My Daddy Valentine (Be My Fake Valentine)

7. Simon

7

Simon

I’m tired. My eyes burn from the hours of staring at the computer screen, and my hands ache from typing out endless emails. I’ve been working all day, and now, at this late hour, the gallery is quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning. It’s peaceful, almost too peaceful, and I should be grateful for the silence, but all I can think about is the tension that has been building up in the pit of my stomach for days.

Ella.

She’s been on my mind, in my thoughts, in my every waking moment. Every time I see her, it’s like my brain short circuits. I try to push it away, to focus on the work, but it’s impossible. And now, I’m sitting in my office, running my fingers through my hair, trying to ignore the pull in my chest whenever she’s near.

And then, the door opens.

She steps in, her figure framed by the doorway, her presence unmistakable.

“Simon?” Her voice is soft, tentative, like she’s not sure if she’s interrupting or if I’ll be angry.

I look up, forcing myself to focus. She’s holding a small stack of papers in her hands—an invoice, most likely. Her blonde hair falls over her shoulders, and the way she stands, so sure and graceful despite the weight of the tension between us, makes my heart beat louder in my chest.

“Hey,” she says, stepping inside. “I just need you to sign these before I leave for the night.”

I nod, trying to keep my expression neutral. But everything about her is too much —her beauty, her energy, the way she walks into the room like she owns it. I feel like I’m suffocating, but I can’t escape.

I swallow and gesture toward the front of my desk. “You can leave them there. I’ll sign them when I’m done.”

But she doesn’t leave. She hesitates for a moment, her eyes flickering to the door, then back to me. I watch as she walks over and places the papers on my desk. Her fingers graze the surface for a brief second, and my mind goes to places I know it shouldn’t.

I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending I’m not affected by her. She’s got this pull on me, this gravitational force that I can’t escape.

And then I hear myself say it, the words coming out before I even realize what I’m doing.

“Shut the door.”

Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of hesitation in her gaze. But then she nods, slowly walks back toward the door, and shuts it. The sound of the door clicking shut feels like a finality, like we’ve crossed some invisible line that neither of us can step back from.

I stand up from my desk, my mind racing. My heart pounds against my ribcage. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be standing up, closing the distance between us. But I am.

I take a slow step toward her, and she freezes, her breath catching in her throat. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t say anything. But I see the way her eyes widen, the way her body tenses, like she knows something is coming—like she knows this moment is different from all the others.

I stand right in front of her now, too close. I can feel the heat radiating from her body, the electric tension in the air. The way she smells—faintly like vanilla and something warmer, something more alive —is driving me insane.

“Simon?” Her voice is barely a whisper, but it’s enough to make my chest tighten.

I look down at her, and it’s almost too much. She’s standing there, looking up at me with those big, innocent eyes, and all I want to do is lean down and kiss her. To erase the distance between us, to erase all the rules I’ve set in place.

But I can’t.

I can’t lose control.

I take a step back, but it’s like my body is fighting me. Every muscle in my body wants to pull her close, to taste her lips, to let everything go. But I know better. I know I can’t do that. She’s an intern. She’s here to learn, to grow, and I can’t let myself be the one to distract her from that.

“I know who you are,” I say, my voice low and strained. The words slip out, a confession I’ve been holding inside for too long. “I know who your father is.”

Her breath catches, and I watch as her face goes pale. I don’t know why I said it. I don’t know why I feel the need to confront her, to make her understand that I know her secret—that I know she’s not just some art-loving intern, but the daughter of James Williams , a man who could buy this entire gallery and everyone in it without blinking.

But the moment I say it, I know it’s too late. I know I’ve crossed a line I can’t uncross.

Ella stands there, staring at me, her lips parted like she’s unsure of how to respond. “You… you know?”

I nod, feeling the weight of it press down on me. “I’ve done my research.” The words come out harsher than I intend, but I can’t stop myself. “You think I didn’t notice? You think I wouldn’t recognize you? Ella Williams , daughter of one of the biggest names in the art world?”

Her eyes flicker, and for the first time, I see a crack in her mask—a moment of vulnerability, of humanity .

“I didn’t want anyone to know,” she whispers, her voice trembling just slightly. “I wanted to make it on my own. Not because of my father’s name. I don’t want to be treated differently.”

I feel something stir in me, something dark and possessive, and I try to push it down. I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want to make her feel small. But at the same time, I can’t ignore the truth of what I’ve learned about her. She’s not just some na?ve intern. She’s powerful. She could have anything she wants, including my job, my gallery. She could have me if she wanted to.

I step closer to her again, too close, until the air between us feels suffocating. My heart pounds in my chest. The tension between us is unbearable.

“You’re not like the others,” I mutter, my voice low. “You act like you don’t care about your last name, but everything about you screams privilege . You think you can hide who you are, but I see through it.”

She takes a shaky breath, and I can feel the tension in her body as she stands there, frozen. Her eyes never leave mine, and I can see the way her chest rises and falls with each breath.

And then it happens.

I reach for her.

I don’t know why. I don’t know how it happens. But before I can stop myself, my hand is cupping her face, my thumb brushing over the curve of her cheek. She’s so soft, so damn beautiful, and for a split second, I almost close the distance between us. I almost kiss her.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

I pull back sharply, my chest heaving as I try to steady myself. I can’t lose control. Not with her. Not like this.

“Leave,” I say, my voice strained, low. “Go. I can’t... I can’t do this.”

Ella’s eyes flash with something—hurt, confusion, maybe a little anger. She doesn’t say anything, just turns and rushes toward the door. She opens it quickly, then pauses before stepping out into the hallway.

“Goodnight, Simon,” she says quietly, her voice breaking the silence between us.

She doesn’t look back as she walks away, and I’m left standing in the middle of the room, my heart pounding so loudly I can’t hear anything else.

I should have stopped. I should have never touched her. But now, I don’t know if I can ever go back.

I feel like I’m losing myself. Losing control. And it’s all because of her.

Ella Williams.

The daughter of a man who could buy everything I’ve worked for... and yet, here I am, wanting her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.