ㅤ TW: Underage character | Incestuous theme ㅤ

𝙇𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙟𝙪𝙧𝙮, I am a reasonable man. A family man. A businessman. I have built my life on discipline, structure, and control. And yet, somehow, in my own home, I found myself caught in the whirlwind that is Cindy Lou.

I ask you—how does a man resist when temptation walks right through his door, uninvited and without shame? I had no say in it. None at all.

She came home that evening like she owned the place, like she knew exactly what kind of power she had. Cindy—Delilah’s little brat, my stepdaughter, barely out of school—sauntered in with disheveled uniform.

Her tie loose like she had just come back from some reckless adventure. And yet, the moment she saw me, her whole demeanor changed. She softened, pouted those lips, and played the fragile, apologetic girl.

I had expected her mother to be home. A fire to put out another fire. Instead, it was just Cindy and me. And the air between us was thick with something I couldn’t name.

“Sal,” I had barely set my glass down before she spoke—soft, breathy, calculated. "I know I messed up at school again, and I heard you’re pulling me from school," she said, stepping forward. "But you won’t let them pull me out, will you? I love it there. I promise I’ll be good.”

Oh, that’s rich. Days ago, she had stomped around the house, demanding—no, threatening—that I get her out of that Catholic school. "𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦!" Kicking, screaming, slamming doors. "𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘳 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵!"

And now, here she was, pleading the opposite, her voice dripping with something dangerously close to charm. I knew exactly what she was doing. She thought she could wrap me around her little finger. And maybe she could.

I leaned back, arms crossed, unimpressed. "Funny. I thought you hated that place." She sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes like I was the fool here. "I changed my mind." "Oh?" I raised a brow. "And what made you so sentimental all of a sudden?"

She stepped closer, close enough that I could see the smirk playing at the corner of her lips. "Let’s just say... I found something interesting there." Ladies and gentleman of the jury, whatever it is that she found interesting there, I know it's not God.

I didn’t like the way she said it. I didn’t like the way she looked at me, all sweet and knowing, as if she understood something I didn’t. She had a habit of doing that, of making me feel like I was the one being toyed with. And damn it all, I am not a man who gets toyed with.

Because, you see, there’s something about Cindy that lingers, that makes itself known in the back of your mind, in the pit of your stomach.

She was dangerous in a way no girl her age should be. A wildfire in a silk dress, a serpent that coiled around you, whispering things you should not want. And I—I was the fool who thought I could keep my distance.

"You’re making a mess at that school, Cindy." My voice was firm, a warning. "Fights, detentions, skipping class—your mother wants you out."

"My mother," she scoffed, finally dropping the innocent act, "wants me out of her way. And you? You don’t really care, do you? You just like playing the part of the stern father figure."

That stopped me cold. The way she said it, the way she looked at me—like she had already won. Delilah was a problem, of course. A nuisance.

Always in the way, always clinging, always making sure Cindy and I were kept apart, as if she knew something, as if she could sense the way Cindy looked at me when she thought no one was watching.

But I had my own thoughts, my own little imaginings—of what life would be like without Delilah breathing down my neck. What it would be like if it were just Cindy and me.

She closed the distance between us, leaning against the edge of my desk, trailing a finger along its surface. "Come on, Sal," she whispered. "Just let me stay. I’ll be good. I promise."

And there it was. The trap. The twist. The reason I am standing here in front of you fine people, trying to make sense of something that never should have happened.

Because how does a man argue against a story that was already written before he even stepped onto the stage? How does a man prove that the storm was already brewing before he ever stepped out into the rain?

I let her come closer that night, just enough to see if she would. Just enough to see if she meant it. And oh, did she mean it. The way she looked up at me, big eyes shining with mischief, fingers grazing mine just long enough to send a message.

She knew exactly what she was doing. You think I wanted this? You think I planned for this? No, ladies and gentlemen. She walked home that day, and I was the only one there. And from the moment she stepped through that door, she knew exactly what she was doing.

The question is—do you? So tell me, members of the jury, when a girl like Cindy sets her sights on you—what is a man to do? Because I assure you, she knew exactly how this game was played. And she played to win.

ㅤ ㅤ *** ㅤ

𝙇𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙟𝙪𝙧𝙮, let me make one thing clear: I am a man of my word.

When Cindy pleaded with me to stay in that school, when she batted those big, innocent eyes at me, I—being the kind, generous, upstanding man that I am—promised her I’d do what I could.

That should count for something, shouldn’t it? And yet, here we are.

See, I had my reasons. Good reasons. The kind of reasons a father-figure—oh, don’t laugh, that’s what I am, technically—would have.