Is It My Fault I Have Daddy Issues?

ROXETTE

“Roxy! Send me money right now. Dave’s coming over, and I don’t have anything to buy the wine he wants,” my mom said urgently over the phone.

The second I heard her voice, I regretted answering.

“Mom, please… not now.” Tears streamed down my face. “I don’t have any money. I just paid half the debt you put under my name.”

Her tone sharpened instantly. “Don’t lie to me. You spread your legs for that guy you met at the bar, didn’t you? Didn’t he give you money after?”

I stopped walking along the dim street, stunned. Her words felt like salt rubbed into an open wound.

“How could you say that to me?” My voice cracked. “I’m not some prostitute you can pay after sex. And he’s my boyfriend.” I swallowed hard. “No… he was my boyfriend. He just dumped me because I couldn’t get wet when he touched me. It hurt, Mom. And you don’t even care.”

Silence.

Then an irritated sigh.

“Damn it. You’re useless. What am I supposed to do now? Dave will be here any minute. Just don’t come home tonight, okay?”

The line went dead.

I wiped my tears with the back of my hand.

You’d think I’d be used to this by now. But it still shocks me that my own mother—who’s dated more unstable men than I can count—barely cares that I exist. 

She doesn’t even know who my father is.

When I was younger, I swore I’d never become like her.

Now I’m twenty-one and somehow just as addicted to male validation.

I don’t even know when that happened.

I glanced at my phone. 8:00 p.m.

I’d just finished my night class, and now I couldn’t go home. I still hadn’t erased the image of them having sex on the kitchen counter.

Once was more than enough.

I checked my messages again. Still nothing from Diana, even though I’d texted her hours ago.

“Seriously, what’s wrong with her?”

Diana is my only real friend—the one person who’s been there since high school. Unlike me, she grew up wealthy, with both parents present. Stable home. Stable mind. Whenever I spiral, I run to her.

When her parents divorced three years ago, I was the one who taught her how to rebel. How to sneak out. How to live a little recklessly.

And yet, somehow, she still turned out better than me.

She found a decent guy. A man who actually loves her. Now she’s in a healthy relationship and barely has time for me.

I hate that it makes me jealous.

Life feels so unfair sometimes.

Josh dumped me because no matter how much dirty talk he breathed against my skin, how insistently he rubbed his hard cock between my thighs, or how roughly he played with my breasts, I stayed dry.

I never meant to bruise his ego. But did that really mean he had to leave?

The same thing happened with my first boyfriend. He walked away without a word, probably too embarrassed to explain.

Was it really my fault?

I reached Diana’s house and walked past the guard, who had known me for years. He greeted me politely and let me in without question, like I practically lived there.

The mansion belongs to her father, but he’s rarely home—always away on business trips, or for reasons no one talks about. Diana spends most nights alone here. When she once told me, “Come over anytime,” I took it seriously. I even claimed one of the guest rooms as my own.

But tonight felt… off.

The house was unusually quiet. No maids in sight. No movement.

A box of chocolates sat on the living room table, barely opened.

Right. I hadn’t eaten.

I sank into the sofa and grabbed one. “Mmm.”

The sweetness melted on my tongue, easing the ache in my chest just a little.

I was halfway through another piece when a loud scream echoed from upstairs.

I nearly choked.

“Ahh! Yes… just like that… touch me—!!” a woman cried out, her voice breaking into breathless moans.

My body went rigid.

The rhythmic thud of a headboard hitting the wall told me everything I needed to know.

No way.

Was that Diana?

Heart pounding, I crept upstairs. The sounds were coming from the guest room—the one I usually stayed in.

The door was slightly open, light spilling into the hallway.

So that’s why she hadn’t answered me. She was busy with her boyfriend.

I almost laughed bitterly. I was the one who introduced her to those erotic novels. I couldn’t believe she was living out scenes I’d never even experienced myself.

Curiosity got the better of me.

I pushed the door open just enough to see inside.

It wasn’t Diana.

My breath locked in my throat.

It was her father.

Mr. Callahan.

And the woman beneath him couldn’t have been much older than me.

The door creaked.

His thrust faltered for half a second.

His eyes lifted.

Locked onto mine.

I froze.

“Mr. Callahan—ahh—don’t stop,” the woman whimpered, her voice breaking as pleasure rolled through her.

Her legs were thrown over his shoulders, heels digging into his back as he gripped her thighs, fingers flexing hard enough to leave marks. 

The muscles in his forearms tightened with every deliberate stroke. 

Veins stood out against his skin as he drove into her, slow, controlled, powerful.

I couldn’t look away.

Heat spread through my body.

He didn’t stop.

If anything, his movements grew slower.

More intentional.

His dark, lust-clouded expression shifted into something sharper. Aware. Focused. Almost predatory.

He was watching me while still buried inside her.

My pulse pounded between my ears.

The woman beneath him cried out again, completely oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t looking at her anymore.

He was looking at me like I was the one in his bed.

Like I was the one wrapped around him.

“Miss… DeLacour,” he murmured.

My name sounded different coming from his mouth. It was rough, deep, edged with something that made my knees weaken.

A strange warmth pooled low in my stomach.

I was wet.

For him.