He doesn’t just own my body. He owns my thoughts.

Daddy carried me back to the villa like a conquering king, my wet dress clinging to my skin, his cum still leaking down my thighs. The moment we were inside the master bedroom, he set me down gently — too gently — and cupped my face with both hands.

“You chose me,” he whispered, thumbs stroking my tear-streaked cheeks. “Even when they tried to take you away. Even after everything you learned about your mother. That’s how I know our love is real, babygirl.”

Love.

He always said it so beautifully. Like it was something pure instead of the twisted,...