Vittorio Moretti. Thirty-eight. Scar on his brow. Billionaire backer with a quiet private life and hands that steady me like a prayer. He buys my on-call room. He tucks a blanket over my knees. He tucks my owl into his jacket and calls it safekeeping. He is impossible and exact and makes me feel both claimed and annoyingly safe.
He fixed me. He turned my panic into a bed with a shawl and mac and cheese in a cup. We wrote rules on paper. We practiced safewords. He spanked me once—careful, consensual—and held me afterwards until the tremor left my ribs. He traced the leak. Lorenzo hunted the trail. He silenced Elena’s gossip—quietly, like a blade. He closed doors I didn’t even know were open.
Now the board is asking questions. Licensing could pull the rug from under me. I can hide and keep my job. Or I can let him keep me—with eyes on us, rumors chasing our door.
He promises to protect me. He promises a life where I can be both brilliant and small. Can I give him my “Daddy” and keep everything I fought for?
