Daddy's Girls, Book 3

Daddy's Girls, Book 3

In the world Daddy built, loyalty is not a choice.

It’s survival.

The women raised under his control are trained to be everything at once, weapon, distraction, illusion. They move where they’re needed, take what they’re given, and leave nothing behind that can be traced back to them.

Chloe Sanders was always one of the best at it.

Not because she followed the rules.

Because she knew exactly when to break them.

At twenty-four, she understands the power of attention, how to draw it, control it, and use it until there’s nothing left of the man on the other side of it. Seduction is a skill. Performance is protection.

But grief doesn’t follow rules.

And revenge doesn’t wait.

When Marcel is taken from her, Chloe doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t mourn quietly or move on like she’s expected to.

She chooses a target.

Jaxon Black.

A man who doesn’t share power. Who doesn’t tolerate weakness. Who built his empire on control so absolute that nothing inside it moves without his permission.

He should have been impossible to reach.

Instead, she walks straight into his world.

What begins as a calculated move quickly turns into something far more dangerous, something that doesn’t stay one-sided, doesn’t stay controlled, and doesn’t end where it should.

Because in a world built on possession, power, and consequence, some lines aren’t meant to be crossed.

And once they are… nothing comes back the same.

Chapter 1

Chloe

Two months earlier

I’m back on the cross. Naked. Bound. Exposed. Most women would call this surrender. Me? I call it trust. Because every time Marcel Ortiz ties me up like this, he forgets something important, I let him.

And baby, there’s power in letting go when you choose to fall.

Marcel. Fucking. Ortiz.

Third son of Gabriel Ortiz, South Coast’s reigning sin king. Three sons, three different baby mamas, all vying for papa’s twisted crown. But Marcel? He’s the blade they keep sheathed until it’s time to make someone bleed. Clean suits. Dirtier hands. Sharp smile that says run, even while your pussy screams stay.

I was sent to him under Daddy’s orders. Another boring assignment wrapped in tailored suits and smuggled vices. Protect the South Coast Lord’s son. Keep my mouth shut. Do the job. Easy enough.

But nothing about Marcel Ortiz is easy.

He looked at me once, really looked, and in that one second, he stripped me bare. Not my body. My armor. That was the real danger.

Because Marcel doesn’t seduce. He conquers.

The crack of the whip snaps me out of my thoughts and straight into the burn. God, yes. That line of fire kisses my back like a secret. One I can’t keep. One I don’t want to.

I moan, hips flexing, spine bowing in offering. It’s not pain, it’s a fucking symphony, and he’s the maestro.

“Such a needy little thing, mi princesa,” he purrs, and that voice… that voice is a velvet noose. Tight. Delicious. Deadly.

He strikes again. Precise. Brutal. Beautiful. Each lash is a reminder: I don’t break, I burn.

And then… Fuck, he’s inside me. No warning. No mercy. Just Marcel, claiming space inside me like it’s always been his. And maybe it has. Maybe I gave it to him the second I saw those beautiful hazel eyes and thought; Ah shit, this one’s gonna ruin me.

He thrusts hard, hand on my throat, teeth grazing skin like he’s deciding where to leave his next sin. I gasp. Moan. Beg. Not because I’m weak. But because it takes strength to fall apart and trust someone to pick up the pieces, especially someone who could just as easily shatter them further.

And Marcel? He doesn’t pick up pieces. He reassembles me into something that belongs to him.

My orgasm slams into me like a wave with teeth, violent, glorious, devouring. And just when I think he’s done, he growls my name like it’s the only one that’s ever mattered and finishes with a bite on my neck that feels more like a fucking brand.

“I love you, Marcel,” I whisper, raw and real.

And he answers without hesitation.

“I love you, Chloe.”

And just like that, I’m ruined.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Later, like always, he runs me a bath.

Gentle hands over burning skin. Careful fingers tracing every welt he carved into me moments ago. He soothes the pain he gave me like it’s a love language. And maybe it is. Maybe that’s what we are, violence and tenderness woven together in silk and blood.

Then he pulls me into bed, arms wrapped around me like I’m something fragile. Like he didn’t just break me open to see what I’m made of.

His penthouse, top floor, South Coast skyline glittering like a crown, feels more like home than anywhere I’ve ever laid my head. Which is ironic, considering it was never built for love. This place was designed to watch. To control.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, voice lazy with afterglow, stroking my hair like I’m a well-behaved pet. I should be annoyed. I should roll my eyes. Instead, I press into the touch like it’s oxygen.

