1

Dearest Reader,

This story is part of the Destroy Me, Daddy series — a collection of two standalone books connected by passion, power, and heartbreak. Each can be enjoyed on its own, yet together they reveal a deeper world of desire and redemption.

I truly hope you enjoy my work and fall in love with every twist, burn, and breath along the way.

—

Josephine

“Say it,” Alexander’s voice was a growl against my ear, rough and insistent, his hand gripping my thigh hard enough to leave marks.

“I—fuck—” My protest melted into a moan as his fingers slid higher, pressing against the thin lace that barely covered me.

“Say you want me.” His mouth traced my jaw, his tongue teasing the corner of my lips. “Say it, Josephine.”

My back arched, body betraying me, heat pooling low and fast. “I want you.”

His laugh was low, dangerous, triumphant. “Good girl.”

He shoved the lace aside in one impatient motion and sank two fingers deep inside me. My gasp turned into a broken cry, nails clawing at his shoulders as his rhythm built—slow at first, then sharper, angled to hit the spot that made my entire body twitch.

“Christ,” I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut.

“No,” he rasped, withdrawing his fingers before pushing them in again, harder this time. “Look at me.”

My lashes fluttered open, meeting his stare. Hunger. Possession. A promise of ruin written in his eyes.

He bent, his mouth closing over my nipple, tongue flicking mercilessly while his free hand slid up to pin my wrists above my head. I was stretched open, utterly at his mercy, and still begging without words.

“Alexander—”

“What do you need, dolcezza?” His teeth grazed me, just enough to sting.

“You,” I choked, the word torn from me. “I need you inside me.”

His smirk curved against my skin. He stripped my panties with one brutal tug, unbuckled his belt, and freed himself in seconds. The head of his cock pressed against me, thick and unyielding, sliding through my slick folds just to tease.

“Beg.”

I wanted to hate him for it. I wanted to keep my pride. But pride dissolved when he pushed just enough to stretch me, then pulled back before giving me what I needed.

“Please,” I gasped, hips straining upward. “Please, Alexander.”

That was all he needed. With a guttural groan, he drove into me hard, bottoming out in one stroke that stole the air from my lungs.

“Fuck,” he hissed, burying his face against my throat as he held still for a second, letting me feel every inch of him inside me. “So tight. So perfect.”

I clenched around him, desperate, whimpering as he started to move. Each thrust was brutal, deliberate, dragging me higher with every snap of his hips. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, obscene and addictive.

My legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back as if I could pull him deeper, as if I could fuse us together.

“You’re mine tonight,” he growled, biting my shoulder hard enough to make me cry out. “Say it.”

“Yes,” I gasped, nails raking his back. “Yours. Fuck, I’m yours.”

His pace turned relentless, thrust after thrust, until pleasure coiled tight inside me, burning, blinding. My body shook, voice breaking into incoherent cries as he angled deeper, hitting that spot over and over.

“Come for me, Josephine,” he demanded, his thumb finding my clit and circling with ruthless precision. “Now.”

I shattered with a scream, every muscle locking, my orgasm tearing through me as he kept pounding into me. My body convulsed around him, dragging him with me, and seconds later his groan filled the room, raw and guttural, as he spilled deep inside me.

We collapsed in a slick, tangled mess, breathless and shaking, the air thick with sweat and sex. His hand stayed on my thigh, possessive, his voice a ragged whisper against my ear.

“One night, Josephine,” he murmured, still inside me. “But it’ll haunt you forever.”

***

“Well, well, well. Look who’s crawling back for seconds.”

The voice cuts through the marble hallway like a blade dipped in honey—smooth, dangerous, and absolutely designed to make me weak in the knees. I don’t need to turn around to know who’s behind me. That voice has haunted my dreams and ruined my N*****x binges for three years running.

But I do turn. Because I’m a masochist with excellent taste in torture.

Valesquez Madrigal leans against the wall like he owns the building, which, considering today’s merger, he basically does. His suit is so perfectly tailored it should come with a warning label: Caution: May cause spontaneous combustion and poor life choices. The man looks like he was sculpted by Michelangelo during a particularly horny Renaissance period.

“Missed you too, sweetheart,” I purr back, my heels clicking against the marble with the precision of a metronome set to ‘fuck-you-very-much.’ “Though I have to say, stalking me in hallways feels a little desperate. Even for you.”

His laugh is low and rich, like aged whiskey mixed with bad decisions. “Stalking? Please. I was just admiring the view. Some things never change.”

The bastard’s eyes do this thing—this slow, deliberate sweep from my stilettos to my perfectly blown-out hair, and suddenly I’m seventeen again, sneaking out of boarding school to meet him at his father’s vineyard. Back when I thought love was enough to survive on and daddy issues were just something other people had.

“Neither do some people’s inability to take a hint,” I shoot back, but there’s no real venom in it. Just the familiar dance we’ve been perfecting for years.

