All Chapters of Daddy's secret Obsession: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

JessyJeffrey, who hadn't moved or spoken, finally detached himself from the wall. He walked past Mark without looking at him, his entire body radiating dark hostility. He was furious, not just at Ben, but at me for forcing the issue. The university quad was a riot of green grass, bright sun, and happy, naive students. It was the antidote in pure form. We walked across the manicured lawn. Ben was on my left, cheerful, pointing out the library and the common areas. Jeffrey was on my right, silent, a looming shadow of violence."So, Jessalyn, what are you planning to study?" Ben asked, genuinely interested. "I'm pre-med, but I spend most of my time on the rowing team." "English literature," I said. The words tasted dusty and irrelevant. "Cool. Big plans?" "No," I replied, honestly. "Just filling a requirement." Jeffrey let out a soft, contemptuous sound—a breath of disbelief—that was instantly masked by the crunch of his shoe on the gravel path. Ben, oblivious, turned to

JESSYI sat on the edge of the guest room bed. It was soft, cool, and aggressively clean. It smelled like lavender and regret. It smelled nothing like Mark or Jeffrey.Mark had stripped the room of any personality. There were no books, no photographs, no evidence that I had spent the last seven years destroying myself within these walls. It was a blank slate, the perfect setting for the "normal" life I was supposed to be living.I ran my hand across the pristine duvet. The distance from this bed to the master suite felt vast—a mile of polished wood and silence. Every night, I would have to make an intentional, sober choice to traverse that distance and enter the fire.Jeffrey was gone. Mark had driven him back to his apartment, ensuring the separation was complete. The house was quiet, the silence punctuated only by the distant clatter of Mrs. Henderson setting silver in the dining room.I stood and walked to the door. I placed my ear against the wood, listening for Mark. Nothing. He

JESSY I lay in the guest room bed, staring at the ceiling, the pristine scent of lavender detergent mocking the smell of sex and desperation that was still faintly caught in my hair. I didn’t dare touch my neck; I knew the fresh marks were already darkening beneath the skin, a private, vibrant signature of Mark’s victory. The clock on the bedside table read 7:45 a.m. In fifteen minutes, Mrs. Henderson, the hawk-eyed embodiment of normalcy, would begin her circuit, and I had to be perfect. The lie required perfect rest. I heard the distant, familiar whir of the vacuum cleaner starting downstairs. Mark was gone—already downstairs, I assumed, performing the role of the busy, professional guardian who had no knowledge of the chaos upstairs, perhaps even politely directing the staff away from the freshly stained section of his master rug. Our complicity now extended to silent, domestic damage control. The anxiety was different today. Yesterday, it had been anticipation, a reckless thri

The old Ford smelled exactly like its age—dust, old vinyl, and a faint, lingering odor of forgotten gasoline. It was the car Jeffrey had used when they were fifteen, a deliberately unremarkable vehicle Mark never registered or remembered. It was the perfect escape pod, precisely because it wasn't an escape at all.I navigated the back streets of the wealthy neighborhood, the massive, silent houses watching me pass. Every turn away from Mark’s property was a tiny, temporary win.The old bookstore on Grove Street was long closed, its windows boarded up, casting a long, skeletal shadow over the deserted alleyway beside it. It was 5:30 p.m. The last of the weak winter sun was bleeding out of the sky, leaving the air damp and cold.I pulled the Ford into the mouth of the alley and killed the engine. The sudden silence was absolute. I kept my hands on the steering wheel, my chest tight. This meeting was necessary, but dangerous. It was an act of defiance, not love. It was damage control.A

JessyI lay on the thick, plush carpet of the master suite, the cool, humiliating shock of the floor against my skin. Mark stood over me, no longer a lover, but an executioner, holding the small digital camera;my failed weapon—like a trophy. The single lamp cast his shadow long and menacingly across the opulent room."You have one hour, Jessalyn," he repeated, his voice dangerously even. "One hour to retrieve what you stole. The documents or the footage. You choose the ruin."He tossed my khakis and camisole onto the floor beside me. The clothing felt heavy, inadequate, a poor disguise for the treachery I had just attempted.I pushed myself up, scrambling to cover my body, my hands trembling. The shame was immediate and overwhelming, but beneath it, a cold, hard ember of hatred began to glow. He hadn't just defeated me; he had humiliated me with the truth, turning my desperation against me."You won't use that," I whispered, finding my voice—a low, raspy sound, raw from the demands of