For Daddy

by Celia Crown

  For Daddy

  Celia Crown

  Copyright © 2019 by Celia Crown

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are from the author's imagination or folklore, legends, and general myths.

  The book or any portion of the book may not be reproduced or used under any circumstances, except with the written permission from the author. Public names, movies, televisions, and locales, or any references are used for atmospheric purposes. Any similarities and resemblances to alive or dead people, events, brands, and locales are all complete coincidences.

  Business inquiries: crowncelia@gmail.com

  Cover Editor: Designrans

  Editor: Syeda Erum Fatima Naqvi

  Contents

  For Daddy

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  Author’s other works!

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  For Daddy

  by Celia Crown

  As a twenty-two-year-old without a college degree in a city bustling with brilliant people, I’m heartbroken by a cheating boyfriend, and the only highlight of my life is the steady job.

  I’m unlucky in love. It’s been proven in the last couple years of my life.

  Just when I swore off love, Mr. Simone’s very attractive face came to view. He’s always been there as my boss, and I have never seen him as anything but.

  Suddenly, my heart is pounding and my palms are sweaty when I’m near him.

  I know this feeling too well.

  He looks at me with something indescribable, and I don’t think I’ll be ready for what he has in mind.

  Chapter One

  Aria

  I sniffle, rubbing the back of my hand on my nose. The blurriness in my eyes worsens when I try to blink the tears back without making any pathetic noises.

  The fabric in my hands crumbles as I lick my lips, calming my nerves as I start the breathing exercise that I do when I feel the need to cry.

  What a horrible day.

  I woke up with the determination to beat morning traffic to work, but I remembered that I had to get something from my boyfriend’s house. He had accidentally taken the watch that my boss gifted me, and I needed to give it back to my boss to tell him that I can’t accept such an expensive gift.

  It’s not that I’m not grateful for his gift, but Mr. Simone has given me a watch that is far too extravagant for someone who wears casual clothes to work. It was a Rolex that had a style catered towards men for its bulky and sharp exterior designs.

  I thought I was holding six months’ worth of rent in my hands when he had given it to me with the box. Simone had mentioned that it was a watch that he has had in his possession for a while now, and he wished to let it be in my possession for who knows why.

  Simone never gave me a reason other than that I need to treasure it because it is one of his favorite collections.

  That’s another reason why I needed to get the watch back from my boyfriend’s house, who’s my ex-boyfriend at this point because when I rang his doorbell, a woman came out with his shirt around her body.

  I was stunned by confusion and hurt when she smiled down at me. She was tall and utterly gorgeous with her wavy platinum blonde hair and gleaming amber eyes. She resembled a goddess and a homewrecker at the same time.

  Nothing my ‘boyfriend’ could say would have made the situation better because the hickey on her neck and the clear implication of how she was dressed when she opened the door was all the explanation that I needed.

  I always thought my ex-boyfriend was a kind and gentle man, but then his true colors showed the moment he saw me. He was remorseless when he had scoffed at my tears and broken voice of asking him how he could do that to me.

  I was a fetish.

  He said those exact words. He only wanted to be with me because he wanted a moving doll and he could never have sex with me for that exact reason. Sex was never a part of the equation in our three-month relationship, but I still cried as if we had been together for three years.

  I was an emotional and helpless romantic that always fell too hard and hurt too much.

  The only reason why he was attracted to me was that I was of smaller stature. Nothing else mattered to him, not my black hair or the teary blue eyes, and definitely not my meek personality. Being an outgoing person has been a goal that I wanted to work toward, but I couldn’t get past the nervousness that I would have when someone tried to talk to me.

  After that whole ordeal, I went to work with soaked clothing and blotchy face. People on the streets avoided me as if I was the plague while the rain came down with a sense of mockery while I walked.

  It was a fruitless effort to ride the bus when I was already wet from head to toe. As if that wasn’t enough, I was holding a half a million watch in my hands as if it’s a half-eaten sandwich while I should be holding my badge to enter the building to go past security.

  This entire building is owned by Mr. Simone, his fashion designs are world-renowned, the best, and the most expensive. The floor that I work on is the top floor where he works; there is an office that oversees the entire city while the other half of the floor is his workplace.

  He has a handful of models that he trusts to be fitted in his clothing; men and women are under vigorous training to remain the stereotypical coat hanger body frame. I have heard news reports and articles that call models that and I think it is one of the most derogatory terms that I have heard.

  It’s so disrespectful.

  I understand that the modeling industry has certain criteria, but more companies have known to branch out. Even if Mr. Simone wanted, he could really do that because his branding is built for high-end, one of a kind, singularity clothes. There is one piece or one set of clothing, and there will not be another same one.

  We have had copycats or knockoffs, but they are easily taken off the market with a lawsuit. Mr. Simone has so much money that all these open lawsuits aren’t a problem for him.

