Don't touch Daddy 💦💕⛓️‍💥

IVY

Crystal-clear floors. High ceilings that mock every cramped apartment in Brooklyn. I shouldn’t even be here. Three years—no, four—since I last laid my eyes on that vampire, and Christian DeLuca hasn’t aged a single second.

The same sharp jaw, the same cold, unreadable, sexy eyes. Yes. His eyes are sexy and forgive me if I noticed them too early. The monster is fine.

Even though he stole my mother away and left me sitting across an ocean, almost forgotten.

He didn’t want me at her funeral.

“Not safe.” That was his excuse. A stupid story to keep me thousands of miles away while he buried my mother alone.

And now, out of nowhere, he’s dragged me back to this God-damned place because I'm apparently not safe out there either. I left my friends. Left my life. For what? To stand in a hallway while a man who has never spoken a kind word to me stares at my chest like he’s trying to decide if I’m edible?

Am I permitted to talk about that... that tent in his pants?

God. I saw it. I’m not blind. What kind of sick game—?

My phone buzzes against my palm, shattering my thoughts.

“Babe,” I call, pressing it to my ear as I drop onto the edge of the oversized guest bed.

“Ivy?” Dani’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Did you arrive safely? Did you see him? Your stepfather-ish?”

“Yes to all three. Unfortunately.” I exhale hard, kicking off my shoes.

“Wow... that place must be heaven,” she says.

I scoff. Heaven my ass. “I'm not planning on sticking around long. I just need to turn nineteen next week, get my own place, and I'm out of here, straight to college. I'm done.”

“Damn. Good plan. Now back to us. When are you coming to see me?” Dani asks.

“When? Bitch! I’m coming today!” I shout with a grin.

Dani had been my best friend before I was waybilled to America. Now that I was here, I couldn't wait to see her.

“Yes! That's my girl! I swear on my life, I'm spoiling you today!”

A sharp rap at the door.

“I'll call you later,” I murmur.

I pull the door open, and there... the older woman from earlier—Nancy, she called herself—stands there with two of my suitcases, dragging them in from the trunk. She offers a tight, sympathetic smile.

“Can I come in?” she asks.

“Sure, sure.” I move away from the doorway, helping her weak limbs drag one of the suitcases.

“Ivy, sweetheart. Your mom talked a lot about you. You look so much like your mother. Madam Claire... bless her soul.”

My chest tightens. A hot, jagged pinch behind my ribs.

My mother was the only real thing I had in this life. Her demise—I was barely healed from it, and even now, I refuse to let some stranger pry open the wound with cheap pity.

“Heard it before,” I say, my voice flat, deadpan, blocking out the pathetic ache. “Christian told me. Everyone tells me. It’s not new.”

She blinks, slightly taken aback, before holding out a crisp set of stapled papers.

“Right. Well... here are the rules. Mr. Christian likes things—”

“Rules?”

I didn’t—wait. Now that I remember it, I actually heard Christian talking about rules, though I didn’t pay attention because... that shit in front of him didn’t let me.

I grab the papers quickly, my eyes scanning the top line before I even process the rest.

Do not leave the estate without permission. Curfew: 9:00 p.m. Phone on at all times. Never go to the top floor. No visitors. Don't this, don't that, don't, don't, don't...

Bullshit.

What the actual fuck?

“Take this shit back,” I say, shoving the papers back into her hands as respectfully as I can. My blood is instantly boiling, hot and prickling under my skin. “Sorry, ma’am. I don't want to be disrespectful, but don't bring this garbage to me again.”

“You will need it, child. Your stepfather does not—”

“Old lady, you're rushing,” I snap, my patience completely snapping in half. “First of all, he is not my stepfather. He is my mother’s husband. Claire’s husband. I was brought here against my will just because my mother somehow gave me up for love... adoption. My presence here will not be controlled. Not by him, not by you, not by any living soul on this earth,” I breathe hot.

“I’m not staying past next week anyway,” I murmur the last part.

She stares at me, stunned into a tight-lipped smile.

“I will... I will call you when dinner is ready.”

I don't respond. She backs out.

I don't give a damn about his rules. Dinner schedules, music restrictions, locked floors—let him keep his prison. I am eighteen, legally an adult, and I didn't cross an ocean to live under a dictator's curfew.

My phone buzzes again. A text from Dani.

I click it open. It's a picture.

Two spots. Pick one. 7:00 p.m.

A slow, defiant smile curves my mouth.

Seven p.m. Perfect. Time to see the city, get away from these suffocating walls, and remind myself that I actually exist outside of Christian DeLuca’s miserable orbit.