Chapter 25 Kelsey
Kelsey was losing the battle with her own mind.
She lay curled on the chaise in the corner of the office, the leather smooth against her shins, while the wool throw kept the rest of her cocooned.
She had been staring at the same paragraph of her book for twenty minutes, the words blurring into a meaningless gray smudge.
Her eyes kept drifting—not to the window or the dust motes dancing in the amber afternoon light, but to the corner of Harrison’s desk where her phone sat, face down and tantalizingly out of reach.
It was Tuesday. Tuesday meant the main produce delivery was hitting the loading dock.
It meant the line cooks were likely arguing over the prep list for the dinner service.
For months, that frantic, buzzing energy had been her oxygen.
Without it, she felt strangely light, like a kite that had lost its string and was waiting to see if it would soar or simply drift into the dirt.
I could just ask him to check one thing, she thought, her fingers twitching against the spine of her book. One text to Savannah to make sure the seafood order was right wouldn’t break the world.
She shifted, the movement pulling at the lingering stiffness in her seat. The dull ache was a direct rebuttal to the thought—a physical anchor reminding her of the price she’d paid to be brought back to earth.
Across the room, the steady rhythm of Harrison’s voice ceased.
He had been on a call for the last hour, his tone a low, melodic rumble that didn't rise even when he was delivering an ultimatum to a vendor.
He looked like a man who moved pieces across a board with effortless precision, a stark contrast to the man who had spent his morning patiently spoon-feeding her.
The click of his pen on the desk sounded like a gunshot in the room.
“Kelsey.”
She jumped slightly, her eyes snapping to his. He wasn't looking at his monitor anymore. He was leaning back in his chair, his dark eyes narrowed with a perceptive, predatory focus.
“You’re thinking,” he said. It wasn't a question; it was an accusation.
“I’m reading, Daddy,” she lied, her heart giving a traitorous, frantic thump against her ribs.
Harrison didn't move for a long moment. He just watched her, his expression unreadable until a slow, dangerous smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“Is that so?” He stood up, his movements fluid and powerful as he walked around the desk.
He didn't stop until he was standing over her, his shadow swallowing the chaise. He reached down, plucking the book from her hands. “Tell me, sweetheart—what happened on this page? I’d love to know what’s gripped your attention so thoroughly that you haven't turned it in fifteen minutes.”
Kelsey’s face went scarlet. “I... it’s a bit dense. I was just rereading a passage.”
He didn't even look at the book. He tossed it onto the side table and leaned down, bracing his hands on the arms of the chaise, effectively pinning her in place.
“Don't lie to me. Not about something so small, and certainly not when your foot has been tapping a frantic rhythm against the leather for the last ten minutes.” He lowered his head, his dark eyes boring into hers.
“You weren't reading. You were obsessing over that phone on my desk. Weren't you?”
Kelsey swallowed hard, her pulse hammering in her throat. The "boss" in her wanted to push back, to say she was just being responsible, but the girl underneath his shadow knew better.
“Yes,” she whispered, her gaze dropping to his collar. “The restaurant gets the bulk of the prep done on Tuesdays. I’m just wondering if the delivery was shorted again.”
“And do you think the kitchen will catch fire if you don't oversee the crates personally?”
“No, but—”
“But you think you should be the one to handle it,” he finished for her, his voice dropping into a low, warning register.
He sat on the edge of the chaise, his weight shifting the leather and forcing her to slide closer to him.
He ran a hand over her head, his fingers tangling in her hair and gently tilting her face up.
“The 'I can handle it' is starting to creep back in, isn't it, sweetheart?
You're already trying to find ways to take the reins back.”
The accuracy of his words made her flush a deep, guilty red. She hated how easily he read her, how he could see the cracks in her surrender before she even fully acknowledged them herself.
“I just don’t like feeling useless,” she whispered. “I’m a boss, Daddy. I’m used to being the person with the answers. Sitting here… it makes me feel like I’m losing my edge.”
“You aren't losing your edge. You’re finding the part of yourself that isn't a servant to your own anxiety.” He gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. His expression was incredibly firm. “You’ve spent years being the boss because you didn't think anyone else was strong enough to carry the weight for you. I’m telling you that I am. Do you not believe me?”
“I do believe you,” she said, and she meant it. “But it’s a hard habit to break.”
“Then I’ll help you break it.” He stood up, pulling her with him.
He was careful with her, but there was a new edge to his touch, a reminder that his care came with conditions.
“Since you have so much extra energy to worry about work—and enough to try lying to my face—I think it’s time for your afternoon treatment. The skin is getting tight again.”
He led her back upstairs, the walk silent and deliberate. Kelsey felt a wave of heat wash over her. The dynamic was shifting. The morning had been about recovery; this was about reinforcement.
When they reached the bedroom, he didn't wait for her to move. He pointed toward the bed.
“Shirt off. On your stomach.”
Kelsey hesitated for only a second before she began to unbutton the white cotton.
As the fabric fell away, leaving her bare in the fading sunlight, she felt a profound sense of exposure.
She climbed onto the bed, burying her face in the pillow as she felt the cool air hit her back and the heat radiating from her marks.
She heard the snap of the ointment tube, but he didn't apply it immediately. Instead, she felt his hand settle on her, his palm heavy and warm. He didn't move it. He just let the weight of his hand remind her of who was in control.
“I’m going to make this very clear for you, Kelsey,” he murmured, his voice low and vibrating through the mattress.
“The restaurant is handled. The debt is handled.
Your life, for the time being, is handled by me.
Every time you try to reach for a piece of that control back—or try to lie to me about where your head is—you are telling me that you don't trust me. And we both know what happens when you stop trusting me.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she muffled into the pillow.
“Don’t be sorry. Be obedient.”
He began to apply the ointment, his touch slow and methodical. It was firmer than the morning, his fingers pressing into the sore muscles with a purpose that made her gasp. It was a massage that bordered on a reminder, grounding her back into her body.
“You feel that?” he asked, his thumb tracing a particularly sensitive spot.
“Yes,” she hissed, her fingers digging into the duvet.
“That sensation belongs to me. This body belongs to me. Which means your worries belong to me, too.” He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear, his breath hot.
“I want you to stay here. I’m going to bring my laptop up and work from the bed while you rest. And if I see that mind of yours drifting back to your restaurant one more time today, I’m going to put you over my lap and remind you exactly whose girl you are. Am I clear?”
A thrill of genuine, delicious fear raced through her, followed immediately by a wave of relief so sharp it made her eyes sting.
“Very clear, Daddy,” she whispered.
“Good girl.”
He pulled the comforter up over her, tucking it tightly around her shoulders. He settled onto the bed beside her, the mattress dipping with his familiar weight. The clicking of the keys started again, a steady, rhythmic pulse in the room.
Kelsey closed her eyes, the itch to check her email finally dying away, replaced by the heavy, soaring certainty that for the first time in her life, she didn't have to handle a single thing.