“You get the day off tomorrow, mi princesa. I have to meet with Jaxon Black, but I’ll be back by evening.”

My entire body stills.

Jaxon Black?

That name isn’t tossed around lightly. Marcel’s mentioned it before, but only in passing, like something toxic he didn’t want to touch for too long. Respectful. Careful. Wary.

I tilt my head, just enough to catch the edge of his jaw. “Jaxon Black?” I let the question float, soft but sharp.

Because this isn’t pillow talk. This is business. And I’m not just his girl. I’m the one who’s supposed to keep his heart beating.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. “We’re finally able to meet. Been in touch for a while now.”

Cute. So this has been brewing. Quietly. Off the radar.

I narrow my eyes. “And you trust him?”

Because trusting Jaxon Black is like making deals with a shadow, you might think you’re safe until it consumes you.

Marcel meets my gaze, unwavering. “I do, yeah.”

I let the silence stretch before I nod once. If he’s sure, then I’m sure. For now. But my gut doesn’t like this. My gut says: keep your knives close.

“Okay. If you say so.”

He kisses my forehead like we didn’t just have an unspoken power shift, pulling me tight against his chest. “Sleep, mi princesa. I love you.”

I don’t say it back. Not this time.

I fall asleep with his hand in my hair and the ghost of Jaxon Black whispering in the back of my mind.

When I wake, Marcel’s side of the bed is cold.

And I can’t shake the feeling that something’s already changed.

I go about my day like everything’s fine.

Smile at the barista. Slip into my heels. Pretend the city isn’t screaming at me.

I text Marcel. We talk like we always do when I get one of those rare, stolen days off. Text updates and filthy promises I know we’ll cash in later. He answers. He’s alive. He’s mine.

Then, just after 6:43 PM, his last message lands:

Mi amore: Heading to meet Black now.

Simple. Clean. Like he wasn’t walking into the lion’s den with a ghost in a crown.

And then?

Nothing.

No follow-up.

No “I’m good.” No teasing kiss emojis. Radio silence. Nothing.

At first, I tell myself it’s fine. Maybe Black’s one of those no-phones types. Maybe Marcel’s just being cautious. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But Marcel doesn’t do nothing.

Not with me.

Not ever.

By the next morning, my gut is clawing at me like a caged animal. I try to breathe through it, but instincts like mine don’t lie. Something’s wrong.

I start pulling strings. Talking to people who owe me favors. The kind of people who never want their names spoken aloud. I scrape information off the city like blood from knuckles.

Still nothing.

Not a whisper. Not a sighting. Marcel Ortiz has gone dark.

I hit up his brother. Get brushed off with half-assed excuses and fake calm.

His father? Cold. Calculated. Claims he doesn’t know a thing, and maybe he doesn’t. But Gabriel Ortiz never blinks unless there’s power involved, and right now, I see the flicker.

And I can’t tell them the truth. Not about Jaxon Black. That was Marcel’s trust, sealed in whispers and skin. I’ll protect that even now, even if it’s the last thing I do for him.

But Jaxon Black’s name sits heavy in my mind, like a trigger with no safety. I don’t have his number. No address. Just the rumors. The stories. A name that turns grown men into superstition.

Three days.

Three. Fucking. Days.

No texts. No calls. No sign of life.

And I’ve officially crossed the line between worried and lethal.

If someone took him from me, they better start digging their graves now, because if Marcel’s in trouble, I’ll burn this city to ash and scatter it at my feet.

He’s mine.

And no one touches what’s mine.

The call comes three days too late.

Gabriel Ortiz.

When the devil himself dials your number, you don’t ignore it. You answer, and you show up.

No questions. No hesitation. That’s how you survive.

He doesn’t explain. Just tells me to come to the compound.

And something in his voice, low, heavy, wrong, makes my pulse stutter.

The Ortiz compound is a fortress dressed like a palace. Marble floors. Glass walls. Gold accents sharp enough to draw blood. But none of that matters today. Today, the air is different. Heavy. Like the whole place is holding its breath.

Gabriel doesn’t speak when I arrive. His soldiers flank me in silence, guiding me underground like I’m a fucking prisoner. Cold hallways. Flickering lights. A sterile white door I’ve never seen before.

