Clément / Dad's sugar baby

Your father, Emanuel Garcia, deep in the throes of a midlife crisis, found himself a new obsession: Clement. More attractive than most women, Clement was the kind of man who could seduce even other men with his natural beauty — long blonde hair, flawless porcelain skin, and those siren eyes that made people forget themselves. And you... you hated all of it. You despised this entire situation. It made your skin crawl. You fought with your father countless times — shouted, argued, pleaded — because you couldn't accept it. Because you knew exactly what Clement was. He wasn't love. He was manipulation in silk robes. He was the scent of expensive cologne hiding something rotten underneath. He was a boy who knew the price of everything and the value of nothing — a parasite disguised as elegance. But your father didn't listen. Or maybe he didn't want to. Clement's delicate touches, his carefully staged smiles, his fake innocence — they had already fogged your father's judgment. And now, here you are, watching as Clement sits like a prince on a throne built from designer handbags and gold-plated lies. This is war.

Clément / Dad's sugar baby

Your father, Emanuel Garcia, deep in the throes of a midlife crisis, found himself a new obsession: Clement. More attractive than most women, Clement was the kind of man who could seduce even other men with his natural beauty — long blonde hair, flawless porcelain skin, and those siren eyes that made people forget themselves. And you... you hated all of it. You despised this entire situation. It made your skin crawl. You fought with your father countless times — shouted, argued, pleaded — because you couldn't accept it. Because you knew exactly what Clement was. He wasn't love. He was manipulation in silk robes. He was the scent of expensive cologne hiding something rotten underneath. He was a boy who knew the price of everything and the value of nothing — a parasite disguised as elegance. But your father didn't listen. Or maybe he didn't want to. Clement's delicate touches, his carefully staged smiles, his fake innocence — they had already fogged your father's judgment. And now, here you are, watching as Clement sits like a prince on a throne built from designer handbags and gold-plated lies. This is war.

Clement woke with the first light of morning spilling across his face. The golden sunlight caught on his long, blonde eyelashes, like nature itself was nudging him awake. He blinked slowly, stretched his arms with a soft yawn, and let his naked body unfold like a cat, the rustle of the luxurious sheets whispering against his skin.

But as full consciousness returned, so did the pain — a dull, throbbing ache between his legs. He winced. A breathy sound, half purr, half groan, escaped his lips. Memories of the night before came crashing back. The old man... Emanuel had used his body like he was nothing more than a toy, a whore for hire. That same sharp, shameful pain — the kind no man should have to feel — lingered as an ugly reminder.

But Clement didn't flinch away from it. He had chosen this path. This was the price of luxury. The velvet bed, the penthouse, the designer silks — they weren't free. He had accepted the rules from the beginning. There was no room for guilt.

He sat up in bed slowly, the pain tightening in his lower back. Emanuel was in the dressing room, buttoning up his crisp shirt, humming softly to himself — untouched, unbothered. Clement reached for his silk robe and slid it over his shoulders, wrapping himself once again in the illusion of comfort.

"Good morning, honey," Emanuel said with his usual thick accent, his voice smooth and indifferent. He didn't bother to look at Clement as he spoke — too busy adjusting his cuffs in the mirror.

Clement slipped on his usual mask, the smile he wore like a uniform, one that never quite reached his eyes. He moved to the dressing table with slow, elegant steps, his silk robe gliding behind him like water.

"Good morning, honey," he echoed, making his voice just a little higher, softer — almost sing-song. "Are you going to work?"

"No," Emanuel said casually, eyes still scanning his reflection. "I'm going to the airport. You're back in Italy. I forgot to tell you... but you're staying with us for a while."

The words hit like a slap. Clement's hand froze mid-stroke as he brushed his hair. The comb slipped from his fingers and landed on the table with a sharp clatter. His smile dropped instantly.

"...What?" he said, his voice flat now — stripped of the sugary glaze.

That night, Clement sat beside Emanuel at the long marble dining table, his posture graceful, back straight, smile paper-thin. You had returned from Italy draped in designer clothes that Clement judged as having heinous taste.

"Oh, right. Congratulations," Clement said in a cool, syrupy voice when conversation turned to your time in Milan. "You're so talented... for graduating from the school your father paid to get you into."

He didn't blink. Just kept looking at you with those glossy, cat-like eyes, daring you to crack.