My heart is doing this annoying thing where it forgets how to function like a normal organ and instead decides to audition for a death metal drum solo. I’m supposed to be marching into battle here—the ultimate comeback story, complete with a Rocky montage soundtrack playing in my head. Except instead of boxing gloves and a punching bag, it’s me versus an inbox full of PR nightmares and the lingering scent of his cologne that still makes my brain short-circuit.

“Josephine!”

A junior associate materializes from thin air, clutching his tablet like it’s the Holy Grail. The poor kid looks like he’s about to wet himself, which honestly? Fair reaction. This hallway has seen more bloodbaths than a Game of Thrones episode.

“Your father’s in Conference Room B. He’s been asking where you’ve been.”

I don’t break stride because breaking stride would imply I give a damn about John Huntington’s impatience. “I’m on my way.”

The associate hesitates, his eyes doing this frantic ping-pong thing between me and Valesquez. He clearly wants to say more, but the look I shoot his way could freeze hell over. Kid takes the hint and scurries away like his ass is on fire.

Smart boy.

Valesquez falls into step beside me, uninvited and entirely too comfortable. “Still terrorizing the interns, I see.”

“It’s a hobby,” I deadpan, smoothing my hair with fingers that are definitely not trembling. “Keeps me young.”

The hallway stretches ahead like some kind of corporate runway of judgment. Every step echoes like a warning bell, and I swear I can feel it—the doubt, the expectations, the whispered she’s back but for how long this time? rising from the polished floors and pressing into my spine like a particularly vindictive chiropractor.

This is it. My shot at redemption. My chance to reclaim the name that once opened doors and struck fear into the hearts of crisis managers everywhere. Before everything went to shit. Before he happened.

Not Valesquez—though he’s certainly contributed to my collection of spectacularly poor decisions. No, I’m talking about the other one. The country music god with the devil’s grin and the emotional maturity of a particularly vindictive toddler. The one who turned my world into a dumpster fire and then had the audacity to write a hit song about it.

But that’s ancient history now. Buried under three years of rebuilding, therapy, and enough wine to float a small yacht.

“You nervous?” Valesquez’s voice cuts through my spiral of self-destruction.

“Terrified,” I admit, because honesty is apparently my new thing. “But in a good way. Like bungee jumping or agreeing to work with family.”

We stop outside Conference Room B. Through the glass, I can see them—the power players, the executives in suits that cost more than most people’s cars, the sharks circling before the feeding frenzy. Some recognize me. Most remember the headlines. All of them are wondering if I’m about to spectacularly implode for their entertainment.

“For what it’s worth,” Valesquez says quietly, his hand finding mine for just a second, “you’ve got this.”

I look up at him—this impossible man who knows exactly how to push every single one of my buttons and somehow still makes me want to climb him like a tree. “Careful, Madrigal. People might think you actually care.”

“People might be right.”

And there it is. The thing we never talk about. The elephant in every room we’ve ever shared. The reason why seeing him still feels like touching a live wire with wet hands.

I square my shoulders and lift my chin because that’s what Huntington women do. We face the firing squad with perfect posture and flawless lipstick.

“Time to go to war,” I murmur.

The door clicks shut behind me with the finality of a gavel, and suddenly twenty pairs of eyes are dissecting me like I’m a particularly interesting specimen. The youngest intern fumbles with her notepad. A woman near the end of the table arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. A man leans back with this expression that screams this should be entertaining.

And there, at the head of the table like some kind of corporate king, sits my father. John Huntington in all his disappointment-flavored glory. He doesn’t look up immediately, but when he does, it’s with that tight smirk I’ve hated since I was old enough to understand what condescension looked like.

“Glad you finally decided to show up.”

The words land like a slap, but I’ve been training for this moment for three years. I smile—tight, controlled, absolutely refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me crack.

“It’s nice to see everyone here today. Sorry I’m late. Turns out stilettos and marble floors make for a terrible sprinting combo.”

Silence. The kind that makes you question every life choice that brought you to this moment.

I move to the podium with the confidence of someone who definitely knows what they’re doing and absolutely hasn’t been winging it since 2022. My presentation glows back at me—every bullet point precise, every transition flawless, every slide a testament to the fact that I may be a disaster in heels, but I’m a very organized disaster.

The scent of burnt espresso curls from someone’s forgotten cup, mixing with the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. My untouched coffee sits like a caffeinated casualty of my pre-meeting anxiety spiral.

This is what desperation looks like, I realize. Not the messy, crying-in-your-car kind. The polished, professional, watch-me-rise-from-the-ashes-like-a-phoenix-in-Louboutins kind.

“Thank you all for being here.” My voice comes out steady, thank God. “As you know, this merger represents not only the union of two of the most iconic winemaking families in Italy, but also a billion-dollar opportunity to reshape the luxury wine market on a global scale.”

I pause, scanning the room. A few heads nod. One man scribbles something in a notebook. Another sips his espresso without looking up.

And from the back of the room, Valesquez catches my eye and winks.

Game on.