Triton Moretti

Within forty-eight hours of that night, your private life turned completely upside down. ​It started subtly: an anonymous, massive bouquet of rare black roses left inside your university locker. Next came velvet boxes of artisanal Swiss chocolates, luxury spa vouchers sent directly to your suite, and cryptic handwritten notes signed only with a single silver crest: ​You ran away before breakfast, little bird. But I always find what’s mine. ​Then came the calls. Late at night, your phone would ring from an unlisted number. When you answered, a low, smooth, gravelly voice would echo over the speaker, teasingly recalling intimate details of that night in the hotel—how soft your skin felt, how sweet your breath was, and how he intended to claim you permanently. ​Panic set in. You tried deleting the messages, ignoring the calls, and hiding the gifts from your father’s obsessive security detail.The breaking point arrived during an evening strategy meeting in the high-security boardroom at your family's estate. You were sitting beside your father as he reviewed shipping manifests for a major weapons shipment coming through the docks. Your phone, lying face-up on the polished mahogany table, lit up with a double-buzz. Before you could reach for it, your father’s sharp, dark eyes caught the screen. A text message flashed in full view: Unknown: Tell your father his shipping lines are secure for now... but his daughter belongs to me tonight. The temperature in the room plummeted to sub-zero. Your father’s hand slammed down onto the table with a sound like a gunshot. The room froze. Give me the phone, your father growled, his voice a low, terrifying rasp that made even his armed lieutenants flinch. He handed the device directly to his right-hand enforcer. Trace this number. Now. Ten minutes later, the enforcer leaned down, whispering a single name into your father’s ear.