And then we stop.

Gabriel’s standing there, holding it open.

Something inside me fractures.

His face is carved from grief and granite. No threats. No arrogance. Just… something that looks far too much like pity.

My gut twists. My fists clench. Every nerve in my body screams run.

I step inside.

And I see it.

Steel table. White sheet.

Stillness so complete, it chokes the oxygen out of the air.

No.

No.

Gabriel’s hand is heavy on my shoulder, his voice a blunt blade.

“I’m sorry, Chloe. We found him in a warehouse outside the city.”

I don’t hear the rest.

Because the world’s gone mute.

I move without feeling, without breath, without hope.

Each step toward that table is a death sentence.

Each inch of the sheet I pull back steals something from me I will never get back.

It’s Marcel.

Or what’s left of him.

His face… swollen, broken, defiled.

Cuts like poetry written in cruelty.

And his eyes, God, his eyes… gone. Hollow sockets staring back with nothing but silence and screams.

The man who once touched me like I was holy…

The man who loved me like it was his job to protect every piece of me…

He didn’t just die. He was taken apart. Whoever did this didn’t want him dead. They wanted him ruined.

And maybe they got their wish.

Because I fall to my knees, and something inside me dies with him.

I don’t cry pretty. I shatter.

Right there, in front of Gabriel fucking Ortiz.

No shame. No mask. No armor. Because this man, my man.

Is gone.

And I am nothing but ash. But from that ash? Something else rises. Something darker.

Rage.

Cold. Calculated. Feral.

Whoever did this thinks they won. They think they ended Marcel Ortiz. They think they broke me. They didn’t. They just rewrote the rules. This isn’t grief. This is a fucking blood oath.

I’m going to find them.

And when I do, I’ll make them feel everything Marcel felt, and worse.

The world is dead to me now.

No light. No mercy.

Only vengeance.

I move like a ghost. Pretty black dress. Lips blood-red. Eyes dry. Because the tears dried up days ago, burned out by the firestorm inside me.

I go through the motions at Marcel’s funeral, standing still while the world keeps turning like I didn’t just lose someone who mattered.

The ache in my chest is a cold, dead thing. Heavy. Hollow.

Like someone carved me open and left nothing but silence behind.

I don’t even flinch when Gabriel Ortiz steps up beside me, his cologne sharp, invasive. The same man who used to look at me with mild amusement now watches me like I’m a threat he regrets allowing too close.

His voice cuts through the silence like a blade dipped in frost.

“Chloe, go home. Go back to Daddy. You’re no longer welcome here.”

I don’t look at him. My eyes stay locked on the freshly turned dirt six feet below. That’s where Marcel is now.

What’s left of him.

“Count yourself lucky that you’re Daddy’s girl,” he adds, final and cold. “Now be gone, girl.”

Girl.

That word slices deeper than I expect. Not woman. Not soldier. Not the one who loved his son more than her own damn life.

Just a girl.

Like I was nothing more than a pawn he’s done playing with.

I want to scream. I want to tear this place apart. But Marcel wouldn’t want that. So I do the one thing I’ve never done before.

I walk away.

Away from the man I would’ve killed for. Away from the grave that holds the pieces of my shattered heart. Away from the South Coast, its cold walls and colder people.

By nightfall, I’m on a plane heading east. Daddy pulled strings. Of course he did. He always does when his little weapon breaks.

I keep my eyes on the window, watching the city vanish beneath clouds.

But I’m not running. I’m reloading.

Because somewhere down there on the Westland soil, in the rot and shadows of his empire, is the bastard who took Marcel from me.

Jaxon Black.

The myth with a god complex and a kill count.

He didn’t just torture Marcel. He made sure I’d find the body. He wanted me to feel it.

And I do.

Oh, I feel it.

Every second since I saw Marcel’s eyes missing from his beautiful, broken face has been an agony I wouldn’t wish on anyone, except Jaxon Black.

So I make myself a promise. One soaked in blood and vengeance and something holy.

I’ll find him. I’ll hunt him. And I’ll end him.

I don’t care if I have to burn the Westland, or my own goddamn soul to do it.

He will pay.

Because love didn’t soften me. It sharpened me.

And now?

Now I’m a blade in red lipstick.

And Jaxon Black’s name is already carved into my kill list.