Yes Daddy

Ryan Corey and Cole are all sitting in the staff break room making coffee heating up food and chatting and Walks in all happy and chipper Reco hey y’all what y’all doing? Shit tryna decide if we going to that new spot in town to see that new artist or to that other good spot across town to hear your girl perform says Ryan as Corey interjects well I don’t think imma go cause a bitch don’t have any good clothes. Hey Reco how’s that man of yours I see he still have you all open and shit like y’all mother fuckers honeymooning out this bitch? chuckles Cole as he sips from his morning coffee. Never mind him bitch we good knw that plus I’m tryna go aswell. Oh and Corey, Ryan got something in mind for you since your ass is the only one out the group still mother fucking single. I mean is this by choice or are yu just bad with good men bitch cause it’s damn sure something Reco says sarcastically while everyone else laughs. Now you wait bitch so be going and acting like you all high and mighty cause sixteen years ago I remember a little blacks ebony enchantress stroll through Christopher St as some what of a whore says Corey as he heads out the break room back to his desk. Ooohhhhh says bothe Ryan and Cole as they strut back to there desk. The heavy glass doors of Conference Room B clicked shut behind Dexter Vance, leaving a dense, suffocating silence in their wake. Reco stood frozen by the mahogany table, his knuckles white against his leather portfolio.

Sixteen years. Sixteen years of building a fortress with Tyson—a stunning brownstone in Bed-Stuy, matching high-end rides in the garage, and ironclad security in each other's arms while their corporate careers soared. They were the power couple. Unshakeable.

Or so Reco had spent the last decade and a half believing.

His phone buzzed on the table. A notification popped up on the lock screen—a picture from Tyson showing a extravagant arrangement of dark red orchids delivered to their home, captioned: Happy 15th Anniversary, baby. Dinner at 8. Just us.

Reco’s stomach turned, a sickening knot tightening in his gut. It wasn't the ghost of Dexter Vance that made his blood run cold. It was the secret he had been carrying for the last four months—a ticking time bomb wrapped in satin sheets and late-night "business meetings."

Because while Tyson was at his firm orchestrating million-dollar deals, Reco had let someone else into their sacred space. A quiet slide into temptation that started as a thrill and quickly escalated into an obsession he couldn't control.

Reco grabbed his phone with trembling fingers and pulled up his private messaging app.

Reco: We need to talk. Now. It’s getting out of hand.

The reply came back instantly, cold and deliberate.

Unknown: I told you, Reco. You don't get to call the shots anymore. See you at dinner tonight. Tyson has no idea I was invited, does he?

Reco stared at the screen, the air rushing out of his lungs. The affair was no longer just a dirty secret—it was turning into a trap, and the predator holding the wire was about to step right into his home. The life, the career, and the empire he and Tyson built were about to explode, and there was no turning back. Reco is standing in the break room lost in thought as he collects his self to go and speak to a new client who is buying a property and needs his investment company to merge with him. He Geta a text from a number he hadn't seen in a very long time now. Its Dexter Reco's Ex from right before he and Rod met, ugh was do this lame want? the text reads (Hey Reco sup how you been I been thinking about you a lot and I know we didn't end things on a great note but I was wondering if you wanted to chill and catch up I'm single I'm sure you rant but its no harm no foul I just want to chill.) Reco reply back :\ emoji and then blocks the number Reco tucked his phone back into his tailored trousers, shaking off the phantom chill Dexter’s text had left behind. Sixteen years of building a life with Rod—a real, steady, bone-deep kind of love—wasn't about to be rattled by some ghost from Christopher Street poking around for nostalgia.

He walked past the bullpen, smoothing the lapels of his suit jacket. Corey was already clacking aggressively away at his keyboard, though the smirk on his face showed he was still feeling victorious after that breakroom jab. Ryan and Cole were leaning over a partition, whispering furiously before feigning total absorption in their spreadsheets the second Reco stepped near.

"Enjoy the memory lane tour, fellas," Reco called out smoothly, not missing a beat. "Just make sure those Q3 reports are on my desk before you go hunting for Corey’s potential soulmate tonight."

"Bitch, please! I'm holding out for a billionaire," Corey threw over his shoulder, though a grin cracked his defensive posture.

