Page 3 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
My grip tightens around my crystal tumbler, ice long melted in forgotten scotch. Two and a half years I've watched, waited, planned. I trace the rose tattoo on my hand as I track her movement toward the house.
I wait until patio doors swing shut behind her, then follow, footsteps silent against marble floors. Years fighting to build my empire from nothing have taught me how to move undetected when necessary.
The guest room door sits slightly ajar—the one with the en-suite bathroom where she always changes. Music from the party pulses distantly, matching blood hammering in my veins. I hear water running in the bathroom, soft rustling of fabric. Patience has carried me from street thug to kingpin. It won't fail me now.
I slip into the bedroom, a shadow among shadows. Her tote bag sits on the bed, sundress draped beside it. On the floor, partially hidden under the bed's edge, lies a scrap of white lace—her panties, fallen from her bundle of clothes in her rush to change. Not luck. An offering.
I retrieve them, fabric still warm from her body. The bathroom door remains closed, shower running—she's washing off summer heat before putting on her swimsuit. I pocket my prize and retreat, leaving no trace of my presence.
Back in my study, door locked behind me, lamp throws harsh light against dark wood as I sink into my leather chair. I remove the lace from my pocket, fingers steady now. They're exactly as I knew they would be—delicate, expensive despite her modest background. A glimpse of the woman beneath the shy exterior.
I press them to my face, inhaling deeply. Her scent floods my senses—warm, feminine, intoxicating. My free hand moves to my belt, freeing my already hard cock with urgency that borders on pain.
The lace grazes my length, its softness a stark contrast to my hardness. I wrap it around myself, stroking slowly at first, then faster as need takes over. In my mind, it's her—Kyra beneath me, those green eyes wide with shock and desire as I claim what's mine.
"Kyra," I growl, her name a dark promise in the empty room. The pressure builds until release hits, violent and consuming, my seed spilling over delicate fabric in hot pulses, marking her in the most primitive way.
Afterward, I fold the ruined lace and lock it in my desk drawer. No remorse, no guilt—only satisfaction and certainty. Christmas is coming, when all my planning comes to fruition. When she learns who she truly belongs to.
The countdown has begun.
***
One Week Ago
The call to Aaron isn't a request—it's a summons delivered in the tone that once made federal judges reconsider their rulingsand rival crime bosses sleep with one eye open. "My study. Ten minutes. Come alone."
I hang up before he can respond, then pour three fingers of Macallan while reviewing final pieces of my three-year campaign. I trace the rose tattoo on my right hand, feeling raised lines that remind me of the prize I'm finally ready to claim.
Everything is in place. Kyra's academic funding has dried up. Her research supervisor has been offered a position across the country that he can't refuse. Her apartment building is being sold, forcing her to find new housing in an impossible market. Every support structure in her life has been compromised, leaving her vulnerable and desperate.
All except for one.
Aaron slouches in after exactly ten minutes, dropping into the leather chair across from my desk like the entitled child he's always been. Twenty-five now, but no more mature than he was at fifteen. He wears the same Brunello Cucinelli jacket I bought him last Christmas and the limited edition Ferragamos he begged for on his birthday, all funded by money he's too naive to realize comes from very dark places.
"Dad, what's this about? I'm supposed to meet Kyra at—"
"Kyra's done with you, Aaron." The words cut like a blade. "Your little romance ends tonight."
His face shifts from confusion to defiance, that familiar stubborn set to his jaw that reminds me of his mother—another weak link I had to cut from my life. "What the hell? You can't just decide that. She loves me."
"She loves the idea of stability. The fantasy of a future with someone who can provide for her." I lean back, fingers steepled, studying him like a problem to be solved. "But you and I both know you're not capable of giving her what she really needs."
"That's not true. We're happy—"
"Are you?" I pull out the manila folder I've been preparing for months—photographs from my surveillance team spilling across mahogany surface. Images of Aaron stumbling out of bars while Kyra studies alone. Pictures of him with his arm around other girls at parties she wasn't invited to. Evidence of every lie, every betrayal, every moment he's failed her.
His face goes white as he recognizes the images. "You had me followed?"
"I had you documented." I select one particular photo—Aaron with his tongue down some sorority girl's throat at a fraternity mixer last weekend. "Care to explain this to Kyra? I'm sure she'd find it fascinating."
"That didn't mean anything. It was just—"
"Just you proving that you're exactly the worthless piece of shit I raised you to be?" My voice drops to a whisper, the same tone I used when explaining to business rivals why they should reconsider their life choices—permanently. "You're weak, Aaron. Weak and selfish and completely unworthy of a woman like her."
He's shaking now, hands trembling as he stares at evidence of his failures spread before him. "What do you want?"
"I want you to break up with her. Tonight. Cleanly. Tell her you're not ready for commitment, that you need space, that she deserves better." I lean forward, letting him see cold calculation in my eyes—the same look that's been the last thing several people have seen. "Make it convincing."
