Cherry Doll

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hi! Thanks so much for choosing this story, it honestly means the world to me. Most of my books are completely unserious. Except Cherry Doll. Cherry Doll is the one I actually tried with. She's special to me.

I hope you enjoy my book. Have fun reading <3



 MATURE CONTENT (18+)

This book contains explicit sexual content and rough sexual encounters, also featuring a daddy kink in some scenes. Violence, darker themes and emotional intensity, trauma, grief, and morally gray choices, jealousy, and possessiveness, and an age-gap that only makes the tension tighter. This is a slow-burn with plenty of tension, so settle in and let it simmer. I promise it's worth it <3

DAISY

༺❦༻

The house was beautiful. It always has been. Nestled between tall pines and rolling hills.

I remembered racing through these halls as a kid, my bare feet slapping against the wooden floors, my mother's laughter trailing behind me.

Back when everything was still whole. I was only six when my parents divorced, before Dad and I left, before I made my choice. Before I chose him over her.

Now, it feels different. Still beautiful, but quieter.

I didn't shed a single tear today.

Not for the woman who carried me for nine months. Not for the mother I once loved. Not even for the fact that she's gone forever.

Was it a shock? I don't know. She died so suddenly, that my mind still refuses to catch up.

Cancer. That's what they said. I didn't even know she was sick. Not until I got the call telling me she was gone. No warning, no chance to see her, to say anything. Just a phone call, a funeral, and a grave I was expected to stand beside like I understood any of it.

I weaved through the clusters of people gathered after the funeral, their voices murmuring. I wasn't really listening. Instead my focus was on the table in front of me, stacked high with food, small plates arranged neatly.

I hadn't eaten all day. I hadn't eaten much on the plane ride, either. Traveling here took so long. So I ate a small sandwich first. Then some cheese and crackers. Then something sweet, I didn't even know what. My hands kept reaching, stuffing food into my mouth, chewing quickly, swallowing.

I was aware of how much I was eating. How fast. How people might see me and think, She doesn't even care. She's not talking to anyone, just standing here, stuffing her face like this isn't her own mother's funeral.

But I couldn't stop. The food grounded me, gave me something to focus on. Something that wasn't lost. That wasn't guilty. I swallowed hard, lowering my hand, trying to make myself small.

This house was heavy with memories. I used to belong here. Now, at eighteen, I wasn't so sure. Dad has been gone for 2 years. I missed him more than I could put into words. And standing here now, I realized I didn't know where I belonged at all.

"Daisy, isn't it?"

I looked up. An older woman stood beside me, her expression gentle. She was dressed in dark blues and silver hair swept up neatly. "I just wanted to say. I'm so sorry for your loss. I knew your mother, Delilah. She was a lovely woman."

I wasn't really good at this. So I just murmured softly, "Thank you."

She reached out, taking my hand in hers. Her skin was warm and her fingers squeezed me gently. I don't know this woman and I didn't recognize most of these people. They weren't my mother's family because she didn't have any.

They were his. My mother's husband, Dixon Norcross. After my parents' divorce, my mom had moved on quickly. Too quickly. Her new boyfriend had been 10 years younger than her, and my dad had never let me forget it.

“He's only after her money.” My Dad used to say,

“Men like that, Daisy, they don't love. They take.”

I'd been too young to have an opinion back then. I only knew that my dad hated him, and I took my dad's side in everything.

Dixon is thirty eight now. I've never met him once, but I'd caught a glimpse of him earlier at the funeral, standing quietly off to the side looking grief stricken with his son next to him.

The woman gave my hands one last reassuring squeeze before pulling me into a soft hug that stilled my body. When she finally let go, she gave me another small smile before stepping away, disappearing into the crowd of mourners.

I sighed. There was nothing for me here. This wasn't my home. So I turned on my heel, walking toward the front door, grabbing my bag from where I'd left it on a chair and slipped on my coat.

I adjusted my hair, taking one last look at the house. Then I moved for the door only to collide into someone. Hard. My shoulder hit solid muscle, I stumbled back, catching the sharp inhale of someone who hadn't seen me either.

And when I looked up, I found myself face to face with Dixon Norcross. He steadies me with a hand on my arm.

His eyes catch mine, piercing blue, striking, too much. I drop my gaze almost instantly. "Sorry," he says. "didn't see you there."

I shake my head quickly, offering a small, polite smile. "It's okay."

He studies me. “You're Daisy.” He says it like he already knows, like he's been waiting to put a face to the name.

He extended his hand. “Dixon Norcross. Guess it was only a matter of time before we finally met.” His voice was deep and calm, the kind of sound that settled somewhere in my brain and lingered there far longer than I cared to admit.

Hesitantly, I reach out, placing my hand in his, not expecting his palm to be so warm and firm. "Yeah," I say softly. “Guess so.”

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"You too."

Another quiet beat. His eyes stay on me while I look everywhere but at him. Uhm.... I should say something else to fill the silence but my throat feels tight, and the words don't come.

Dixon shifts slightly, glancing around the room before his eyes settle back on me. "Your mother talked about you a lot, you know."

