It buzzed against the pillow beside my ear with the kind of insistence that meant one thing only.
Daddy.
I rolled onto my back in the dark of my room at the Thorne estate, ceiling just a pale blur. The house was quiet in that heavy, old-money way. I felt for my phone, thumb already sliding to unlock.
Vince
Morning, baby.
My stomach did that stupid fluttering thing. Below it, the longer message waited. The kind he sent every morning.
Today:
1. Full glass of water before coffee. All of it. No pretending.
2. Breakfast with actual food, not just caffeine and adrenaline.
3. Ten minutes outside. I don’t care if it’s just laps around your father’s manicured prison.
4. Screens: 3 hours, then a break. You’re not burning your eyes out for men twice your age.
5. Wear Good girl and send Daddy proof.
6. Pictures of everything you eat, plates before and after.
7. Massage booked at seven tonight.
8. Full debrief tonight. No editing out pain or stress. You know the rule.
I flicked to the image I had sent the other night: a shot of my lingerie drawer. He’d made me empty it a week ago, piece by piece on a call, holding things up for inspection while he lay propped against his headboard in Villain.
Throw it. Keep. Never wear that colour again. Burn that one, I hate whoever sold it to you.
I’d done it, cheeks hot, dropping half my old sets into a bag for donation while he watched. The next day the first box arrived by a crow courier.
High-end boutique labels, all rerouted through Crow shell companies so my family would only see “generic luxury” on statements instead of “Vincent Crow is rebuilding your daughter’s underwear drawer.”
Of course he didn’t just send pieces. He sent systems. Every week a new box arrived.
Seven little luxury boxes. Each one with a small black tag on a silk cord, his handwriting on every one.
I pushed the covers down and crossed to the chair by the window where the newest box waited, white and heavy. I hadn’t staged them in the drawer yet.
Outside, the estate gardens were all perfect hedges and measured paths, a Veil drone drifting lazily over the tree line hunting for a story to stream.
I peeled the Crow tape away and lifted the lid. Little black tags turned up toward me. Someone had stacked this box like a life depended on the presentation.
Obedient.This is for the days you’re tired of deciding everything. Let Daddy do it.
Problem.You’re already trouble. This just makes it harder to behave with you in my city.
Good Girl.For the days you forget how good you are. I don’t.
Mine.Wear this when you want to see how far you can push me. Spoiler: not far.
Brat.For the days you’re mouthy on purpose. I’ll handle it.
Wife.This is how I see you already: not a problem to manage, a woman to build a life around.
