Page 50 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
For now, I tuck the phone back into my purse and prepare to descend into Victor's Christmas fantasy. Prepare to continue the performance of my life, pretending to surrender to the man who orchestrated my downfall, who threatened his own son, who's been watching me for three years.
The man who thinks he owns me.
The man who has no idea that I now know exactly what he is.
I open the bedroom door and step into the hallway, the green dress swishing around my legs as I move toward the stairs. Toward Victor. Toward the next act in this twisted Christmas pageant.
Game on.
Chapter fourteen
Victor
Security footage doesn't lie.
I watch the recording on my tablet, the black and white image crisp despite the low light. Kyra, frozen outside my study door this morning, head tilted toward the wood, listening. The timestamp shows 9:47 AM—precisely when I was speaking with Patrick about her orchestrated downfall.
"Pause," I command the system. The image freezes on her face, those expressive eyes wide with shock, one hand pressed against the wall for support. Beautiful, even in distress. Perhaps especially in distress.
She knows.
I should be angry. Three years of planning potentially compromised by a careless conversation. But as I study her frozen expression, what rises in me isn't anger but something darker, more intoxicating.
Anticipation.
I scroll forward, watching her retreat down the hallway, her movements jerky with panic. Watch her compose herself beforeI enter the office. Watch her performance begin—the smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, the careful control of her voice, the way she leans back against me when every instinct must be screaming at her to run.
My clever, beautiful Kyra. Playing the game without realizing I know the rules have changed.
I close the security feed and pour myself a drink, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat. The dinner dishes have been cleared, the fire stoked to perfect height in the great room. Kyra has excused herself to freshen up—another performance, another opportunity for her to compose herself for the next act.
Tonight was illuminating. Throughout dinner, I watched for the telltale signs: the slight delay before her smiles, the careful measurement of her reactions, the way her gaze would flicker to the exits when she thought I wasn't looking. Not obvious enough for an amateur to notice, but to me—a man who has built an empire on reading people's weaknesses—they might as well have been neon signs.
She's afraid. As she should be. But she's also calculating, planning, believing she still has options.
That misconception needs to be corrected. But not through force—that would be crude, unworthy of the elaborate game we're playing. No, I need to push her further, need to see how deep her commitment to this performance goes. Need to make her choose submission despite her knowledge, despite her fear.
That will be the first true step toward breaking her completely.
I select a book from the shelf—Dostoevsky's "Crime and Punishment," an appropriate choice for the evening—and settle into the leather armchair beside the fire. The perfect picture of sophisticated relaxation, though my senses remain attuned to every sound in the cabin. I hear her footsteps on the stairs, the whisper of fabric as she moves across the hardwood floor.
When she enters the great room, I don't look up immediately. Let her come to me. Let her choose to continue the performance.
"The fire's lovely," she says, her voice admirably steady.
Now I raise my eyes, taking in the vision she presents in that green dress. The color brings out the emerald in her eyes, makes her skin glow in the firelight. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders—just as I prefer it, though she doesn't know I've been documenting her appearance for three years, cataloging every detail of what makes her most beautiful.
"Join me," I say, gesturing to the space beside my chair. Not the couch across from me, not a seat of equal status. The floor. At my feet. A deliberate test.
She hesitates—just a fraction of a second, but I catch it. Then she moves forward, gracefully lowering herself to sit on the plush rug beside my chair, her dress arranged carefully around her. So close that I could reach out and touch her, run my fingers through that honey-blonde hair, wrap it around my fist and pull until she gasps.
Soon.
"What are you reading?" she asks, her gaze catching on the book in my hands.
"Dostoevsky," I reply, showing her the cover. "A masterpiece on the psychology of guilt and confession. Are you familiar with it?"
"I read it in college," she says. "The story of Raskolnikov's crime and eventual confession. His punishment was as much psychological as physical."