Something in me stiffens. “Did she?”

"She did.” he says.

I don't know what to say to that. It feels like a lie, even if it isn't. My mother was an artist, she had money, she was always moving, always busy. Always more focused on her work than me. She was the kind of person who got lost in her own world, her own creations, and sometimes I felt like just another thing she forgot to pick back up.

I pressed my lips into a thin line. "We barely saw each other."

Dixon studies me for a moment and then nods.

“I know. She wished it had been different."

Something sharp presses against my chest at that, something bitter and aching. If she really wanted it to be different, she would've tried. But I don't say that. I just nod, because what else is there to say? She's gone now. No amount of regret changes that.

Dixon exhales through his nose, his gaze holding mine. “She wanted you to know, Daisy.” A beat of silence. “No matter what happened, she loved you.”

I glanced up at him then, wondering if maybe he understood more than I’d given him credit for. Maybe he knew what it was like to feel left behind. To be the one who was never quite enough to make someone stay.

But before I could stop myself, the words slipped out. “Just like she loved you?”

I swallowed, my voice turning bitter. “I guess she was better at loving other people than she ever was at loving her own daughter.”

The words came out sharper than I intended. His expression didn’t change. He just stared at me, silent and unreadable.

My stomach twists. I didn't mean for it to sound like that. But all these years, all the things I've heard about them, their love, their life together, the way my mother left everything behind and poured herself into him, I can't help it. I shouldn't be jealous. I know that. But I am.

She was always too busy, too distracted for me. But for him? For him, she had time. For him, she had love.

I swallow hard, looking away, guilt pressing into my ribs. What's wrong with me? I just need to leave. I turn toward the door, shrugging my coat higher over my shoulders.

When I look outside, the sky has split open. Rain hammers against the ground, hard, turning the driveway into a slick sheet of gray.

Great.

I hesitate for a second, debating if I should just make a run for it, when a hand extends into my vision. A blue umbrella. I blink at it. Then at him.

"Unless you're planning on swimming. Take it."

I glance at him, then back at the umbrella and I reach for it hesitantly, fingers brushing his. "Thanks."

He nods, leaning against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "How long are you staying in town for?"

I fidget with the handle of the umbrella. "I'm not sure yet."

"You have a place to stay?"

"Yeah. A motel."

His brows raise, just barely. "A motel?"

I bristle a little, gripping the umbrella tighter. "Yeah..."

Dixon exhales, looking out at the rain for a beat before glancing back at me. "Not a fan of motels huh?”

I shift uncomfortably. I don't know why this conversation feels so heavy. “Uhm, they're fine I guess."

He hums like he doesn't quite believe me, but he doesn't push. Instead, he nods at the umbrella in my grip. "Just make sure you bring that back. Don't go thinking it's yours now."

It was meant to lighten the mood. But I don't laugh. I don't even smile. I just blink at him, then turn around and step outside.

The rain is colder than I expected, soaking into my coat before I even get the umbrella open. I fumble with the stupid thing for a second, muttering under my breath before finally snapping it into place.

I don't look back. Instead, I walk. The nearest bus stop is just down the road. Two stops. That's all it takes to get to the creepy old motel where I'm staying, the kind of place where the vending machines don't work and the walls smell like cigarette smoke from a decade ago.

Not exactly a warm welcome home. Not that this town has ever felt like home.

—

The walk from the bus stop to my motel feels even longer in the dark. The rain has stopped, but it's damp, humid and my straightened hair has basically exploded. Summer always does this to me.

My shoes scuff against the cracked pavement as I reach my door, the neon motel sign buzzing faintly behind me.

I see two guys sitting in plastic chairs right outside the room next to mine, smoke curling lazily from their cigarettes. One of them flicks his lighter, the tiny flame illuminating his face for a second before he exhales a slow stream of smoke. I keep my head down, hoping to slip past unnoticed, but of course— "Hey there, sweetheart."

Shit. I glance up, offering a tight-lipped smile before looking away again. Just keep walking. Just get inside.

"You want a smoke?" the other one asks, holding out the pack toward me

I shake my head quickly. "No, thanks."

"Aw, c'mon. A pretty girl like you, all alone at a place like this? Gotta take the edge off somehow."

I swallow, my fingers tightening around the motel key. This is creepy. This is exactly the kind of situation I don't want to be in.

"Not much of a talker, huh?" The first guy leans back in his chair, smirking. "Shame. Bet you got a real sweet voice."

I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second before forcing them open again. I don't want to respond. Don't want to engage. My fingers fumble at the lock, my breath hitting as I jam the key in and twist it too hard.

"Hope you sleep well, sweetheart."

I push the door open and slip inside, shutting it quickly behind me. I lock the door, double-checking it before backing up, my breath coming out in an unsteady exhale.

This place is disgusting. The walls are thin. The sheets smell like cheap detergent. And apparently, my neighbors are the kind of guys who sit outside making comments at passing girls. I drop my bag to the floor and press my back against the door, letting out a slow breath.

This was a mistake. I never should've come to Pine Ridge Hills.