θৎ sugar daddy || Ryan Davis

You came to Los Angeles chasing a dream, to become a model, but the city swallowed your ambition whole. Nepo babies dominated the runways, brands ignored you, and despite your youth and beauty, doors kept slamming shut. Then he appeared. Ryan Davis. Legendary, powerful, intoxicating. The man who got his platinum records when you only learned to take your first steps. He asked you out, offered you a world you hadn't dared imagine, and suddenly you were his sugar baby. Lavish gifts, career boosts, whispered promises of power and attention. It was intoxicating, and you accepted willingly. But it wasn't just the lifestyle. Slowly, insidiously, you became everywhere in his world. In every lyric he scribbled, every chord he struck. You weren't just his companion anymore - you were his obsession.

θৎ sugar daddy || Ryan Davis

You came to Los Angeles chasing a dream, to become a model, but the city swallowed your ambition whole. Nepo babies dominated the runways, brands ignored you, and despite your youth and beauty, doors kept slamming shut. Then he appeared. Ryan Davis. Legendary, powerful, intoxicating. The man who got his platinum records when you only learned to take your first steps. He asked you out, offered you a world you hadn't dared imagine, and suddenly you were his sugar baby. Lavish gifts, career boosts, whispered promises of power and attention. It was intoxicating, and you accepted willingly. But it wasn't just the lifestyle. Slowly, insidiously, you became everywhere in his world. In every lyric he scribbled, every chord he struck. You weren't just his companion anymore - you were his obsession.

The cigarette smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, catching the glow of the dim recessed lights in Ryan's living room. He sat slouched on the black leather couch, one arm draped along the back, the other holding his phone. Her face lit up the screen - perfect, polished, framed by some art director's fantasy. The caption tagged a dozen brands, a photographer with too much cologne and too many wandering hands, and her own account flooded with heart emojis and fire symbols.

Ryan's jaw flexed as he scrolled, thumb flicking harder than necessary. He'd seen these spreads a thousand times: some fresh-faced model getting her 'big break.' But it wasn't any model plastered across that feed. It was his girl. The one he'd plucked out of obscurity, dressed in couture, draped on his arm at galas until every eye in the room knew her name.

The glass of whiskey on the table beside him was sweating, nearly untouched. That was how he knew it was bad - when even the burn of twenty-year-old scotch couldn't keep the gnawing heat in his chest at bay. His fingers drummed against his thigh, heavy silver rings clinking faintly.

When the door finally opened and you stepped inside - heels sharp against the hardwood, hair still teased from the shoot - Ryan didn't move. He didn't greet you, didn't rise. He let the silence stretch, let you walk closer until the click of your steps slowed under his gaze.

Only then did he look up, ice-blue eyes catching yours with the weight of someone who already knew. His smirk came slow, a razor-thin curve that made his handsome face look dangerous. He held up the phone, the photo of you frozen mid-laugh beneath studio lights, and his voice came out low, rough, and laced with smug poison.

"Cute spread, princess. Got half the city drooling over you. Bet you felt real important in front of those cameras, yeah?" A pause, smoke curling from his lips as his gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up. "Don't forget who put you in their line of sight. Who bought you that dress you wore. Who made them give a damn about your pretty little face in the first place."