  “This way, ma’am.” The security guard at the side gestures his gloved hand to the opening by him.

  I cock my head, sniffing back a cough. The man smiles politely, tilting his head while he waits for me. I have been working here for about a year now, and there are too many people that work here for this security guard to remember who I am.

  I don’t question it when I thank him before rushing past towards the elevator. I’m already having a terrible day and being late will not be on my list of unfortunate events since I only have room in my heart for a couple of bad things in one day.

  The ride up to Simone’s floor is long with people filtering out to their own floors while avoiding me because I’m still drenched in water. I don’t have a spare change of clothing so the bathroom blow-dryer will have to do before I clock in for work.

  If I’m right, I have about fifteen minutes.

  No one is allowed to enter Simone’s floor without his explicit permission, and I’m used to the brief silence in the empty elevator before it opens to the massive, rounded reception desk. One older woman with graying hair glances up, and her wrinkled face frowns when she sees my miserable appearance.

  “My dear, what on earth happened to you?” she bristles with a disapproving glare.

  The muscles on my face remain pitiful as I give her a small and unenergetic half-smile.

  My lips tremble with a restrained smile before I shake my head. I couldn’t trouble this kind woman with my failed relationship. I’m afraid that I’ll start crying when I answer her, so I just mak
e a vague motion to the bathroom down the hall.

  It’s just as grand as the office floor with the gold interior designs. It’s not a gold color that is too much to digest; this gold is a paler color for a subconscious message of money and wealth. A part of me wouldn’t be surprised if it’s real gold considering Simone doesn’t use anything that isn’t the best quality.

  I put the watch down at the sink and pull my shirt towards the blow-dryer attached to the wall. It’s only me, the older woman who is the receptionist, and Mr. Simone on this floor.

  I don’t understand what my position in his company is. I don’t make clothes, nor do I contribute to anything else other than being my boss’ personal mannequin. He is working on something that I’m scared to ask since it’s not in my position to know the intimate details of his work.

  I just stand there and let him measure my body with fabrics, and then I would get paid monthly in six figures.

  That number still surprises me to this day as if it is my first paycheck.

  Suddenly I was thrown into a world of money. I didn’t know what to do with that since I have only been living paycheck to paycheck before. With this new additional money, it’s just sitting in my bank account and collecting dust until I need to buy groceries and pay rent.

  I don’t have a college degree in fashion or business to add to Mr. Simone’s company, but I am getting paid higher than the executives of the company.

  Everyone here knows that he is a generous man when he sees the effort being put into his company, but I’m just a living manicure for his designs, and I think this style is a new one since all I have seen seeing is a style of clothes only being worn by models.

  I might be the first one to help him branch out. I wouldn’t know. He doesn’t tell anyone anything. That man is more mysterious than the universe itself, and no one knows a thing about him that is remotely personal.

  I just know that both of his parents are retired and are on their fifth around the world trip. The honeymoon phase of their love is back, and I’m jealous of them because I never even have gotten to that part with any of my previous boyfriends.

  I was always too shy and too meek even after three months, and the last relationship was the longest. It’s shameful, really. A grown woman of twenty-two years old can’t hold down a relationship because I’m slow in picking up the pace.

  People these days have a coffee date on the first meeting, dinner on the second, and then roll in the bed on the third date. Quick and effortless, the biggest equation in a relationship for people is compatibility in the bedroom.

  I don’t know if that’s true or not, being a virgin and have only kissed maybe twice in my life. It’s embarrassing to admit it to myself. High school senior dates don’t count because it was an obligatory kiss on the boy’s part after being peer pressured into it after all his friends have done it.

  I was a charity case then and now, I have upgraded to a fetish.

  What has my life become?

  A cringy one.

  There will not be a prince charming coming to my rescue, and they're certainly won’t be a rich billionaire falling in love with me at first sight and showering me in gifts. This is real life, and at the moment, I’m stuck with the curse of a loveless dread.

  Was it because I was running late to work one time that I couldn’t make time for that palm reading woman on the streets and now she had cursed me to live the life of a single woman without being ready to mingle?

  “Don’t be stupid, Aria. That wouldn’t happen. It’s just—”

  The door bursts open with a loud bang, making me almost jump out of my skin as the heat from the dryer rushes up to my tummy. The warmth paves a road for goosebumps as I twirl around with my shirt in a death grip between my fingers.

  My boss stands at the doorway, glaring and silent when he looks at me. He’s imposingly tall, towering with a torso packed with heavy muscles straining beneath his white dress shirt and a pair of sturdy legs that are covered by pants and a belt.

  One thing leads to another; I’m focusing on the veins running up his massive forearms that have his sleeves stuck at the elbows. I have always known Mr. Simone has tattoos, but I was never disrespectful to stare at them when he would wear shirts that don’t cover them.

