Don't Stop, Daddy

The house hadn’t changed much, but Sierra had.

The marble floors still echoed too loudly. The air conditioning still pumped a chill that didn’t feel refreshing, just sterile. The lighting was still too perfect designed more for a lifestyle magazine than actual living.

Orchids bloomed in crystal vases, untouched by human hands, because of course, Vanessa hired someone to care for them. But none of that was what made Sierra pause in the doorway with her suitcase in hand. It was Damien. He stood at the top of the staircase, framed by the soft evening light, one hand in the pocket of a tailored navy suit and the other loosely holding a tumbler of something amber and expensive.

His expression was unreadable calm, but intense. Watching her. Not like a stepfather welcoming home his daughter, but like a man analyzing something he’d been waiting a long time to see. “Welcome home, Sierra,” he said, voice smooth and deep. She blinked once, tightened her grip on the suitcase handle, and forced a polite smile. “Thanks.” He hadn’t changed much in three years. If anything, he looked better. Sharper. His dark hair now had streaks of silver at the temples, and his build had thickened more muscle than she remembered, the type earned in quiet discipline, not vanity. The expensive suit clung to his frame like it had been made for him. Maybe it had. The last time she saw him, she was nineteen, young and stubborn, packing up for college with a grudge against the world and her mother. Now she was twenty two, with a degree in psychology, a shattered relationship in her rearview, and not enough savings to escape this homecoming. Vanessa appeared seconds later in stilettos and a sharp cream blouse, all teeth and glamor. She crossed the marble floor quickly, her perfume a cloud of Chanel No. 5 reaching Sierra before her arms did.

“Sierra, baby!” Vanessa cooed, pulling her into a tight but quick hug. Her air-kiss barely grazed Sierra’s cheek. She stepped back immediately, eyes scanning like a scanner. “You’ve lost weight. Are you eating? Your collarbone’s showing.” “Nice to see you too, Mom.” Vanessa didn’t catch the sarcasm she never did. She turned toward Damien, practically glowing. “Isn’t she stunning? I mean, God. College did wonders.” Damien’s eyes never left Sierra. “Very good,” he said simply. There was nothing fatherly about the way he said it. Not sexual either not exactly. But there was weight to it. Something deeper. A knowing pause behind the words that made Sierra’s skin prickle beneath her clothes. She exhaled slowly and followed her mother into the house. Her old bedroom had been completely gutted. Vanessa called it an “influencer guest suite” now, with white on white décor, a giant ring light by the vanity, and zero trace of anything that had ever belonged to Sierra. Her books, her band posters, her comfort gone. “You can take the guest room across the hall from us,” Vanessa said. “It’s quieter than the one over the garage, and I just had the sheets redone in Egyptian cotton.” “How generous,” Sierra muttered. The room was cold, empty, and perfect. Like everything in this house. Dinner was roasted duck, truffle potatoes, and a red wine Damien introduced as “decanted for four hours and older than your college diploma.” Vanessa dominated the conversation, updating them both on her newest brand partnership and which socialite got a nose job in Paris. Sierra half listened, chewing slowly, drinking faster. She spoke only when necessary until Damien looked at her again and said, “So, what’s your plan now that you’re home?” The question landed like a challenge. “I’ve got interviews,” she answered coolly. “A few publishers, small houses mostly. I want to go into editing.” Vanessa waved a hand. “That’s a hard industry to break into. Damien could get you into PR tomorrow.” Sierra glanced at him, lips twitching. “Is that true?” He tilted his head slightly. “I could. If you want it.” “I don’t want favors.” Damien raised one brow. “You’re proud.” She matched his stare. “You say that like it’s a flaw.” “Sometimes it is.” The air shifted. It wasn’t the words. It was how he said them measured, intimate.

A private language was forming in front of Vanessa, who was too busy topping off her wine to notice. Their eyes locked for too long. Vanessa finally looked up. “What’s going on here?” she asked with a half laugh. “You two sizing each other up like it’s a game of chess?” Damien broke eye contact first, smooth as always. “Just admiring your daughter’s spirit,” he said, swirling his wine. Sierra looked down at her plate, but she felt her skin flush.

After dinner, Vanessa announced she was going up to do a face mask and scroll through P*******t. “Come to bed soon,” she called back to Damien, voice airy. “I want to fall asleep watching something stupid.” He didn’t move. He stayed seated while Sierra gathered the dishes, his eyes following her movements like a quiet hunt. “You don’t have to help,” she said, setting a plate in the sink. “I know.” His voice was quieter now. Lower. “But I want to.” He stepped beside her, too close. His scent was expensive and warm leather and something darker. “You always had something sharp behind your smile,” he said after a moment. She paused. “Is that a compliment?” “An observation.” He handed her a towel. Their fingers touched just barely but she felt it everywhere. “You’ve grown up.” Sierra turned her head. His gaze hadn’t softened. It had deepened. “I’m not a kid anymore,” she said. “No,” he murmured. “You’re not.” The silence stretched between them slow and heavy and coiled. Then the soft click of heels on the stairs. Sierra stepped back. Damien turned toward the sink, lifting a plate. Vanessa appeared in silk pajamas and a green face mask like war paint. “You two still chatting? Damien, come on, I need someone to make fun of this awful show with.” He wiped his hands on a towel, gave Sierra one last unreadable look, and walked away. She watched him disappear up the stairs with her mother’s hand resting possessively on his arm. And that’s when it hit her. The tension wasn’t one sided. She wasn’t imagining it. She wasn’t disturbed, either. She should’ve been but she wasn’t. She was curious. And that was the first dangerous step. That night, Sierra lay awake in the pristine guest room, staring at the ceiling fan spinning above her like a hypnotic eye. The house was silent. No wind. No rain. Just the quiet hum of repressed luxury. Her thoughts weren’t quiet. She replayed every second of dinner. Every word Damien said. Every time his eyes lingered on her body. Every breath between them in the kitchen. She imagined what he was doing now.

Was he asleep? Or was he in bed with her mother his hands where they didn’t belong? Her jaw clenched at the thought. Not from jealousy. From something else. Something filthy. She reached under the covers, pressing her thighs together as heat built between them. She should stop. She should be ashamed. But instead, she whispered to the darkness

“Don’t stop”.