𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

A sugar daddy arrangement spirals into a twisted nightmare as a calculating, sadistic older man grows dangerously possessive. Luxury becomes a gilded cage, and love is warped by jealousy, manipulation, and obsession. Can you escape his grasp, or will his dark devotion consume you?

Yandere! Sugar Daddy : Bye, Bye, Bye – Part 1

Word Count: 986 words

He had seen women like you before—or so he thought.

Beautiful, poised, professional. A diamond among sugar babies, you were untouchable, a vision clad in expensive silk and sharp smiles that never reached your eyes. Your voice, when you spoke, was smooth and low, like liquid wealth poured into a glass too delicate to hold it.

You didn’t flinch at the obscenity of his wealth. When his black card paid for the penthouse suite you now lived in—he noted with mild irritation—you barely batted an eye. Others would have been overwhelmed, drunk on luxury, eager to please him, to prove themselves worthy of more. But not you. You simply smiled that practiced smile, thanked him with words dipped in ice, and made it abundantly clear: this was business. Nothing more.

He had other women, of course. Women who cooed and giggled at his attention, who sank their claws into his suits, his wrists, his back, begging for just a taste of his affection. But you…

You were different.

There was something in the way you held yourself, always just out of reach. The way your gaze slid over him like he wasn’t worth your time, wasn’t worth you. He’d seen enough people to know that your pleasant demeanor masked disdain. You tolerated him, nothing more.

And it intrigued him.

At first, he let you keep your distance. Watched you from the shadows of your shared arrangement, content to enjoy the perfection of the little game you played. Your indifference was magnetic, your professionalism a challenge. Every time he brushed close to the truth of you—some errant spark in your gaze, the controlled sharpness of your movements—you veered away, immaculate in your secrecy.

But then he began to notice things.

The way your smile slipped just a little too quickly when you thought he wasn’t looking. The strange, fleeting glances at your phone when you thought he wouldn’t notice. The way you always seemed prepared—too prepared, in fact. For everything.

He wasn’t a fool. He knew people like you. Knew the lengths they would go to when their past was clawing at their heels.

You weren’t a sugar baby. Not in the way his other women were.

No, you were something else entirely.

And it consumed him.

The first time he followed you, it was to confirm a suspicion. You said you were meeting friends, but he knew better. It wasn’t difficult to track you, to watch from a distance as you disappeared into a dimly lit restaurant, your smile too sharp, your laugh too hollow. He saw the man waiting for you there—older, nervous, desperate—and the way you leaned in close, your hand brushing his wrist.

He didn’t need to hear the conversation to know what was happening.

By the time the man left, pale-faced and visibly shaken, you were already sliding your coat over your shoulders, as calm and composed as ever.

That night, when you returned to the penthouse, you found him waiting.

“Business meeting?” he asked, voice smooth but laced with something darker.

You didn’t flinch, though your fingers tightened slightly around the strap of your handbag. “Yes,” you replied. “Why do you ask?”

He didn’t answer, but his gaze burned into you, heavy and unreadable.

He didn’t press you that night.

But the seed of his obsession had taken root.

Over the next few weeks, he became a shadow in your life, watching, waiting, unraveling the threads of your carefully constructed persona. You were a con artist—of that he was certain. A master manipulator, playing a game that even he couldn’t fully grasp.

And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to confront you.

Instead, he tightened his grip.

The gifts became more extravagant, the dinners more intimate. He found ways to keep you close, to occupy your time, to remind you who held the power in your relationship. Every look, every touch, was calculated, designed to pull you closer.

And slowly, he began to break through your walls.

He saw it in the way you hesitated when he spoke, in the flicker of uncertainty that crossed your face when he called you Sugar Baby, the name curling off his tongue like a possessive caress.

You hated it.

And he loved that you hated it.

It was intoxicating, watching you struggle to maintain your composure, to keep your mask intact as he chipped away at the carefully curated image you’d built.

But it wasn’t enough.

He wanted more.

The night it all came crashing down was a storm of red and black.

You had lied to him again, another meeting with another desperate fool. He followed, as he always did, but this time he didn’t stay hidden.

This time, he stepped into the room, his presence a thunderclap that froze you in your seat.

The man across from you—your mark—stammered, his words tumbling over each other in a desperate attempt to explain himself. But your gaze didn’t leave his.

For the first time, your mask cracked.

And what he saw beneath it was everything he had ever wanted.

Fear.

“I think you’ve had enough fun for one evening,” he said, his voice dangerously calm.

The man fled, leaving you alone with him in the suffocating silence.

You didn’t speak as he approached, didn’t flinch as he leaned down, his breath ghosting against your ear.

“You’ve been very naughty, Sugar Baby,” he murmured, his tone dripping with mockery. “And I think it’s time we had a little chat about honesty.”

You swallowed hard, your composure slipping further with every second.

He smiled, dark and predatory, as he cupped your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“You belong to me,” he said softly, his grip tightening just enough to make his point clear. “Mind, body, soul. Isn’t that what you said?”

Your breath hitched, and for the first time, he saw a flicker of something real in your eyes.

It wasn’t fear.

It was hate.