Falling For My Father's Best friend

Last night I barely slept. The walls in Dad’s apartment were thin, and they didn’t even try to whisper.

“She’ll be fine, Nathan,” the girlfriend said in that syrupy voice. “She’s a big girl now. Let her go figure it out.”

Dad grunted something I couldn’t catch—probably agreement. Probably relief. Who knows?

I lay there staring at the ceiling cracks until my eyes burned, then gave up and scrolled flight confirmations on my phone for the hundredth time. Anything to drown them out. Anything to pretend I wasn’t already gone in my head.

Morning came gray and cold. I dragged my suitcase to the door without knocking. No one came to see me off. No hug. No “good luck.” Just the echo of the front door clicking shut behind me like a period at the end of a sentence nobody wanted to finish.

At the gate, I whispered to the empty seat beside me, “To your face, Mom.” Then I closed my eyes and let the plane carry me away.

I slept the entire flight—deep, dreamless at first, then softer. In the haze I saw myself in crisp scrubs, clipboard in hand, people thanking me, paying me. A real life. A smile tugged at my lips even in sleep.

Until my neck snapped sideways against the window and I jolted awake with a sharp hiss. Heathrow. London. New start.

The company had arranged a driver. I followed the texted instructions through arrivals, dodging luggage carts and accents thicker than fog. I kinda loved it.

When I spotted the car, my stomach dropped. Not a taxi. A sleek black Ferrari, low and predatory, idling at the curb like it owned the whole airport.

Was i being trafficked or kidnapped?

I double-checked the number. Called. A voice answered... almost familiar, clipped, calm.

I walked over anyway. Opened the back door. Slid inside.

“Huh—Hello,” I said quietly.

Silence.

The driver wore dark shades, black suit, hands steady on the wheel. He glanced at me in the rearview. Then he reached up and slowly removed the glasses.

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought it might crack one.

Ethan.

My Ethan. The one who ghosted me in Berlin without a word. The one who’d made me feel small, owned, then disposable.

“Hi, Isabella,” he said, expression blank—the same flat, expectant look he used whenever he wanted me to fall in line.

I gripped the door handle. Every instinct screamed get out. But my legs wouldn’t move.

“You’re calling the pickup line,” he said, almost amused. “I work for Mr. Mateo Rossi now. He asked me personally to collect you.”

I swallowed. Nodded once. Forced a tight smile.

He drove in silence at first. Then faster. Too fast. The Ferrari growled through traffic like it was hunting. I watched his eyes flick to the mirror every few seconds—watching me. Always watching.

We pulled up to a towering glass building in Canary Wharf. Gold letters on the side: **R**ossi **E**nterprises. Twenty-plus floors of polished arrogance.

“You start tomorrow. Nine sharp,” Ethan said. “Boss’s office. Don’t be late—he’ll be gone by ten if you’re not there.”

He handed me a sleek key fob. Our fingers brushed. He held on a second too long. Yuck!

“Room 203,” he murmured. “Mr. Rossi arranged the apartment himself… Bell.”

The old pet name hit like a slap. My stomach twisted—part rage, part something darker I refused to name.

I yanked my hand free and stepped out. Didn’t look back until I reached the entrance. He was still there, leaning against the car, arms crossed, smirking like he’d already won.

“I know you’re nothing without me, Bell,” he called. “I can still help you.”

Something snapped.

I dropped my bag. Marched back. And slapped him—hard. The crack echoed off the glass.

“Fuck you, Ethan,” I hissed. “Fuck you forever.”

Then I ran. Up the steps. Into the elevator. Into 203. Door locked. Back against it. Sobbing until my throat burned.

Why did it still hurt? Why did his voice still make my knees weak? Why did I hate that part of me still remembered how his hands used to feel safe before they turned controlling?

I cried until I couldn’t anymore. Then I crawled into the too-perfect bed—fresh sheets, plush pillows, city lights glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows—and slept like the dead.

Morning came crisp and merciless.

The apartment was stupidly nice. Open-plan kitchen, rainfall shower, king bed that smelled faintly of cedar. I ran the coffee maker (after three failed attempts), showered until the water went cold, and dressed in my best attempt at professional: burnt-orange dress, hair smoothed back, old purse clutched like a shield.

Taxi to the building. Nine o’clock on the dot. First impression matters.

Elevator ride up with a woman in a flawless pink suit—hair perfect, heels lethal. She smelled like money. I smelled like anxiety and last season’s perfume.

She stepped off on fifteen with a polite “Bye.” I smiled back, wondering if she could see the peeling leather on my shoes. I could.

Reception: a man in a sunshine-yellow suit, receding hairline, overly white teeth. He directed me to the top floor without small talk.

I knocked once. Pushed the door open.

He was at the desk—back to the window, city sprawling behind him like a kingdom. Dark suit. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. Tattoos curling around his forearm. That same Blancpain watch catching the light.

I knew before he turned.

He did. Slowly.

Our eyes met.

“Hello, Isabella,” Mateo Rossi said. Voice low. Rich. Familiar in ways that made heat pool low in my belly.

I froze.

He leaned back in his chair, studying me like a puzzle he’d already solved.

“I never knew Nathan had a daughter quite like you,” he said, the faintest curve to his lips. “All grown up.”

Relief crashed through me so hard my knees almost buckled.

He didn’t recognize me. Not from the bar. Not from the penthouse. Not from the way I’d moaned his name while he fucked me senseless.

Or… he was pretending.

I forced my voice steady. “Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Rossi.”

He gestured to the chair across from him.

“Sit.”

I did.

His gaze never left my face.

"Huhhhhhhh" he nodded as he stared longer.