Still, I don't understand why Elise is acting this way with her own son. She was excited to be a mother when we met, and even when she was pregnant, she spent hours shopping for Austin. But now that he's here, he's been abandoned by her. Discarded like one of her many designer purses in favor of a new, shinier object.
I hear the door slam as she leaves. I check on Austin again and feel a pang of guilt as I watch him sleep in his crib.
This poor boy has been cursed with two parents who hate each other. I've tried so fucking hard to be a good father, be the man my own dad never was. But I don't feel the fatherly connection with the boy. It's more of an obligation, and while there are warm feelings attached to the baby, I just don't feel like a father.
Guilt racks through me realizing this. I shouldn't be this way, I should've invested fully into the role of a father. And none of this is Austin's fault – he doesn't deserve this shitty situation he's been thrust into. Yet I can't help my emotions. Every time I see him, I imagine his mother as Willa instead. But that's never going to happen.
Softly closing the nursery door behind me, I walk back into my study and place the baby monitor on my desk. My laptop lights up as I sit down at my desk, and I instantly check the sugar baby website.
I've become addicted to Willa, even though she has no idea I'm the one paying for her. But she seems so happy in New York. Every day, she regales me with stories of everything she's seen, heard and been through. Every day in that city seems like an adventure for her.
At the same time, I can't help but notice the changes in her when she sends the rare photo or video. She's thin, so painfully thin her bones jut out awkwardly. Her hair has gotten longer, but lost some of its shine, and her eyes seem full of pain. She's paler than ever and sometimes she seems a little lost. Her eyes swim around the room. She seems so far away. But that's probably just because I'm seeing her through a screen.
I have no doubt my trouble is having the time of her life in New York. It's what she wanted and what she worked so hard for. I know Parsons is a tough school, but she seems to be excelling and I couldn't be happier for her.
And yet it stings.
It stings like a motherfucker, watching her live the happy life she could only have by me breaking up with her.
She hasn't mentioned me to the persona I've built online, not once. She doesn't talk about other men either, to be fair, but the fact that my name has not once crossed her lips hurts like hell.
She must've forgotten all about me already. After all, I was nothing but a bleep on her radar, a bad experience she had to have so she could move on with the life she always wanted.
Obviously, she's moved on.
Obviously, she doesn't think of me anymore.
And obviously, she's so much happier now that I'm out of the picture. And I have no right to disrupt the happy life Willa has built for herself. I already feel guilty enough for staying in touch with her, but I can't stay away. I'm addicted to her just like I've always been.
Every time she ends our calls or doesn't text back it hits me like a ton of fucking bricks. Every night I fall asleep without her in my arms, I wish I were fucking dead so the pain would ease. But Willa's happy. And that's the one thing that keeps me going.
I send her money sometimes, telling her I'm doing it so she'll stay exclusive with me and not chat to other men on the app. I don't know whether she actually does that. But it makes me feel better, as much as I want a happy future for her. I just can't imagine sharing her with anyone else.
She probably has a boyfriend by now. Some artsy New York hipster who makes her oat milk lattes and kisses all the spots I used to kiss.
The thought fills me with pain and I shake my head to get it out. As hard as I've tried to get over her, I can't forget Willa.
I check on my son and grab a drink before heading back to my computer. I'm avoiding the moment of messaging her, blindly hoping she'll text first. That I'm not just some random internet stranger paying her, that she realizes deep down it's me. But she doesn't text.
Defeated, I send the first message.
Got time for a quick video call?
I lean back in my chair, and the reply comes back soon after.
Not today. You can call me if you want, though.
I'm a fool for her and I'll do anything just to hear her voice. I send her the agreed upon amount for voice calls and plug in my headphones, calling her.
"Hello."
Her voice seems far away, but that's probably just because she is. I'm still using special software to change the sound of my voice. Willa has complained about it before, but I told her I'm not changing it. I can't risk her realizing it's me on the other end of the line.
"Hello," I reply softly. "How were classes today?"
"Wonderful," she replies dreamily, making me smile. "We're doing a project this month, a runway. And one of my designs is going out first."
"That's great. So you're happy?"
She pauses, not answering and making me worry. When she speaks again, her voice is colder, more detached, and I have to remind myself she doesn't know it's me before realizing if she did, she'd probably be even colder.
"I need some more money."
"Okay. How much?"
"Couple grand."
I furrow my brows. Where is all this money going? I send her at least a grand every month.
"Okay," I mutter. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah."
"Do elaborate."
"Why? You're just a contorted voice. You might not even be a real person."
I chuckle. "I assure you, I'm very real."
Austin's screams come through the baby monitor and I curse softly.
"You got a kid?"
"Y-Yeah," I manage, grabbing my laptop as I head into the nursery. Fuck. What if she realizes it's me?
"How old is he?"
I'm the one ignoring her question this time. I put the pacifier back in Austin's mouth and he happily sucks on it as I go back to the study.
"I don't really know anything about you," Willa muses. "Why are you so secretive?"
"You don't need to know, it would only make you hate me," I mutter in reply.
"Why?" She laughs. "Are you a bad man?"
