The Sunday Facade

POV Valerie.

I crashed onto my large mattress the second I walked through the door of my apartment. I did not even bother scrubbing the heavy club makeup off my face or changing out of my clothes. The sheer exhaustion of the night weighed me down, but sleep offered zero peace. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome hijacked my subconscious. He owned my dreams all night long. I could feel his punishing grip on my hips, smell his expensive cologne mixed with sweat, and feel the raw power radiating from him.

When my morning alarm buzzed, I jerked awake with a gasp. Heat pooled heavy and deep between my thighs. I reached down and touched myself, finding my pussy soaking wet just from the memory of his dominance. God, he knew exactly how to use that leather flogger on my skin. He knew how to use those massive hands to keep me pinned down. And his dick. Just the thought of his thick, hard cock driving into me made my core throb with a desperate, intense frustration.

*Fuck, Val, you really fucked this one up,* I cursed miserably to myself. I stared blankly at the bedroom ceiling, my breathing shallow. Running away from him at dawn was a massive, stupid mistake. I had panicked, and now my body was paying the ultimate price in unresolved lust.

I dragged my heavy limbs out of bed and stepped into the hot shower. I stood under the spray for a long time, washing away the lingering scent of stale cigarette smoke and expensive liquor from my hair. I wiped away the smeared eyeliner under my eyes. For my weekly Sunday ordeal at my father's house, I pulled a highly conservative, high-collared dress from my closet and paired it simply with clean white sneakers. My feet needed a desperate break from towering stilettos anyway.

Grabbing my keys, I slid into the driver's seat of my sleek Audi Q8. I ran my hands over the cold leather steering wheel. My wealthy father bought me this extremely expensive car for my birthday last year. It was my absolute dream vehicle, and he knew it. He deliberately used it against me as a manipulation tactic. If it had been anything else, I would have rejected the gift on the spot.

People constantly ask me the exact same exhausting question. They want to know why I bust my ass working insane hours when I have a massive trust fund waiting for me. Why not just sit back and live lavishly? My dad leads that specific chorus of judgment. But I have my pride. I fiercely want to build a life with my own two hands. I refuse to rely on daddy's endless handouts to fund my existence. I pulled out of my complex and headed toward the suburbs.

The drive to his sprawling estate was quiet, leaving me alone with my chaotic thoughts. My mind drifted right back to the BDSM club and the intense high I felt under Sir's control. I needed a plan. I needed him back. I made a firm, desperate resolution right then and there. I would return to the Sinner Asylum every single Friday night. I would sit there until he showed up. He had his own private dungeon room at the club, so the odds were in my favor. And when I found him, I would drop to my knees. I would willingly take whatever harsh punishment he deemed fit for my sudden disappearance.

Running into Trent last night proved one undeniable thing. I desperately needed to fully move on from my toxic ex-boyfriend. Sir was exactly what I needed to burn Trent out of my system for good.

I pulled up to the massive wrought-iron gates of the estate and waited for them to swing open. I drove up the long driveway and parked. I shifted the rearview mirror and tilted my chin up. I double-checked that my high collar completely covered the dark hickey blooming on my neck. My dad asking intrusive questions about a bite mark was a nightmare I had to avoid.

*You can do this, Valerie. It is just a few hours. Endure it.* I gave myself a quick, necessary pep talk, shoved my car door open, and walked up the grand stone steps.

Arthur the butler pulled the heavy front door open before I could even knock.

"Miss Thornton. Would you care for some coffee?" Arthur offered with a polite nod.

"No thank you, Arthur. I just had one." I offered him a tight smile and headed straight down the hall.

I stepped into my father's lavishly decorated office. Gideon sat behind his massive mahogany desk, looking up from his paperwork as I entered.

"Oh, Val, you came," my dad announced loudly.

He delivered that exact same passive-aggressive line every single Sunday. I forced a smile and walked closer.

"Hi, dad," I replied.

He stood up and gave me a stiff, formal hug. "Sit down. Tell me, how is that little shop of yours doing?"

I bit the inside of my cheek hard to keep from snapping at him. To Gideon Thornton, my bakery was just a little shop. To me, it was my entire world. It was my blood, sweat, and endless early mornings.

"It is doing very good. Thank you, dad," I answered tightly, keeping my tone neutral.

"Good. Do you have your schedule with you?" he asked dismissively, shifting gears without missing a beat. "I need you to accompany me to a party on Tuesday evening. It is a black-tie event at Milo's house. We are throwing a welcome-home party for one of my old friends."

I frowned and crossed my legs. "Why are they making it a black-tie event for a simple welcome-home party?"

"You know Milo's wife," my dad sighed heavily, waving a hand in the air. "If your mother were still alive, I would have loved to host the party myself. This friend, Cassio, helped me buy my very first business. If it was not for his financial backing back then, we would not have been this rich today."

"I understand. But why do I need to tag along for your old business buddy?" I challenged.

"Do not be difficult, Val. You know I despise attending these functions alone, even if it is for an old friend."

"Fine, dad. I will come with you. But you do know I strictly need to be home by eleven p.m., right?" I reminded him of my grueling baker's hours.

My dad rubbed his temples, letting out a heavy sigh. "Valerie, if you would just agree to come work for my company, you would not have to get up so ridiculously early. I really do not know why you stubbornly insist on doing it."

"Can we please not rehash this same argument again today, dad?" I pleaded, exhausted by the endless loop of our conversations.

"Fine, fine. I do not want to fight with you about your little hobby." He raised both hands in the air in mock surrender. A distinct sneer curled his lips. "Sorry, sorry. Your career."

I stood up abruptly and smoothed the fabric of my conservative dress. "Let us go eat."

We walked into the grand dining room together. The long mahogany table was set to perfection, exactly like every other Sunday. We took our seats at opposite ends of the massive table. Arthur stepped in and poured us each a glass of crisp white wine. A moment later, the private chef brought out our starters.

"Thank you," my dad and I chimed in unison.

If there was one thing Gideon Thornton drilled into my brother and me, it was impeccable manners. You said please. You said thank you. You greeted staff properly.

We ate our salads in a suffocating, empty silence. The clinking of silver forks against expensive porcelain plates echoed loudly in the massive room. Our relationship was strained and painfully quiet. I attended almost all his corporate events, and I showed up here every Sunday like clockwork, but we rarely had anything of substance to say to each other. I was all he had left, and I felt a stubborn obligation to do the right thing as a daughter.

"What did you do last night?" I asked, desperate to break the quiet tension stretching between us.

"Not much. I just read a book and went to bed early," he replied flatly, cutting a piece of lettuce. "And you?"

"The girls and I went out to Club Obsidian," I shared casually, taking a slow sip of my wine.

My dad paused. His eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. "Oh, funny. That specific club actually belongs to the friend I was just talking about."

"Oh." I blinked, processing the information.

I let the words wash over me. All of my dad's wealthy business associates fit a very specific, boring mold. They were aging, out-of-shape men with large beer bellies who spent their weekends playing golf and complaining about taxes. I assumed this Cassio guy was just another one of those tired, balding old men. I decided to politely humor him and keep the conversation flowing.

"Where is this friend moving back from?" I asked, taking another bite of my salad.

"His ex-wife adamantly wanted to stay in Los Angeles. Now that they are finally divorced, he is eventually coming back home to Vegas," my dad explained enthusiastically. His tone shifted, sounding far more excited than he had all morning. "I am really excited. I have genuinely missed him. We were very, very close once upon a time."

"It sounds like a good thing he is coming back, then," I offered with a small shrug, completely unaware of what Tuesday night would bring.

"It is. You will see for yourself."