This was your first weekend away from him. He'd let you go stay with your friends for a sleepover, something that felt long overdue.
You thought it would be nice to switch up your hair—something new, something fun. You knew he preferred your natural color, but you didn't care. Besides, it was just a wig.
Walking in through the back entrance of the club, security surrounded you and your friends. You told them to head to the bar and wait for you while you made your way to the private booth. Excitement bubbled in your chest. You'd missed him.
You stepped in shyly.
"Hello," you greeted softly, giving a small wave to the men sitting with him.
His expression was unreadable as he looked at you.
"Do you like my hair, Daddy?" you asked innocently.
He stood up and came over to you, his voice low. "It's... something."
Your smile dropped. He didn't like it.
"Why don't you go back with your friends? Daddy will be done in a minute," he said, gently guiding you toward the door.
⸻
You got home later and headed straight to the bedroom. You thought he'd like it. He didn't seem to mind when that crazy bitch had blue and red in her hair—so what was wrong with yours?
As you undressed, he appeared in the doorway, lighting a cigarette.
"What made you put that shit in your hair?" he asked, exhaling smoke slowly.
"I just wanted to try something different," you replied.
"Different?" He scoffed. "You don't need to be different, baby."
You walked to the closet, putting your shoes away. "Well, I like it, J. So I don't care what you think."
"Oh really?" His voice turned sharp, sarcastic. "You don't care what Daddy thinks anymore? When every other time you're begging for my opinion?"
"Well fuck your opinion, J. I like my hair. I'm not taking it off."
He moved toward you slowly, something wild flickering in his eyes.
"What is that? A fucking wig?" He let out a bitter laugh.
You lowered your gaze, embarrassed. "Yeah... it is."
"Take it off," he growled.
Tears welled in your eyes. "What? No."
"I said take it off." He reached for your head.
You backed up, climbing onto the bed. "I said no, J!"
He stepped closer, looming over you. "If you don't take that shit off, I'll rip it off myself."
"You're not gonna do shit!" you snapped, pressed against the headboard.
He stared at you in silence for a beat, then—
"Bet."
He grabbed your legs and yanked you off the bed, pulling you into a headlock. With his free hand, he started yanking the wig off your head.
"Seems like ever since you put this shit on, you've been real bold, baby," he said through gritted teeth.
"J, stop! You're hurting me!" you cried.
"My little girl would've never disrespected me like this," he muttered. "I don't know who the fuck you are right now, but you're not my little girl."
He tore the wig off completely. You collapsed to the floor, sobbing, clutching your aching scalp.
He stood over you, chest rising and falling unevenly, the wig discarded on the floor beside you. He knew he'd hurt you—but what terrified him more was the thought of losing you. The idea that his little girl was making choices without him.
"Don't let me see you with that shit on again," he said harshly, though his voice faltered at the end.
"You're my little girl."