I contemplate her words, not knowing how to reply. Finally, I say, "Maybe."
"How bad?"
"You don't want to know."
"Secretive again. But that's fine, TyrantDaddy. One day you'll tell me more about yourself. And until then, I'll just take your money."
I smirk before my expression falls. "Are you sure everything's okay with you?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"You haven't let me see you in three months."
"It's kind of weird talking to a black screen."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"You're very apologetic," she mutters. "You know, I'd let you see me right now. As long as you turn on your camera, too."
My heart starts racing at the thought, but I quickly banish it from my mind. I can't do it. I can't let her see it's me – she's finally moved on, and she deserves to be free of my clutches.
"I can't," I admit brokenly, the generator contorting my voice into something dull, robotic. No emotion. Just the way it should be.
"Okay," she says carelessly. "Send me the money and I'll send you some photos."
"Okay," I say. "And I –"
She ends the call before I can stop her.
I close my eyes and tell myself not to worry. I have no power over what Willa does now. She's on her own, and it's better that way. I would've only hurt her more by telling her it was me on the other end of the line.
I send over the money and tell myself it's going to be okay. As long as I get my fix of Willa, I'm as happy as I can be.
I don't deserve anything better, anyway. I made the right choice for my son; I can't go back on it now. I'm not the selfish man I used to be, and yet I can't help but regret walking away from Willa.
My phone pings with some incoming photos. I look at
them, groaning at the sight of Willa. I was right – she's lost a lot of weight. She's wearing a faraway look in all the photos, as if her mind's caught in some fairytale land where nothing bad ever happens. But I can see the pain too. This is the first time she's let me see her this vulnerable, at least as TyrantDaddy. But even now, I can't let this go any further than it already has.
I force myself not to reply to her pictures. Instead, I check on my son and prepare his bottle. I keep an eye on him until I get too tired, then crawl into bed in the guest bedroom feeling defeated.
I may have done the right thing, but on nights like this, I miss Willa so badly it physically hurts. And no amount of telling myself this is what she deserves will convince me it's true.
Chapter 23
Willa
Life in New York is different. I'm different.
Some days are good. I eat, I fantasize. I live in a make-believe world where anything I imagine is true in my mind.
But some days are bad. Really fucking bad – with no food but plenty of other things to keep me going.
It's early evening and I've been without a hit for a week. We can't afford it right now, but I've promised myself for the umpteenth time I'm really going to quit this time, and I really don't want to break my promise to myself again.
I shift position on the sofa, looking at the apartment Theo gave us through objective eyes.
Anyone would be able to see Mercy, Scott and I have wrecked this place.
The expensive leather couch has slashes and cigarette burns. The hardwood floors are stained with spilled drinks and there's a broken window through which there's a constant draft. A few months ago, I still cared, but now I don't. I feel utterly, completely numb. Life has won this battle and I've lost, and now there's nowhere left for me to run.
The front door slams and Mercy walks into the room, not even acknowledging me as she starts preparing her next hit with trembling hands. I watch her impassively, barely recognizing my once vivacious best friend.
I think about going home a lot, or maybe tracking down Raphael. But how can I? Dove and Nox would be so disappointed in me. I'd never be able to admit to Raphael I lost my scholarship to Parsons. I can never go back home.
"Can I have some?" I mutter at Mercy, but she vehemently shakes her head. "Greedy. Not even a little?"
"You said you wanted to quit," she reminds me, wrapping a hair band around her forearm. "I'm just trying to help, Wills."
I want to believe that's true, but judging by her hazed expression I'm not even sure she's going to remember this conversation in a few minutes once the H hits her veins.
I watch as she leans back once she does the hit, exhaling slowly and grinning to herself once the drugs start hitting her.
"You got anything else?" I'm feeling greedy now, jealous of her high that I'm not able to share.
"Check in the bathroom," she mutters. "Under the creaky floorboard, there should be some pills left."
I walk into the bathroom, pulling down my T-shirt under which I'm just wearing a pair of panties. I identify the floorboard, choosing not to question how long Mercy's been hiding her stash from me. I pull out a baggy containing three purple pills. I swallow them all, gulping to get them down.
I realize taking all those pills was a mistake almost instantly. I retch but nothing comes up. My conscience lets me down, abandoning me to watch my body from above, as if it's not really me at all. Seconds turn into minutes and the hours tick by painfully slowly yet lightning fast at the same time. At some point the darkness takes over, and I succumb to it. I let it envelope me in its chokingly tight embrace, reminding myself I deserve all of this and worse.
Raphael doesn't want me, and I've abandoned my family. This is the result – a year of misery, drugs and barely-there memories of what happened.
"I deserve it," I whisper to myself as my cheek hits the bathroom tile. "I deserve this."
After that, the world goes mercifully dark.
"Man, they're really fucked up. You sure they're going to be okay?"
"Who the fuck gives a shit? Nobody knows we were here, anyway. They're just disposable whores. Exactly Scott’s type."
There's the sound of laughter and my head feels like it's about to crack open as a broken groan leaves my lips.
