He was my father's best friend and my legal guardian. I mistook his obsessive control for protection—until the night of my eighteenth birthday, when he shattered that illusion in his study. For eight long years, I lived a double life: his pure, adopted daughter by day, and his dirty little secret by night.
I thought it was love. Then today, a Wall Street alert announced his engagement to a media heiress. While the world celebrated, I finally understood: he was capable of love; he just couldn't marry me.
Now, I've deleted every trace of our eight years together. Standing at the window, I held up my newly ringed finger to the surveillance car he sent to watch me.
"The game is over," I texted him. "P.S. I got married today. And you… you're the last to know."
