My Sugar Daddy With a Twist. Part 7.

Part 7

The penthouse was quiet, the only sound was the clink of ice in Kent’s whiskey glass. He sat across from me, his suit jacket slung over the back of the chair, his tie loosened, his gaze heavy-lidded but sharp.

“Tomorrow’s the interview,” he said, his voice smooth, like velvet over steel.

“Yes” I said, that night, I wore a dress that Kent had chosen. It was black, of course. A sleek, knee-length sheath dress made of a fabric that felt amazing against my skin. The neckline was modest, just a hint of collarbone exposed, but the back was daring, a plunging cut that dipped low, leaving my spine exposed, the delicate curve of my shoulder blades on full display.

The dress hugged my body, accentuating the subtle swell of my breasts. It was tailored to perfection, showcasing my long legs, which were bare except for black stockings. 

My heels were classic, four inches leather, the thin straps cutting across my ankles with elegant precision. They forced my posture into that perfect line that Kent loved, my calves flexing with every step.

I nodded, my fingers curling around the stem of my wine glass. “I’m ready.”

He tilted his head, watching me with that unnerving stillness of his. “But are you ready for this Miss Vivian?”

He slid a folded piece of paper across the table. My heart stuttered as I unfolded it, the numbers jumping out at me: $400,000. I couldn't breathe.

“Six weeks,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his eyes never leaving my left leg. “In a medical cast. Crutches. No weight on it. Not once. Only 6 short weeks.”

I stared at the paper, the zeros blurring as my mind raced.

“You’d need to sell it,” he continued, his tone almost casual, as if he were discussing the weather. “A broken leg. Slipped on the stairs, maybe. Or a fall. Something believable.”

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly very dry. Was he for real or pulling my leg? He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his voice dropping to a low, insidious purr. 

“Imagine it. The cast, smooth, black fiberglass, toes to thigh. The crutches would be painted black to match. The way people would look at you. The way I would look at you.”

My heart pounded, my skin prickling with something between dread, desire and pure horror.

“No,” I said, the word coming out sharper than I intended. “That’s… that’s too much. Breaking bones Kent? Common… NO”

His lips curved, that slow, dangerous smile that made my stomach flip. “Is it? Or is it just enough?”

I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. “I can’t.”

He didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. “Can’t? Or won’t?”

I turned away, pacing to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights twinkling below. My reflection stared back at me, flushed, wide-eyed, trembling. Kent’s voice followed me, soft but unrelenting. “It’s not just the money, is it? It’s the control. The surrender. The pain. You’re afraid of how much you might like it.”

I whirled around, my voice breaking. “Stop. That’s crazy, do you hear yourself”

He stood then, his movements slow and deliberate, and crossed the room to me. “You think I don’t know you?” he murmured, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. “You think I haven’t seen the way you respond when you lean on crutches? The way you crave it?”

My breathing, my body is betraying me as I leaned into his touch.

“One word, say YES” he said, his lips against my ear, his voice a dark, silken promise.

“One word, and it’s yours. The cast. The crutches. The money. The control.”

I closed my eyes, my heart hammering in my chest.

“No,” I whispered quietly, but it sounded weak, even to my own ears.

He stepped back, his smile widening. “Think about it, darling. The night is still young.” And with that, he left me there, staring at my reflection in the glass, the city lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of painful fear and pure sexual desire.

I told myself it was impossible. Unthinkable. But deep down, I knew the truth. The offer had already taken root.

“NO, NO, NO”

The next morning was my interview, I took extra care with my appearance. I wanted to look professional, poised, untouchable. This was not a game with Kent.

I chose a tailored navy blazer with crisp lapels. Underneath, a cream silk blouse, the top button undone just enough to reveal the faintest glimpse of collarbone. My pencil skirt was dark and very professional looking, the hem grazing my knees.

Stockings, sheer and black, smoothed the lines of my legs. My heels, four inch pumps, red leather, classic elegance. My hair was pulled into a sleek chignon at the nape of my neck, not a strand out of place. My makeup was minimal with a soft rose lipstick, a hint of eyeliner, just enough to make my green eyes pop.

I was ready for fate or something far more deliberate from Kent.

Stepping out of my apartment building, the crisp morning air kissed my cheeks. The sidewalk was quiet, the city still waking up. I clicked my way toward the corner while waiting for my Uber, my heels echoing with each step, when I heard it, a sharp rattle, the sound of tires skidding on pavement.

I turned just in time to see him, a tall man on an electric bicycle, impossibly fast, I’m sure he was going at least 30 mph, he was impossibly close and why was he on the sidewalk?

Part 8 to come
Ashley

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