room, my mind racing for an escape plan, but it’s hopeless. The two men are like statues, and the one blocking the door hasn’t moved an inch.

“You’ve been on your own for too long, Lila,” Dad says, his voice softer now but no less chilling. “It’s time you understood the reality of the world you come from. You’re not just anyone. You’re my daughter.”

“That’s not an excuse to ruin my life,” I snap. “Let me leave.” I force the words out despite the lump in my throat.

Dad doesn’t move from where he stands, his arms crossed over his chest. “Where would you go, Lila? Your phone is dead. You don’t have any way to reach anyone. And even if you did, they wouldn’t be able to help you.”

His words feel like a slap, and I glare at him, anger momentarily overtaking the panic. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?”

“I don’t think, Lila. I know,” he replies smoothly. “I know what you need, even if you don’t.”

My nails dig into my palms as I fight back the tears threatening to spill over. I’ve felt powerless before, but not like this.

“You can’t keep me here forever,” I say, my voice cracking but full of defiance.

“I won’t need to,” he replies, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Once you’ve calmed down, you’ll see reason. This arrangement—it’s for your own good.”

“Stop saying that!” I shout, my voice breaking. “You don’t get to decide what’s good for me! You don’t get to decideanythingfor me!”

Dad’s expression hardens, and the room falls into a tense silence. The two men behind him shift slightly, their postures still relaxed but ready, like they’re waiting for a signal.

I take a shaky breath, forcing myself to think. Running isn’t an option—not now. But I can’t let him win.

“I don’t care what you think is good for me,” I say, my voice quieter now but steady. “I’m not going along with this. You can’t make me.”

Dad steps closer, his voice dropping low, almost like a warning. “You’re underestimating the situation, Lila. This isn’t just about you. There are other people involved. People who won’t take no for an answer.”

The next fewdays pass in a surreal, suffocating haze. My life as I knew it has ceased to exist, replaced by a whirlwind of decisions I had no part in making. Designers flit in and out of the suite, their measuring tapes and fabric swatches invading every corner.

I sit stiffly as they fuss over me, their hands adjusting and pinning and perfecting. My protests fall on deaf ears, my refusalsmet with polite smiles and phrases like“It’s for the best, Miss Lila.”

I hate all of it.

I’m uncooperative at every turn, crossing my arms, refusing to try on certain dresses, snapping at anyone who dares suggest I “relax.” But it doesn’t matter. They continue as if I’m some unruly child throwing a tantrum, their efficiency relentless.

I feel like I’m drowning.

The suite, once luxurious and awe-inspiring, has become a gilded cage. The windows are a taunt, offering a view of a world I can no longer reach. My phone remains dead—conveniently, none of the staff seems able to find me a charger. Even if they did, I know the calls would be monitored, the walls closing in even further.

And then there’shim.

Mikhail.

The thought of him sends a fresh wave of anger coursing through me. How could he do this? How could he let me believe, even for a moment, that he cared? That I was more than just a pawn in whatever game he and my father are playing?

I hate him.

Or at least, I want to.

But when the suite is quiet, and the whirlwind of dresses and fittings and arrangements finally settles, I find myself thinking of him. His gray eyes, the way they burned into me with an intensity that made my heart race. The way he touched me, like I was something precious, something he couldn’t bear to let go.

It doesn’t make sense. How can I miss someone I’m supposed to hate? How can I feel this ache, this hollow, gnawing emptiness, when I know he betrayed me?

I close my eyes, leaning back against the couch as another designer lays out a series of veils. My fingers curl into fists, my chest tightening with frustration and something else—something I can’t name.

---