Sabrina’s POV

“Fuck, Daniel…”

The blonde woman’s voice broke into a breathless cry as another wave of pleasure ripped through her body. Her fingers clawed at the polished wooden table in his office, her body trembling as she came undone for what felt like the fifth time that night.

They were on his desk.

The same desk where contracts were signed. Where deals were closed. Where his name carried power.

Earlier that evening, he had called home.

“I’ll be working late.”

His tone had been calm. Businesslike. Controlled.

A lie delivered effortlessly.

Now his hands were gripping her hips, his movements relentless, deliberate. Her legs were wrapped tightly around his waist as he thrust into her, her head falling back in reckless abandon.

“Danielllll…” she moaned, her voice pleading, desperate.

He pulled out slowly, watching her shudder from the loss, then replaced himself with his fingers, pushing deeper, faster. She gasped, her back arching, her body reacting instinctively to every calculated movement.

“Do you want me to stop?” he murmured against her ear, his voice low and teasing.

His hot breath skimmed her skin, sending a fresh tremor through her body.

She shook her head immediately.

He withdrew his fingers and pressed them to her lips. She opened her mouth without hesitation, tasting herself from his skin, her eyes locked onto his with hunger.

Then she sank to her knees.

Her hands wrapped around him slowly, stroking, teasing, her tongue circling the tip before taking him into her mouth. She moved with practiced confidence, watching the way his jaw tightened, the way his breathing deepened.

Daniel let out a groan, his fingers tangling into her hair as he guided her rhythm. His control never slipped even in pleasure, he dictated the pace.

When he finally pulled away, both of them breathing hard, he adjusted his watch and stepped back as if it had all been nothing more than a scheduled indulgence.

“Did you enjoy that?” he asked coolly.

She smiled lazily. “Yes, daddy.”

They dressed in silence.

He ordered her an Uber.

Then he grabbed his car keys and drove home in his Porsche.

His office still carried the scent of her perfume long after she left.

Daniel poured himself another drink, the burn of whiskey sliding down his throat. He leaned back in his chair, replaying the night in his mind — the way she had trembled, the way she had begged.

Control.

That was what he enjoyed most.

Meanwhile, across town, the woman sat in her apartment, her body still humming from his touch. She closed her eyes, remembering the way he had whispered in her ear, the way he had dominated every movement. Her phone buzzed.

“I can’t wait to see you again.”

Her pulse quickened instantly.

Neither of them felt guilt.

When Daniel finally arrived home, the house was quiet.

He didn’t greet anyone.

He walked past the living room without looking at his wife or daughter and went straight to the bathroom.

The water ran for a long time.

Fiona stood in the hallway holding his discarded jacket.

She brought it closer to her face.

Perfume.

Not hers.

The scent was faint but undeniable.

Her chest tightened.

When Daniel stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder, she was still standing there.

“Daniel… what is that smell?”

He didn’t respond.

“Daniel.”

The slap came fast and hard.

The sound cracked through the hallway.

Fiona stumbled back, shock written across her face more than pain.

“I’m tired,” he said flatly. “Don’t start.”

“I only asked”

“Leave it.”

When she reached for him, desperate for some kind of explanation, he shoved her. She hit the edge of the dresser and collapsed onto the floor.

That was when I ran in.

“Mum!”

Her hand was pressed to her nose. Blood slipped between her fingers.

I was shaking.

My father walked past us both without hesitation and headed to the balcony, uncorking a bottle of wine like nothing had happened.

I had always known he was cold.

But that night, something inside me shifted.

Fear stopped being temporary.

It became permanent.

After a while, he came back inside.

“Dinner.”

That was all he said.

My mother slowly stood up, wiping her face. Her hands trembled as she went into the kitchen. The smell of his favorite steak soon filled the house.

I stood in the living room, too scared to speak.

He sat at the head of the table like a king waiting to be served.

“About time,” he muttered as she placed the plate in front of him.

The scrape of his knife against porcelain sounded unbearably loud in the silence.

Fiona sat across from him, not eating. Just waiting.

“Daniel…” she whispered carefully. “Maybe you should rest. You seem stressed”

He slammed his fork down.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Fiona.”

She flinched immediately.

“Let me eat in peace. And clear my plate when I’m done.”

She nodded.

Silence swallowed the room again.

From where I stood, I could see the bruise forming on her cheek. The small cuts on her hands. The tears she was forcing back.

I didn’t understand marriage.

But I understood cruelty.

And I understood that my father only seemed gentle with women who weren’t his wife.

After what felt like forever, he finished eating. He wiped his mouth, leaned back, and pushed the plate forward.

That was her signal.

She stood instantly and carried it to the sink.

I watched closely.

I always watched.

Because I never knew when another outburst would come.

And what hurt the most wasn’t just that he hurt her.

It was that I could do nothing but stand there and see it happen.

Behind closed doors, my father was not the powerful businessman people admired.

He was something darker.

And we were trapped with him.