  They go around his body with the precision of an artist such as himself. He rarely cares what he looks like, but I have never seen him as anything less than perfect. His black hair would be slicked back, but they are not in place with gel as they would fall with gravity.

  Those gorgeous obsidian eyes are clear and reflective of the thrill of a predator.

  “M-Mr. Simone!” a squeal spits out of my mouth.

  He stomps towards me, and natural instinct forces me back to the wall as he stands heart-poundingly close. My hands yank my shirt down from exposing my tummy to my boss any longer as I peer at him through my lashes.

  My neck isn’t capable of looking up at him for too long; it’ll start to cramp and have a nasty pain that I would rather not experience again.

  On my first day, I took the advice from someone in the elevator and looked at him in the eyes to show that I’m confident. I ended up with a sore neck after trying to show my dominance to my boss. This is why I should never take advice from someone without doing my own research because I swear for the next couple of weeks, I thought Mr. Simone had it out for me to make my job harder than it is.

  No one sees him for more than fifteen minutes, and some wouldn’t see him at all in one day or a week, but I have heard people say that they have never personally seen Mr. Simone even if they have been working there for years.

  I, on the other hand, see him all day. My lunch breaks are at the breakroom with the elderly receptionist, but he would go into the room and get his coffee himself.

  The receptionist, Mrs. Lynch, had stated that she isn’t his assistant and he needs to get one if he needs it since she was hired to take care of phone calls and his meetings.

  Mr. Simone doesn’t take that advice.

  “Simone,” he says, voice husky and velvety.

  I bite the inside of my cheek and nods. He doesn’t like the formality between us, and I believe it’s because we’ve more of a mentor and student relationship. He has been teaching me design after I had accidentally mentioned I had an interest in it.

  I’m also his model for his next project, and I figure that he would want to erase the formality to make this process of design more smooth. A model with nervousness and rigidity is going to make his measurements off, and as a perfectionist, he will not allow that to happen.

  “Who was it?” He lifts my chin up, and our eyes meet with the lights in the bathroom highlighting my blush.

  I’m aware of the trickling rain going down my spine as I shiver. This is inappropriate at every level; he is my boss, and we’re not supposed to be this close, and he’s asking of a personal matter that I would rather never think about ever again.

  The wound is fresh, and my eyes betray the thoughts in my head as I purse the wobbling lips to stop myself from crying. My nose itches and my tongue feels thick at the roof of my mouth. I couldn’t speak, and I couldn’t look away from the anger seeping through his obsidian eyes.

  “Aria.” His tone throws lightning bolts down to my toes as my shoulders jump.

  When he sees that I’m not going to say anything, he doesn’t sigh in annoyance, nor does he show any exterior signs of impatience. Simone puts the warmth of his palm to my cold cheek, and I lean in without realizing my action.

  I’m cold from the rain, and the building is at a constant temperature of subtle coldness since any major fluctuation to the temperature would ruin the fabrics that Mr. Simone painstakingly import from foreign countries.

  He has fashion designers working for him in this building, but his work is classified as sensitive since it’s made for the client that put down the orders. They are usually the rich and powerful individuals that I can only dream of breathing the same air as.

  Mr. Simone
is the one percent of the one-percenters, and it’s how he is able to have clients that are willing to toss a couple of millions into a piece of clothing as if it’s spare change.

  Simone drags me by the elbow out of the bathroom and into his office like a ragdoll. I stumble a lot on the way from the speed and the amount of distance he had covered. He makes me stand in his private restroom connected to his office while barking out an order for me to stay still.

  He comes back with a spare set of clothing that he dumps into my arms and slams the door in my face. That is a clear signal for me to get changing because who knows if he’s going to just rip the door open for the heck of it.

  From first glance, the clothes are not of my size, and they fall off my shoulder from the collar being too big, but the pants have strings for me to tie up. Sweeping the flawless marble floor is not ideal so I bend down to roll up the edges of the pants.

  I wouldn’t have to worry about the sleeves since they are down to my elbows and I can practically use them as wings to flap out of the window.

  With the soaked clothes in my arms, I awkwardly shuffle out the door without knowing what to do with them. I couldn’t leave them in there, but I had no place to put them without invading Mr. Simone’s workspace.

  I watch for a moment when his back ripples in that white dress shirt before he turns to me with a scowl as his black eyes landed at the bundle of clothes in my arms.

  “Are you fucking stupid?”

  My teeth sink down to the tip of my tongue, and I yelp particularly in fear.

  Another thing about Mr. Simone apart from being ridiculously rich and filthily handsome, his tongue is made of thorns and foul edginess.

  He has known to make grown men cry on occasions.

  Simone snatches the wet clothes from me and tosses them in the bin with an empty plastic bag. The clothes tug on the plastic, and the silver metal bin catches the edges to prevent the whole plastic from collapsing inward.