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CHAPTER SEVEN. ❝ DADDY'S PRIDE , HUH ? ❞
BEING a King child meant I had everything I ever wanted. Every. Single. Thing. Every whim, every desire, every luxury anyone could dream of was mine, just for the asking. Being the daughter of Aiden King was a life others could only fantasize about. People looked at us like we were untouchable, like our family was perched on a golden pedestal above the rest of the world. It was the dream. After all, what could possibly go wrong when you’re the daughter of a King?
But, if there’s one thing people don’t understand about having everything, it’s that “everything” often comes with invisible strings, strings that hold you tight and bind you in ways you never expect.
I wasn’t always aware of those strings, though. At first, I only felt the weight of love. I was spoiled from the moment I opened my eyes. A daddy’s girl through and through. The first girl born into the King family in decades, and, trust me, they let me know just how special that made me. Grandpa and Nan poured so much affection into me, showering me with gifts, treats, and endless praise. I could do no wrong in their eyes. And Grandpa Ethan? He practically raised me up on a golden throne of his own making. The man couldn’t go a week without spoiling me rotten, no matter how much Mama warned him not to.
When I was born, Uncle Levi couldn’t contain his emotions. Instead of comforting Papa, who had tears streaming down his face, Uncle Levi burst into tears himself. That’s one of the things I love most about my family—there’s no pretense, no emotional distance. We’re all raw with each other, open, unapologetically close. Emotions spill out, love is shared equally, and no one holds back.
And then there’s Aunt Astrid. She wasn’t far behind when it came to doting on me. She’d come by so often, taking me off Mama’s hands just so she could rest for a while. Aunt Astrid would take me to her house, feed me more treats than I probably should’ve had, and sit me down with pencils and paper, sketching beside me for hours. I still remember my first drawing—a wobbly, enthusiastic attempt at Spider-Man when I was just three years old. She kept it, framed it even, like it was some kind of masterpiece.
Mama was happy. So damn happy. And the best part was, I knew I had a part in that happiness. No matter the pain I caused her bringing me into this world, she loved me fiercely, and I gave her a joy that was palpable. She’d often remind me, when she thought I wasn’t listening, how proud she was. How much I made her heart full.
But the one who changed the most because of me? That was Papa.
Aiden King, the man feared by everyone, the man whose name alone sent shivers down people’s spines, cried like a baby when I was born. He never knew how much he wanted to be a girl dad until the moment I was placed in his arms. And he admitted it himself. The great Aiden King, who had stared death in the face, who had built an empire, was reduced to a sobbing mess at my birth.
