Page 9 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
"Exactly where you predicted he'd be. Drunk at the Sigma Chi house, celebrating his newfound freedom with that blonde from his business ethics class."
Good. Let the boy enjoy his last few hours of thinking he's made a mature decision. Tomorrow night, when I comfort his heartbroken ex-girlfriend, he'll understand what it means to cross Victor Strickland.
"Make sure the flowers are delivered to her apartment building tomorrow morning. White roses, one dozen, no card. I want her thinking about symbols of purity when I call."
The warehouse around us hums with legitimate activity even at this late hour. Shipping containers being loaded and unloaded, manifests being processed, workers who believe they're part of an honest enterprise. They have no idea that thirty percent of what moves through this facility serves my darker operations.
Back in my office, I open my laptop and pull up a video file marked "Kyra Sinclair - Research Presentation." It's a recording from a university symposium six months ago, where she presented her work on targeted nanoparticle delivery systems. I've watched it dozens of times, but tonight it feels different. Tomorrow, she'll be in my orbit, not just on my screen.
I press play and watch her step up to the podium, confident despite her youth. Her honey-blonde hair is pulled back in a professional knot, emphasizing the elegant line of her neck. But it's when she begins speaking that my fascination truly ignites.
"The challenge with glioblastoma treatment isn't just crossing the blood-brain barrier," she explains, her green eyes bright with intelligence as she gestures to her slides. "It ensures the therapeutic payload only activates in the presence of specific tumor markers, minimizing damage to healthy tissue."
Her explanation is flawless—complex concepts distilled with precision that belies her years. Most of the senior researchers in the audience look impressed, some even surprised. They don't know what I know: that she works on this research until 3 AM most nights, that she's been driven by the preventable deaths of her parents, that her brilliance is matched only by her determination.
I pause the video on a frame where she's gesturing toward a molecular diagram, her expression animated with passion for her work. This is what my son never appreciated—her mind. Aaron saw a pretty girlfriend, arm candy that made him look more serious, more adult. He never bothered to understand the fire that drives her.
But I see it. I've always seen it.
The drive back to my estate takes forty minutes through Denver's empty streets, forty minutes to transition from the man who breaks fingers in warehouse offices to the respectable businessman who attends charity galas. The dichotomy doesn't trouble me. Different situations require different tools, and I've always been a man who uses whatever tool is most effective.
My estate sits on twenty acres of carefully manicured grounds, surrounded by walls that keep out the curious and gates that require specific codes to open. Tonight, I bypass the main house and drive directly to the smaller guest house at the property's edge—the place where I keep my most private possessions.
The security system disengages with my fingerprint, and I step into the dimly lit space. Unlike the main house with its showcase of wealth and power, this sanctuary is spare, almost monastic.Just a desk, a bed, and walls covered in what most people would consider obsession.
Photographs of Kyra from the past three years. Newspaper clippings of her academic achievements. Surveillance images from various angles—her apartment, the university lab, the coffee shop where she works. A timeline of her life, meticulously documented, with red strings connecting key events and decision points where I've subtly influenced her path.
In the center of it all, a framed sketch I commissioned based on one of the surveillance photos—Kyra bent over her microscope, lost in concentration, unaware she was being watched. The artist captured something essential about her—the intensity, the focus, the quiet determination that makes her extraordinary.
I pour myself three fingers of Macallan and sit at the desk, staring at the photograph taken at her twentieth birthday party—the night in my study when I first touched her, when I first felt the electric connection between us. The night I decided she would be mine.
For a moment—just a moment—I question myself. Three years of obsessive planning. Three years of manipulating her circumstances, of watching from shadows, of systematically removing every obstacle between us. Is this madness? Have I finally crossed a line that can't be uncrossed?
But then I remember the way she looked at me that night, the way she inhaled sharply when my fingers brushed her skin, the way her pupils dilated with an attraction she tried desperately to hide. She felt it too. She just doesn't know what to do with it yet.
I pull up the architectural plans for the mountain cabin on my laptop, reviewing the modifications I've made over the past six months. Enhanced security systems that don't look like prison bars. Communication blocking technology disguised as weather interference. Reinforced construction that ensuresprivacy and isolation. Every detail designed to create the perfect environment for seduction.
The wine cellar has been stocked with vintages I know she prefers, though she's never told me her preferences directly. The research library contains journals and texts she's mentioned wanting to read, resources that most graduate students can only dream of accessing. The bedroom overlooking the valley has been furnished with Egyptian cotton sheets and down pillows that will make her feel cherished.
Every element calculated to make her feel valued, protected, desired in ways my son never managed despite three years of opportunity.
Tomorrow, Kyra will think she's coming to reconcile with my son. She has no idea she's walking into the most elaborate seduction in criminal history.
I stand and walk to the wall of photographs, tracing my finger along the timeline of our future together. First, comfort and security—solving the problems I've created in her life. Then, intellectual partnership—offering her the research opportunities she's lost. Finally, physical possession—claiming what should have been mine from the beginning.
I pause at a photograph taken at the hospital fundraiser last year. Kyra in a simple black dress, standing slightly apart from Aaron and his friends, looking uncomfortable with the ostentation around her. I was across the room when this was taken, but I remember the moment our eyes met. The flash of recognition, followed quickly by confusion, and then deliberate avoidance.
She felt it then too—this pull between us. But she was still loyal to my son, still believed in the facade of their relationship.
My phone buzzes with a text from Dr. Peterson: Patient treated. Industrial accident narrative established. No complications expected.
Perfect. Dmitri will live to remember the lesson, but he'll also remember that crossing me has consequences. Word will spread through my organization that Victor Strickland protects what's his with extreme prejudice.
And soon, very soon, that protection will extend to a honey-blonde pre-med student who has no idea she's about to become the most precious thing in my empire.
The clock on my desk shows 11:47 PM. In twelve hours, I'll place the call that will bring her to me. The concerned father reaching out to comfort his son's ex-girlfriend in her time of need, offering the shelter and support she desperately requires.
The performance of a lifetime, built on three years of careful observation and methodical planning.
