Page 15 of Santa Daddy
Nothing.
A note was on the kitchen counter in handwriting sharp enough to cut: Mr. Zverev will return this evening. Clothes in bag. Wear them. - N
Next to the bag sat a plate. A sandwich, cut diagonally. Still fresh—I could smell the mustard, sharp and yellow. A glass of orange juice, condensation beading like sweat.
He had left food.
The sandwich tasted like normalcy. Turkey and swiss and the pretense that this was anything other than captivity. I drank the orange juice and it was too sweet, coating my throat like a lie.
The clothes fit perfectly. Cashmere soft as whispers against my skin. Jeans that hugged in all the right places. I could smell the newness on them—that department store chemical tang that said expensive and untouched.
I spent the day mapping my prison. Testing windows that didn't open. Memorizing the rhythm of the building—elevator dings at 3:17, 4:43, 6:22. Never stopping on this floor. The Christmas tree lights blinked every forty-five seconds. Even the decorations were on a schedule here.
By evening, I was drowning in silence.
That's when I heard it.
His office door clicking open.
He had been here. All day. Listening to me pace like a caged animal.
He emerged as darkness pressed against the windows. Black slacks that whispered money with every step. White shirt with sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that looked like they werecarved by someone who understood sin. The smell of him filled the hallway—cologne dark as midnight, coffee, and something underneath that made my stomach clench.
"Productive day?" His voice was mocking silk.
"Imprisoned day." My mouth was desert-dry. "There's a difference."
He moved past me, close enough that I felt the air displacement, the heat rolling off him like a threat.
"I need to shower. Don't do anything stupid."
His bedroom door closed.
I stood there, listening to him move around his room. The whisper of fabric as he undressed. His footsteps on hardwood. Then,
Water. From his bedroom.
The shower started, and the sound filled the apartment like white noise.
I should go back to the living room. Should stay as far from his bedroom as possible.
His phone. He had it in the office. Where does he put it when he showers?
My feet moved before my brain approved.
Down the hallway. Into his bedroom.
The space was darker than the rest of the penthouse. Heavy curtains blocking most of the light. Just thin shafts cuttingthrough where the fabric didn't quite meet, illuminating dust motes floating lazy and slow.
The air smelled like him. Cologne and something masculine that made my stomach clench.
The bathroom door was cracked open. Steam escaping in slow curls. Water pounding against tile, loud and steady.
He was in there. Right there. Ten feet away.
My hands were shaking as I scanned the room.
Nightstand. Dresser. The massive bed that took up half the space.
