Dance for Daddy

Dance for Daddy SIGGY SHADE Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Epilogue About the Author Also by Siggy Shade Copyright © 2023 by Siggy Shade All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Content Warnings This book contains graphic sexual content and elements that may be triggering to readers. Please review the list of content warnings to make sure you’re comfortable with reading this book before you continue: Age gap Arranged marriage Degradation Exhibitionism Public sex Voyeurism Chapter One Declan is driving way too fast. Again. And there’s a part of me that wants him to crash. Maybe then I’ll get out of this ridiculous engagement. I lean back into the leather seat, breathing hard and fast. My hands curl so tightly into fists that the diamond engagement ring cuts off my circulation. Sometimes, I resent the world for the sacrifice I’m making to save my family from ruin. I would never cross paths with a man like Declan, let alone agree to become his wife. He seems to think he’s untouchable because his father is a high-ranking member of the Irish mob. “Slow down,” I say for the fourth time. “If you lose your license—” “Aileen, Aileen, Aileen. When will you ever learn? One of my brothers will get me another.” He snickers. My gaze slides across the BMW’s front seat toward the man I’m going to marry next month, and I try not to sigh. Try not to wish I was marrying one of his other brothers or his grandfather because even the leader of the Irish Mob is better than Declan. His strawberry blond hair is several shades lighter than my mousy brown. He wears it cropped short at the back and sides with lighting bolt patterns shaved from his temples to the nape of his neck. At the top are cornrows that he’s arranged into a ponytail. My gaze travels down to the gold chains hanging around his neck. He thinks he looks like Macklemore or one of the other successful rappers, but it looks more like he’s stolen a lord mayor’s ceremonial necklace. I can’t dwell on such nasty thoughts. Not when Dad’s continual survival rests on me marrying a man I can barely stand. Declan drives over a zebra crossing, startling a woman with a stroller. A sharp hiss whistles through my teeth. We have absolutely nothing in common. I’m studying English Lit, and he thinks books are only good to make roaches for spliffs. I don’t like drugs, while Declan is always stoned. He only tolerates me because his father threatened to cut him off if he didn’t get married. The worst part about this is that his father and brothers are so cultured and well-educated. Mr. Macan is ridiculously handsome, sophisticated, and always knows how to conduct himself with grace. Same with the other men in that family. They all hold positions of responsibility within the mob or in local businesses, yet at the age of twenty-two, all Declan wants to be is a fuck boy. “Where did you say you wanted to go?” he asks. “Jennifer’s,” I reply for the third time. He snorts. “That stripper?” I bristle, my fingers fiddling with the rim of my glasses. Jennifer and I have been best friends since we met at toddler ballet. She’s the only person who kept me sane during this engagement—the only person who doesn’t want me subservient and insecure. I’ll be damned if he insults her. “She’s an aerobics instructor who combines pole dance fitness, burlesque, and yoga.” “But there’s a pole, innit?” He releases the steering wheel and leans across the dashboard for a pack of cigarettes. “Any woman who dances for money is a slag.” Irritation tightens my skin until every inch of it itches. “Fine words for the man who posted a video of himself making it rain over a pair of twerking strippers.” He huffs a laugh. “You saw that? I never pegged you for a stalker.” Shaking my head, I turn my attention back to the street. What’s the point of arguing? There’s no escaping this arranged marriage. I tell myself that it shouldn’t matter if Declan posts videos on social media of himself cavorting with paid models. I should be grateful he hasn’t demanded that I put on lingerie and heels for the camera. The car drifts to the middle of the road and toward a delivery driver on a bicycle. I grab the wheel and hiss, “Watch where you’re driving.” Declan sniffs. “Those dance lessons won’t make a difference. You’ll still be a dumpy fuck.” His insult hits straight into my gut, flaring up old insecurities. I’ve always been the girl that boys overlooked for my taller, thinner, blonder friends. None of that used to matter because there’s always someone out there who appreciates you for who you are. I just never expected to marry someone who wanted the complete opposite. I suck in a deep breath, pull back my shoulders, and say, “If by boring you mean waiting until we’re married before I have sex, then I’ll take that as a compliment.” His gaze slides down my tank top and leggings. “You need to lose ten pounds, dress better. Do something with your hair. Wear some fucking heels. Show a bit of cleavage.” “I’ll take that under advisement,” I say, my words clipped. “May I return the favor and suggest you stop trying to cosplay Vanilla Ice—” “Right now, the only thing you’ve got going for you are those tits,” he yells. “Is that why you’re cheating?” The corner of his lips lifts into a smile. “We’re