Page 49 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
The answer satisfies him, his eyes softening with approval. "Always so dedicated to excellence. It's one of the things I admire most about you."
One of the things he's observed during three years of surveillance, he means. The compliment that would have warmed me yesterday now makes my skin crawl.
We work in companionable silence—at least, what appears companionable from the outside. Inside, I'm screaming, cataloging everything I've learned, trying to formulate a plan that won't end with me—or Aaron—falling victim to Victor's obsession.
"There," Victor says eventually, placing the last wrapped package beneath the tree. "Perfect." He stands back to admire the display, his arm sliding around my waist to pull me against him. "Our first Christmas tree together."
I lean into him, playing my part, while my mind races ahead. I need to get to my phone. Need to find a way past his signal blocking. Need to warn Aaron, to get help.
But for now, I smile up at the man who orchestrated my downfall, who threatened his own son, who's been watching me for three years without my knowledge.
"Perfect," I echo, the lie bitter on my tongue.
Victor's hand slides to the nape of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair as he guides my face up to his. "You've made me very happy today," he says, his voice dropping to that register that sent shivers through me yesterday. Now it just reveals another layer of his manipulation—even his vocal modulation calculated for maximum effect.
When he kisses me, I return the pressure, part my lips, play the willing participant in this twisted game. His hand tightens in my hair, the kiss deepening with a hunger that reminds me of his promise yesterday—that he would take me completely when I was desperate for it, when I was begging.
A promise I now understand is part of his long-term strategy. Victor Strickland doesn't just want my body; he wants my complete surrender, my total dependence. He wants to own me in every way possible.
I moan softly against his mouth, the sound convincing enough that his grip tightens approvingly. Three years of obsession have made him an expert in my responses. He knows exactly how to touch me, how to kiss me, how to make my body betray my mind.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark with desire and satisfaction. "So responsive," he murmurs, thumb tracing my lower lip. "So perfect for me." His smile is possessive, triumphant. He believes he's won. Believes I'm already his.
And for now, I need him to keep believing that.
"I thought we might have dinner in front of the fire tonight," he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear with deceptive tenderness. "Something intimate to continue our Christmas celebrations."
"That sounds wonderful," I reply, each word a performance.
"Go freshen up," he suggests, his hand trailing down my arm. "Wear the green dress in your closet. I'll handle dinner preparations."
The casual command, the assumption of obedience, the carefully selected clothing—all elements of his control I recognize now for what they are. Not thoughtfulness but orchestration. Not care but possession.
"Yes, Daddy," I say, the endearment calculated to reinforce his belief in my submission.
His eyes darken at the word, satisfaction evident in the slight curve of his lips. "Good girl," he praises, and I force myself not to flinch at the words that melted me yesterday.
Upstairs in my room, I close the door and lean against it, finally allowing the mask to drop. My hands shake as I covermy mouth to stifle the sob building in my throat. I can't break down now. Can't give in to the fear and revulsion threatening to overwhelm me.
I need to think. Need to plan. I need to find a way out before Victor's obsession turns as dangerous for me as it has for Aaron.
The green dress hangs in the closet, exactly where he said it would be. Another item he's selected, purchased, prepared in advance of my arrival. How long has he been planning this Christmas? How many details has he arranged to create his perfect scenario?
I shower mechanically, scrubbing my skin as if I could wash away the memory of his touch. When I step out, I catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror—pale, determined, a woman playing for her life in a game where all the rules favor her opponent.
"You can do this," I whisper to my reflection. "You're smarter than he thinks. You'll find a way out."
I dry my hair, apply minimal makeup, don the green dress that fits perfectly. The woman in the mirror looks composed, beautiful even, giving no hint of the turmoil beneath the surface.
Before heading downstairs, I retrieve my phone from my purse. Still no signal, as expected. But I remember that brief flicker of reception near the window my first night here. Standing in exactly the same spot, I hold the phone against the glass, watching the signal indicator.
There—one bar, flickering in and out. Barely enough for a text message, certainly not enough for a call. But it's something. A potential lifeline if I can figure out how to exploit it.
Quickly, I type a message to Aaron:Danger. Your father dangerous. I know truth. Get help. Don't try to come here.
I press send, watching the progress indicator crawl forward, painfully slow with the minimal signal. Then it fails, the message returning to draft status as the signal disappears again.
I'll try again later. Will find a way to get this message out.
