He doesn’t just own my body. He owns my thoughts.
Daddy carried me back to the villa like a conquering king, my wet dress clinging to my skin, his c*m still leaking down my thighs. The moment we were inside the master bedroom, he set me down gently — too gently — and cupped my face with both hands.
“You chose me,” he whispered, thumbs stroking my tear-streaked cheeks. “Even when they tried to take you away. Even after everything you learned about your mother. That’s how I know our love is real, babygirl.”
Love.
He always said it so beautifully. Like it was something pure instead of the twisted, suffocating thing he had created.
I tried to pull away, but he held me closer, pressing soft kisses to my forehead, my eyelids, my trembling lips.
“You’re safe now,” he murmured. “I protected
