Page 46 of Daddy's Dirty Little Secret

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AMELIA

The room they put me in was nicer than most hotel suites I’d stayed in. That was the strangest part. Nothing about it felt like a prison, except for the locked door.

From where I sat—on a cream-colored bench at the foot of the bed—I could see nearly every polished surface in the room reflecting light like it had been cleaned twice this morning. The windows weren’t barred. They looked out over a neat backyard with desert landscaping, all tan stone and low shrubs that looked expensive to maintain. Beyond the fence was another house, and another after that, all stacked up like dollhouses in a quiet cul-de-sac.

We were in Vegas. I never saw a sign or a street name, but I recognized the mountains and desert when we stepped out of the helicopter. Warm, dry, and heavy with dust. They hadn’t blindfolded me or tied me down, though they did keep the restraints on my hands. Thankfully, they took the gag out of my mouth when I started dry heaving again.

One of them—always in a navy polo and slacks—came in earlier to drop off a tray with food. Bottled water, a sandwich, a few grapes. Like this was some strange spa retreat instead of ahostage situation. I stayed on the far side of the room when he entered and almost cried.

“As long as your father pays up, you’ll be out of here in no time,” he said, as if that was supposed to help.

I didn’t respond. I just sat there with my hands folded in my lap, nodding like I agreed. He closed the door behind himself gently. It clicked when it locked, even though it didn’t need to.

I hadn’t touched the food.

They told me not to worry. That I’d be home soon. But they didn’t know my father. Not the version I’d seen lately—the one barely keeping the lights on, pretending the walls weren’t closing in. He had no money to pay up, and though I assumed he’d go straight to Xander, I knew that was a long shot too. Xander didn’t care about me. He’d said as much the last time we spoke.

I looked out the window again. There were kids riding scooters a couple of houses down. A man hosing off his driveway. The world looked completely normal from here.

I stayed by the window most of the day, leaning my elbow on the sill, watching the ordinary lives unfolding just outside this strange bubble I had landed in. Somewhere beyond those tan walls and trimmed hedges, people were going to work, picking up groceries, making dinner plans. I was here. Waiting.

They weren’t rough with me. No one raised their voice. No one made threats. They offered food, clean sheets, privacy. But it wasn’t kindness. It was calculation. Like they wanted me calm so I wouldn’t make their job harder. They never called me by name. Just “her” or “the girl.” And the only thing they repeated was that it would all be over as soon as my dad “handled things.”

I hadn’t asked what that meant, not directly. I already knew. That number—the six figures I saw in his ledger—it wasn’t going to vanish.

The door opened again midafternoon, but this time, it wasn’t the man in the navy polo. It was Victor Hayes. He wore a tailoredsuit. Crisp white shirt, pale gray jacket, silver cuff links. Not flashy, just confident. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly cut, and he didn’t carry a phone or a file. Just walked in with both hands in his pockets and stopped a few feet from the center of the room.

“Miss Johnson,” he said. “I hope you’ve been treated respectfully.”

I stood up without meaning to. “You must be Hayes.”

He smiled faintly. “You’re sharper than your father.” I didn’t answer. He nodded toward the chair by the desk. “Would you mind sitting? I’d like to explain a few things.”

I didn’t want to, but I also didn’t want to be standing in the middle of the room while this man towered over me. I sat carefully, crossing my arms over my stomach out of habit more than anything else.

“I imagine this situation has been…unsettling,” Hayes said, pacing a little but never turning his back to me. “I don’t make a habit of involving family in business matters, but your father has left me with very few options.”

“You’re threatening his daughter,” I said. “That feels personal.”

He nodded as if I’d only just caught up. “It is now.”

There was nothing hostile in his voice. No raised tone, no hard edge. It was a plain statement, spoken with the same rhythm someone might use when confirming the day of the week. That only made it harder to grasp. I wondered if he had children of his own, if they were in this house somewhere.

“You’re here because I gave your father every chance to make this right,” he continued, walking with slow, deliberate steps. “And he didn’t. He took money—large amounts—on the promise of future earnings. Those earnings never came.”

“He sold the company,” I said. “Didn’t that cover any of it?”

Hayes gave a dry laugh under his breath. “Your father was smart enough to structure the sale so it paid him upfront. What he failed to do was prioritize what he owed. That money was spent before the ink dried. Half a million dollars is not the sort of debt a person just walks away from.”

“He doesn’t have it,” I said, holding his gaze.

“That’s not my concern,” he replied, calm as ever. He paused, turning his cold stare on me. To him this was just business, even dragging me into this.

“He can’t give you what he doesn’t have,” I added, unsure why I was still trying to explain something that had probably been said a hundred times already.

His eyes narrowed further, making me swallow hard against a lump in my throat. “If I go easy on him, the next person I lend to will expect the same. And the next one after that. Generosity becomes softness in this business, and softness becomes failure. That’s not how I operate.”

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