Reco chuckled, stepping into his corner office. The floor-to-ceiling glass overlooked the city, the morning light cutting through the steel and glass horizon. Today was a major deal. A rising real estate mogul was bringing a massive multi-use development project to the table, looking for Reco’s firm to provide the capital backing and joint-venture structure.

His desk phone chimed precisely at 10:00 AM.

"Mr. Reco, your 10 o'clock appointment is here," his assistant, Amber, announced over the intercom. "Mr. Vance is in Conference Room B."

"Thank you, Amber. Bring in two coffees—black for him, caramel splash for me."

Reco picked up his leather-bound portfolio, took a breath, and stepped back into work mode. He loved this part of the job—the strategy, the power, the art of closing a deal that would reshape city blocks.

He pushed open the heavy glass door to Conference Room B, a polished pitch ready on the tip of his tongue. "Good morning, Mr. Vance, I'm Reco. It’s an absolute pleasure to—"

The words caught in his throat.

Standing by the window, adjusting a crisp charcoal cufflink, was a man whose silhouette was painfully familiar. Broad shoulders, sharp jawline, and a pair of calculating dark eyes that turned to meet Reco's with a slow, deliberate smile.

It wasn't a stranger.

"Hello, Reco," the man said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that instantly pulled Reco back to late nights, rain-slicked pavement, and mistakes he thought he’d buried long ago. "It’s been a minute."

It was Dexter.

Reco froze, his fingers tightening against the leather portfolio until his knuckles turned ash-grey. The text message suddenly wasn't an innocent blast from the past. It was a opening move.

"You," Reco said, his voice dropping an octave, all business warmth evaporating into thin air. "The merger. You are Vance Capital?"

"Dexter Vance now," he replied smoothly, taking a slow step toward the head of the conference table, entirely unfazed by the icy reception. "I dropped the old last name when I bought my first square block downtown. I told you I was going to make something of myself back then, didn't I? You just didn't stay long enough to see it happen."

"I stayed long enough to know who you were," Reco shot back, stepping fully into the room and letting the door slide shut behind him. "And you know damn well I don't mix my past with my bottom line. If you think a text and a fake business proposition—"

"It's not fake," Dexter interrupted, sliding a thick black binder across the polished mahogany table. "Twenty million in equity, Reco. Guaranteed high-yield returns. My team built the infrastructure, but your firm has the institutional backing I need to break ground."

Dexter leaned against the table, crossing his arms, his eyes scanning Reco with an uncomfortably familiar intensity.

"Business is business, Reco. Unless, of course... you can't handle working with me? Is Rod that insecure?"

The mention of Rod’s name hit like a spark to gasoline, but Reco didn't explode. Instead, a cold, dangerous calm washed over him. He walked up to the table, placed his hands flat on the polished wood, and met Dexter’s gaze head-on.

"Rod doesn't have to worry about men from my past, Dexter. Because unlike sixteen years ago, I actually know the difference between a real man and a boy playing with borrowed money."

Reco pulled the binder toward himself and flipped it open to the signature page. "I'm going to have my legal team review every single line item of this proposal. If the numbers make sense for my firm, we'll take your money and build your project. But you deal through my associates. You don't call my personal line, you don't text me, and you sure as hell don't bring up my husband ever again."

Dexter's smug smile faltered for just a fraction of a second, a flicker of the old, bitter anger flashing behind his eyes before he masked it with a nod. "Professional to the end. I can respect that."

"Amber," Reco called out as his assistant opened the door carrying a tray with two steaming mugs. "Please show Mr. Vance out. Send the digital contracts over to risk management."

"Right away, Mr. Reco," Amber said, sensing the thick tension hanging in the air.

Dexter picked up his coat, pausing at the threshold. He looked back over his shoulder, his voice dropping so only Reco could hear. "See you at the ground-breaking, Reco. The city's smaller than you think."

As the door clicked shut, Reco finally let out the breath he’d been holding. He walked over to the window, watching Dexter’s sleek black sedan pull away from the curb below. His phone buzzed in his pocket again.

This time, it was a picture from Rod: a photo of a bouquet of deep crimson roses sitting on their kitchen island, accompanied by a simple text: Happy 16th Anniversary Eve, baby. Dinner tonight at 8. Just us.

Reco smiled, the chill in his chest melting away completely. The past could knock on the door all it wanted, but Reco already knew exactly where he belonged.