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Victor
It’s Saturday morning and my PA is late. Sipping my piping hot espresso as I stand by the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, I nonchalantly gaze over the Manhattan skyline. A small part of me wonders if she’ll show as the minutes tick slowly by. She’s no thief, she’s not that bold. She wouldn’t dare steal from me. She’s bright enough to know that that would mean opening flood gates she could never hope to close or outrun. But would she drop the credit card at reception and make a run for it?
I don’t think so. Or do I simply hope that’s the case? I wonder somewhat uncomfortably. In the exceedingly short time I’ve known her, she’s awakened something in me that’s been slumbering for decades. Most women know their limits and play the part they’re comfortable with to get what they want. They’re sexually experienced and know what to expect. They fake moan and make ridiculous noises—the type you hear in bad pornos. They’re sick to death of what they do, and they’re only doing what they think you want.
But everything about Orchid is just so sickeningly genuine. She has a natural naivety to her that calls out to the beast in me. I want to dominate and hurt her in one breath, then protect and claim her in the next. It’s frustrating and I’m not easily flustered. Not by anyone or anything... yet this young woman walks into my world—where she has right being—and disarms me. And as much as I’m secretly beginning to adore her, I fucking hate her for it.
I don’t like feeling vulnerable. I don’t do vulnerable. Vulnerability is dangerous. Vulnerability is weakness. I’m the alpha of my world. The CEO of the most elite law firm in Manhattan for fuck’s sake! I don’t get gooey over chubby little urchins who scrape into my life on the tail-end of promises made decades ago.
I’m Victor bloody Mitchell and I can have any woman I want. Money is no object. I’ve slept with popstars, super models, and raging feminists. Everyone has their price. No one is just pure and true. At least I thought so.
“Mr. Mitchell, sir!”
I turn at the panic in my secretary’s voice.
“What is it, Dahlia?” I ask, my brow furrowing at the expression on her face.
“It’s Orchid.”
Every single muscle in my body tenses and an unnatural rage bursts to life inside me.
“She was... she’s in hospital, sir.”
My jaw sets and I fight the sense of looming dread that threatens to displace my practiced calm. “Why?” I ask through gritted teeth.
I can see Dahlia’s throat tense, and she wrings her hands. Everything about her posture and demeanor screams anxiety. She doesn’t want to be the bearer of bad news. That much is clear.
“You have no reason to fear me, Dahlia. Just tell me what you know,” I assure her.
“She—she—she was raped, sir,” she stutters. “The police are saying that there were no signs of forced entry. Her door was unlocked. She woke up and they were on her. She tried to fight them off, but...” Her eyes prick with tears. “I’m so sorry, sir.”
Milliseconds feel like an eternity as my anger bursts its internal dams to flood every damn vein and cell of my body. “Do they have the rapist?” I ask, keeping my breathing even by sheer force of will.
“Yes, sir. Neighbors heard and the police attended as fast they could. They’ve got him at the precinct.”
I stand mute as a plan formulates in my mind. Dark. Fucked up. Endless pain. That’s the future that belongs to the cunt that dared hurt my baby girl.
“Is there anything I can do, Mr. Mitchell?” asks Dahlia, lingering in the doorway.
“No, thank you, Dahlia. But reschedule all my meetings for today, please.”
“Yes, sir.” Dahlia all but runs back to her desk, the phone to her ear in seconds. She senses the storm rising in me. And all of her feminine instincts warn her to stay the fuck away before I lose it.
I wouldn’t intentionally harm her, especially as I gave her my word. But she wouldn’t want to stand in my way. Not now. Picking up my cell phone, I make several calls. This cunt fucked with the wrong woman and now he’s going to pay. Pulling on my suit jacket, I slip my phone into my pocket and head for the elevator. “I’m going to the hospital,” I say as I pass Dahlia’s desk and the doors close behind me.
****
“Room 14,” says the nurse.
A bouquet of real orchids in hand, I adjust my tie and walk with lead feet toward my baby girl’s private room—one of the small perks of working for Mitchell and Associates. Taking a deep breath, I step over the threshold, and I’m not prepared for what I see. My little has a black eye and a split lip. Despite being a bigger girl, she looks so fragile with her eyes closed, just lying there in the pristine white bed sheets.
This is all my fault. If only I hadn’t left like a jerk. If I’d just made sure she’d locked the door behind me... this wouldn’t have happened. She probably cried herself to sleep, forgetting about the door entirely. Fuck. I’m never going to forgive myself for this. Never. I come to stand beside the bed and just watch her. What can I possibly say that will make this better? The truth is, I can’t fix this. I can’t undo what has been done. But I can offer her a chance for revenge.
“Hello, Daddy.”
My heart stills in my fucking chest as Orchid’s beautiful green eyes open. How can she possibly call me that? After all this? After I failed to ensure her safety. She should go back to calling me a mother fucking cunt. “Orchid.” It’s all I can think to say.
“I knew it was you,” she says. “I knew you’d come.”
I wince internally as her poor lip starts to bleed anew as she talks. “I can’t fix you, baby girl.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll heal all on my own.”
She’s so brave, and still so soft. Even now I don’t sense anger in her, nor resignation, just acceptance of her situation. Has she lost her fight?
“Are those for me?” she asks, directing my attention to the bouquet I’m still clutching. “Orchids,” she says with a sigh and a small smile. More blood. She ignores it, and gently accepts the flowers. “Thank you, they’re beautiful, Daddy.”