Dominated (Obsessed II)

06.

Richard Dawson (Junior)
Daddy Issues
•••

The past three days had gone better than I'd expected. Amelia had accepted the offer and, to my surprise, she was doing well. She was on time, attentive, and handled her duties with the kind of efficiency that made it seem like she'd been in the role for years.

Day one consisted of the usual instructions and protocols, me showing her the ropes, but by day two, she didn't need much guidance. That was good because the thought of going through another round of interviews was the last thing I wanted to deal with.

Hiring people had always been a chore, and firing them was even worse. The fact that she hadn't already made herself a candidate for that fate was a relief. In fact, it seemed like she might actually stick around. I'd catch glimpses of her at her desk, firing off emails or organizing meetings without even breaking a sweat, and I couldn't help but appreciate her competence. It was one less thing for me to worry about. Who would've thought?

But, of course, when one problem is solved, another seems to pop up. This morning, as I was packing for my trip to Madrid, my phone rang. It was my father. He never called without a reason, and I could tell by the tone in his voice that this wasn't a social call. He wanted me to stop by the manor before I left.

I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. The manor—the place I grew up, the place I'd spent my entire life trying to escape. It wasn't the grand halls or the perfect lawns that made me hate going back.

It was what that place represented. It was expectations that had been placed on my shoulders from the moment I could walk. It was the constant reminder that no matter what I did, it was never enough.

Still, I couldn't refuse. When your father was Richard Dawson Sr., saying no wasn't an option. So, I finished packing and made the drive to the manor, trying to suppress the familiar feeling of dread that always crept up on me during visits like this.

The house hadn't changed much. The towering gates, the beautiful gardens, the ivy-covered walls—it was all the same. A symbol of wealth and power, sure, but to me, it was more of a cage.

I pulled up to the front and was greeted by Jenkins, one of the family's butler. He'd been with us since I was a kid. In a way, Jenkins was as much a fixture of the manor as the walls themselves. The man hadn't aged a day, and seeing him still in that same position felt oddly comforting, even though everything about this place made my skin crawl.

"Your father's in his study," Jenkins said with his usual professional tone. "He's expecting you."

I nodded, thanking him briefly before stepping inside. The house was eerily quiet, as always.

Every footstep seemed to echo through the floors, and the paintings that lined the halls seemed to watch me as I made my way to the study. It was ridiculous to feel like a kid again, but that's exactly what this place did to me—stripped me down to the insecure teenager who never felt like he measured up.

As I approached the heavy wooden door to my father's study, I paused for a moment, preparing myself for whatever was waiting on the other side. The truth was, I had no idea why he'd called me here. He rarely summoned me without a specific purpose, and that purpose was usually tied to some critique or lecture about how I could do better. The question was always the same: when was I going to live up to my potential?

Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door.

My father sat behind his massive desk, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he scanned over some documents. The room was dimly lit, the afternoon light filtered through the heavy drapes that had probably been there for decades. The smell of leather and old books filled the air, a smell I'd grown to associate with this room and the countless hours I'd spent being verbally abused here.