"Fuck, that one's waking up. Pass me the phone, I want to get this."
I feel the light of a camera flash in my eyes and force them open. But there's another pain on top of my splitting headache – something coming from a different place, a place I'm afraid of.
It's between my legs. And as I open my eyes, I realize I'm bent over the couch. My panties are around my ankles and someone's crudely pinching my nipples. I try to shriek but no sound comes from my lips. My mouth is dry as fuck and I'm desperate for a drink. But I'm still not completely awake. It's as if a dark veil has set over my vision, making me unable to see through the haze.
The pain between my legs grows worse and worse, like something's pounding into me, determined to break me. I turn my head weakly over my shoulder and come face to face with a camera on somebody's phone.
"Smile," someone laughs out loud. "Fuck man, this is like girls gone wild."
My eyes dance over the cluttered living room. Mercy's on the other side of it, uselessly bent over in a heap over a bean bag chair. There's a tall dude kneeling next to her, his shirt pulled up and his cock hanging out. I watch with confusion as he forces his meaty dick inside my friend.
That's not Scott.
The pain between my legs grows and this time when I shriek, a weak sound comes out.
"Fuck, good girl."
Good girl. Those two little words I still only love to hear from Raphael. But this isn't Raphael. It's a man only a few years older than me, wearing a bandana and filming himself as he bottoms out inside me.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I whisper, but I'm too weak to move.
Horror makes my limbs freeze. I can't move, can't crawl away. But the reality of what's happening is starting to dawn on me.
I hear the man groan and then warmth explodes between my legs. He pulls out and I feel his release trickling down the inside of my thighs just as the hot tears make a blazing trail over my flushed cheeks.
"You tell Scott this is what he gets for not paying his debts," the bandana man mutters, roughly grabbing me by the cheeks. "You're still a good fuck, though. Maybe you should be a professional whore. I'll find you again soon, and next time you'll suck my cock."
I let out a whimper, watching the men draw back and leaving Mercy lifeless on the ground.
I don't think she's conscious – perhaps that's lucky for her.
As they file out of the apartment, I start to feel the burn of whatever they did to me. I can't admit to myself what just happened – it's easier to pretend they weren't here at all. But when I pick myself up, a blinding pain shoots through my body. I wince and crawl to Mercy on the ground, gently shaking her. I still feel high on the pills, but my first thought is to help my friend.
"Mercy," I whisper. "Mercy, please wake up."
She whimpers in response but doesn't move. I see pools of cum on the floor. We've been used. We've been... raped by the men Scott owes money too. And both of us were too drugged up to even realize what was happening.
Stifling a sob, I grab my phone from the couch and dial 911 with shaky fingers.
"What are you doing?" Mercy manages to get out.
"Calling the cops."
"No!" She roars to life, turning her pleading eyes filled with tears to mine. "Please, don't do this, Willa. They'll take us both away, they'll lock us up. Just look at this place, it's a mess."
"Those men r-raped us," I stutter. "I need to get help."
But she takes the phone from my hand and I don't fight her. Shame burns in the pit of my stomach threatening to swallow me up whole.
"It's too late now," Mercy mutters. "And Scott will get in trouble. I'm begging you, Wills, don't do this."
In that moment, I can't see her
as anything but my childhood friend, my bestie. The one I swapped friendship bracelets with, the one who stood by my side no matter what, the one who mended my heart every single time it hurt. But then I remember what just happened. What those men did to us.
"Please," Mercy begs again. "Don't tell anybody what happened."
"You want me to keep this secret?"
She nods eagerly. "Please. I'll owe you."
I don't know whether to laugh or cry at how far we've come. My best friend is begging me not to turn in our rapists and I'm actually fucking considering it because I love Mercy more than I love myself.
"If you make me keep quiet, we're done," I whisper.
"You can't..." She wheezes and coughs, weakly pulling herself into a sitting position. "Fuck, Willa, don't. Don't do that. Don't make me pick between you and Scott."
"I have to." I jut my chin out, ignoring the pain emanating from between my legs. "You've let it get this far. Look at us, Mercy. What the fuck is happening to us? This isn't how our story was supposed to end."
I can tell tears are burning Mercy's eyes just like they are mine. I want to sob because I already know she isn't going to pick me. It's clear she's already made her choice.
"Don't call the cops," she repeats weakly.
"So, you pick him."
"I don't pick anyone, I –"
"Don't feed me that bullshit." I get up, even though every inch of my body hurts like fucking hell. "If this is your choice, I never want to see you again, Mercy."
She stares at me stubbornly, muttering, "You're supposed to be my best friend."
"You're supposed to be my best friend!" I scream at her in frustration, a sob ripping itself from my lips. "Look what we did to ourselves, Mercy. But it's not too late. One call and we can still get out. I can get you out."
But I already know she doesn't want out.
For a moment, I see my best friend underneath the layers she's built up over the last year. But she's gone faster than she appeared.
"Fine, leave," she hisses. "Just do it already. You've wanted to abandon me all along. Just go, Willa. Fucking go."
Tyrant Daddy: An Age Gap Forbidden Romance Page 15