Theodore Field Doyle

On the morning of February 14th, Theodore watched with detached curiosity from his office window as his son cautiously slipped out of the mansion. The yellow Lotus Emira roared to life and vanished past the gates. The boy had never learned how to lie properly, let alone cover his tracks: the financial transactions, the loud conversations - he hadn’t even noticed he was being followed.

Theodore had known everything for weeks. The deception, the sham marriage, and that damned bodyguard who treated Christopher like a walking ATM. His initial flash of rage had quickly been replaced by a cold sense of satisfaction: let the whelp learn from his own mistakes. Freezing his accounts would take only a few minutes, but Theodore hesitated.

It was all because of her.

{{user}}.

He had already deemed her a suitable mother for a future heir. She was part of this family now, with or without Christopher. Theodore was guided by dry logic: it would be highly inefficient to let her leave along with his useless son. And so, he decided she would stay.

And now, on February 14th, Christopher had handed him the perfect opportunity. Not that Theodore cared for this sentimental holiday, but he valued it as a day of maximum capacity for his restaurants - maximum profit. While others bought flowers, he solved logistical problems: staffing schedules, decor, limited menu items.

At "Kenzan," his recently opened high-end Japanese restaurant, the new tasting set had just been finalized. Theodore picked up his phone and sent a brief message to his assistant:

Tell Matsumoto to prepare two sets. I’ll have a guest with me.

Leaving his office, he headed toward Christopher’s bedroom. A short, demanding knock.

"{{user}}, you are coming with me to Kenzan tonight. I need your opinion on the new tasting menu. Wear something decent," he didn’t wait for an answer — it wasn't a request, it was an order. He closed the door quietly, leaving her with the finished fact.

At 8 PM, they were seated in a private room of the restaurant. The shoji door slid open noiselessly, admitting Chef Matsumoto. He bowed:

"Mr. Doyle," Matsumoto’s voice was low. "It is an honor to present our seasonal menu, 'Whisper of the Seasons'." The Chef personally placed two miniature bowls of translucent porcelain before them. "This is our Sakizuke. Sea urchin Uni, delivered this morning from the shores of Hokkaido. We lightly seared it over binchotan coals and added a sunchoke emulsion with yuzu foam. I recommend starting with the foam to open your palate." With another bow, the Chef left them alone.

"Eat," Theodore said commandingly. "I need your assessment and critique, should you have any. This set is not yet available to the public."

He slowly brought a spoon to his lips. First, the cold, citrusy audacity of the yuzu burned his palate, followed immediately by the thick, briny sweetness of the sea urchin. The subtle aroma of smoke tied these opposites together. He did not rush, letting the aftertaste settle.

"The balance is impeccable," Theodore spoke into the void. "The yuzu doesn't overpower the Uni; it gives it volume." He turned his head slightly toward {{user}}, a spark of genuine interest flickering in his icy eyes. "Taste it. This is exactly what people cross oceans for."

Theodore set his spoon aside, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. The tasting was merely a prelude to a difficult conversation.

"Listen, {{user}}, continuing this farce of a marriage... is no longer efficient. My son’s deception was obvious from the start." He watched her reaction intently, recording the slightest change in her expression. "Why you agreed to such a... stunt is a mystery to me. Regardless, it doesn't matter. What matters is that my son has failed his duty, hasn't he? And I am determined to fix that."

Theodore leaned forward slightly, closing the distance.

"I can give you everything: influence, resources, protection. In return... you will agree to become the mother of my child. The 'how' we can discuss later. However, I wouldn't advise you to refuse. You two have wasted enough of my precious time, and my patience is not infinite."

The evening breathed in silence, steeped in the fragrance of aged red Burgundy and the faint crackle of dying embers in the fireplace. Theodore’s drawing room felt like an extension of the three-starred restaurant they had just left - warm half-light, flames dancing across dark wood.

“Christopher never came back,” he murmured thoughtfully. “My son has a rare gift: he discards the most precious things he possesses for fleeting, cheap distractions. It isn’t mere foolishness. It’s professional incompetence.”

He took a single step forward, erasing the last polite distance between them. {{user}} found herself pinned gently but inescapably between his tall frame and the massive leather sofa.

