Page 30 of Cinderella and the Daddy

If tomorrow brings proof of her betrayal, I want to remember this moment when she was simply mine.

9

CINDY

Four weeks and three days.

That's how long I've been here, though time moves strangely in this gilded cage. Some days feel like hours when Leo's laughter fills the air or when Luka's eyes find mine across a room. Other days stretch like months, especially when I catch myself forgetting this isn't really my home, that I'm not really free.

Thirty-one days of watching Luka move through his empire with lethal grace. Thirty-one nights of pretending my body doesn't hum when he's near, that my skin doesn't remember every place he's touched.

Ignoring the way his presence seems to electrify the very air I breathe.

I’m screwed up.

That has to be it.

I’m drawn to him.

Like now, I’m in search of my captor. The one who makes me scream with pleasure and makes me want to scream with frustration.

Love-hate doesn’t begin to describe what I feel for the asshole.

I stand in the doorway of the training room, arms crossed, watching as Luka fastens Leo's small hands into worn boxing gloves that look ridiculous on his five-year-old body. The boy's face is bright with excitement. He bounces on the balls of his feet.

Clearly, he’s done this before.

Luka is wearing a tank top and sweats. I have to fight the urge to purr. I actually feel like purring and rubbing against him.

His arms are thick. Muscled. The veins through his biceps and forearms do something to me I can’t explain. His back is broad and just as muscled.

"Keep your thumb outside the fist," Luka instructs.

I refuse to acknowledge the way his voice excites me. Like he’s physically touching me.

"You break it inside; you're useless,” he continues.

Leo giggles, throwing a wild haymaker at the heavy bag that barely moves it an inch. The sound of his laughter echoes off the concrete walls. It’s so pure and innocent in a way that seems impossible in this place of shadows and secrets.

But Luka doesn't crack a smile.

Not once.

His jaw remains set, his focus absolute as he adjusts Leo's stance with gentle but firm hands.

"MMA taught me discipline," Luka continues, demonstrating a basic jab.

His movements are fluid. The comfort in the gym speaks to years of training and real violence.

"Every fight starts before you step into the cage. It's in here." He taps his temple. "And here." His fist moves to his chest, over his heart.

There's something mesmerizing about watching him with Leo. Something that makes my ovaries hum. This dangerous man, who commands fear and respect from hardened criminals, is patiently teaching a child the fundamentals of combat. The contrast is jarring, beautiful in its contradiction.

"Papa, were you scared your first fight?" Leo asks, pausing mid-punch.

Luka's hands are still on the boy's shoulders. For a moment, something flickers across his features—vulnerability, maybe, or memory. "Fear keeps you alive," he says. "But you don't let it control you. You use it."

The conversation continues, but my attention drifts to the man himself. The way his black tank stretches across his broad shoulders. I’m drawn to where his tattoos peek out from beneath the fabric. All intricate designs that tell stories I'm not privy to yet. There are a few scars I've wondered about. Battle wounds from a life I can barely comprehend.