No, that I’dmakeit okay.
That I was her Daddy now.
“What the actualfuck?” she yelled, her voice bouncing off the elevator walls as she stared around wild-eyed and crazed-looking, her impressively augmented chest heaving. “You… you can’t just manhandle me like that! Youcarriedme. Isaac!”
It was a cry for help.
No, a wail.
“It’s… it’s okay, Diva?” Isaac offered tentatively, huddling behind me and peeking out around my shoulder. “Daddy will help.”
“He’s not… it isn’t… Isaac, how can you…arrgggghhhhhhhhhh,” she screamed incoherently.
The elevator doors opened onto the landing outside my suite—thankfully, without any hotel security waiting for us—and I ushered Isaac out first, whispering words of reassurance to him before turning my attention back to Diva.
“Okay, gorgeous,” I said, holding my hands out to her. “We’re home now.” Metaphorically speaking. “And we will talk about this like reasonable people—” The elevator door started to close again, but I stopped it with my foot, “—or else I can calm you down another way. Whatever you need.”
She sputtered with rage, flailing dramatically.
“Okay then,” I said, a part of me having known it would come to this. “Daddy will decide.”
“You are not my Daddy,” she hissed, launching herself out of the elevator at me.
And I caught her, just like I always would—just like, I suspected, she washopingI would—because she was wrong.
Iwasher Daddy.
Now, I just had to show her that.
11
Jules
I’d never really understoodthat expression about Mama bears until the moment I saw Isaac crying. But bitches, the moment my music stopped playing? The Mama bear inside me took the fuckover.
No, not just took over. She possessed me.
The Mama bear, the Daddy bear… all the fucking bears. I’d never felt such pure, white-hot rage before. Not even that time my wig got snatched during pride weekend in South London three years ago—although that was definitely a close second to the boiling, blinding anger that was coursing through my veins as I barreled through that dining room toward Daddy.
TowardRoman.
Fucking hell, I really had to stop calling him… that. The big D-word.
Which was really a shame, since his big D had been so, so pretty.
But no, I couldn’t think about Daddy’s—aboutRoman’s, fuck!—about his dick in that moment, or ever again. He’d done something to hurt my boo. I didn’t know what and I didn’t care, I just knew thatnobody was going to enjoy that Daddy cock of his anymore, because I was going to chop it off right there in the middle of brunch and serve it up with a side of beans and toast.
My sweet little dumpling might not have been my real boyfriend, but how many times did I have to say I was going to cut a bitch before people started to believe me?
It was Roman’s bad luck that he’d tried me on the wrong fucking day.
I wasn’t even sure what I’d said when I’d stepped up to him, but I knew I’d been yelling. Shouting and pointing and grabbing for my sweet boo, even though Roman had kept him just out of reach.
I’d just about had enough, made up my mind that I was going to give him a good hard smack—and forget a ladylike slap across the cheek, I’d clock Daddy and his stupidly calm, too-handsome-for-his-own-good face right in the jaw—when the world had suddenly turned upside down.
Thank God for wig glue and two dozen bobby pins that had decided to earn their keep just then, because honey? If my wig had flown off while Roman was dangling me around like a sack of potatoes? I seriously would have unleashed some Eartha-Kitt-as-Catwoman-inspired moves on his arse.
His firm, hard, bounce-a-quarter-off-it arse that I was too pissed-the-hell-off to waste time admiring.
