Page 14 of Their Perfect Daddy

Most people think it’s because I’m too stuck up to attend their parties and meetings. The truth is that it all bores me to tears. I’d rather be reading in my study at home or visiting various clubs in search of the boy of my dreams.

Despite the latter being something I have worked towards voraciously; I can’t seem to locate my other half. As a man of science, I shouldn’t believe in fate and soul mates. There is no definable proof to show it’s real.

Yet, I long for the reality of having the other half of me show up. I want to be in love more than I want just about anything in this life.

Part of the reason I started this channel with my hands was to occupy my time and to maybe find a Little of my own. The first video I recorded and uploaded glitched on me. Without sound, all the people saw were my hands moving over the page of a book.

The post gained traction beyond what I thought possible. Comments poured in from people wanting more. Some complimented my hands. Others simply wanted the title of the book or to say they wanted to see more of my body.

My followers became the distraction I needed. Outside of work, I focused on building up content. Before I knew it, I’d reached a level to become monetized.

Now, I understand how selfish it sounds. A scholarship kid who turned to social media to earn even more money after becoming a doctor.

It makes me come across as a prick.

Except I don’t blow through the money I earn. My income from my main job finances my home life and all the extras there. The social media cash is twenty-five percent invested to earn towards long-term retirement, and the rest is donated.

Considering it’s a pretty hefty amount each month, I give away quite a bit. My goal has always been to help people. Whether it’s with a scalpel because they wind up on my operating table, or through entertaining them for a few minutes during a live feed, I give it my all.

You’d think I’d be fulfilled from it all too, wouldn’t you?

No matter how much I tell myself it’s a good life, it doesn’t feel that way. Something—or rather, someone—is missing.

I want to find them. Need to, really.

Instead of sinking further into the pit of frustration surrounding my relationship status, I swipe through comments from the live with one hand while the other remains on camera stroking the top of the book. Even if I remain still, the loyal viewers will stick around. The movement is merely to keep my brain active while also engaging with them for a little longer.

My evenings are far too lonely without the distraction.

As I look through the various comments, I can’t suppress the smile that comes. Some of them are so outlandish I blush. My fair skin does little to hide it too, making me glad I don’t show my face.

Besides the fact that I don't want my coworkers knowing what I do in my downtime, I also can’t fathom my face being plastered all over the place. It’s never been my goal to be famous. The few interviews I’ve done for medical journals through the years have all been with pictures from the side or at an angle. I never do portraits full on.

The only time someone gets me facing their camera is when it’s family. My siblings won’t take no for an answer, especially when we’re all together.

As if they can sense I’m thinking of them, a text pops up in the sibling group chat. I don’t want to ignore them, so I log off for the night by giving my signature two finger salute to the screen.

Once the live feed disconnects, I check to see what all they have to say. In the time it takes to log off and switch over, they’ve already shared numerous messages. I scroll back to the top to see what the original request is.

Poppy:

Wedding invites are going out soon. Please be sure to RSVP!

Rayne:

I still can’t believe baby sis is the first to get married. How fucking wild is that?!

Storm:

Luckily he’s a good pick. I’d be hella mad if I had to murder him.

Daisy:

No murder talk! We love Van the Man.

Poppy:

You have got to stop calling him that, D1. He is not some wrestling persona. He’s my future husband.

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