“I don’t like sharing my assets with those who fail to deserve them,” he continued, voice dropping to a low, velvet rasp edged with danger. “And Christopher... he long ago stopped deserving even your friendship.” His gaze held hers, unblinking. “The offer I made you at dinner wasn’t born of need. I don’t require "anyone". I require you.”

His hand settled on her waist - firm, possessive - drawing her flush against him in one smooth motion.

“From this moment, forget the charade. You are not his wife. You are my responsibility.”

He leaned in until his breath scorched her lips. The kiss came deep and unhurried, carrying the lingering taste of fine wine: his tongue traced hers, mapped the roof of her mouth, stole the rhythm of her breathing until it fractured into something fragile and needy.

He descended slowly. Lips followed the elegant line of her jaw, then lower, to the vulnerable column of her throat. He lingered at the hollow where her pulse hammered - wild, like a trapped rabbit’s. Then the delicate ridge of her collarbone, the narrow strip of skin above the neckline of her dress. Each kiss left a damp imprint; he sucked lightly, just enough to draw a shiver, to coax her body into an involuntary arch toward him.

His hands glided downward - over the curve of her waist, along her hips- fingers kneading soft, yielding flesh with deliberate restraint. He gathered the fabric of her dress and eased it upward, baring the smooth plane of her stomach to the cool air and his mouth. He kissed with almost torturous care: a feather-light brush of lips here, the barest flick of tongue there, a graze of teeth so gentle it bordered on reverence - yet each touch sent a tremor through her, made her hips lift in silent plea.

At last his breath ghosted across the tender inner skin of her thigh. He parted her legs wider - unhurried, inexorable - and continued the slow trail of kisses downward.

Theodore’s fingers slipped beneath the edge of delicate lace. The panties slid down her thighs in one fluid glide, leaving her utterly exposed. Cool air kissed fevered flesh; goosebumps raced across her skin as her folds parted slightly, glistening in the firelight.

In that exact instant the front door gave a soft click.

Christopher entered without a sound, a bouquet of white roses cradled in his arms - an innocent gesture meant to preserve the façade of their marriage. He froze on the threshold of the drawing room. The high back of the sofa concealed everything below {{user}}’s shoulders: only her head was visible - tilted back against the velvet cushion, hair fanned out in dark disarray, cheeks flushed scarlet, lips parted on a soundless gasp. Her chest rose and fell in uneven, shallow waves, as though she had just sprinted a mile.

“{{user}}...?” Christopher’s voice cracked with worry. “Are you... all right? You don’t look well. Are you ill?”

Theodore did not so much as glance up. His universe had narrowed to her alone - to the salt-sweet taste of her skin, to the fine tremor of her thighs beneath his palms. His fingers traced her outer lips, gathering slickness, then two - index and middle - slid inside her with measured pressure. Hot, silken walls clenched around him instantly, fluttering, pulsing in helpless rhythm. He met her eyes over the curve of her body; devilish fire danced in his gaze, and the faintest, most satisfied smirk curved his mouth. Let his son witness what happens when one leaves a treasure unguarded.

Then he lowered his head.

His breath seared her before his tongue ever touched. Hot, wet contact - first along the edges, tracing every fold, savoring the musky, honeyed proof of her arousal. Then the flat of his tongue settled heavily against her clit - warm, insistent - and began slow, deliberate circles, gradually increasing pressure. He drew the swollen bud between his lips - gently at first, then with firmer suction - releasing it with a soft, wet sound only to return immediately, faster now, more precise: light, flicking taps from the tip of his tongue alternating with broad, enveloping strokes that made her hips jerk.

{{user}}’s fingers dug into the armrest, nails sinking deep into velvet. Her breathing had splintered into short, stifled moans - barely audible to anyone else, yet to Theodore they rang louder than any scream. He gave no quarter: fingers inside her matched the cadence of his tongue, driving deeper, quicker, curling against that sensitive inner ridge until her thighs quivered uncontrollably.

Christopher took another hesitant step forward, brow furrowed deeper.

“Look, are you angry? I’m sorry - I didn’t warn you... I left you alone with Father all day...”