Claimed by My Best Friend's Daddy

Rhys's POV

The boardroom on the forty-second floor of Connell Tower was designed to intimidate. Floor-to-ceiling glass on three sides, the city sprawled below like a map someone had forgotten to fold. Polished black marble table long enough to seat twenty, though only six of us ever used it. Leather chairs that cost more than most people's rent. And silence-thick, expectant silence-until someone spoke.

Today, that someone was me.

"Gentlemen," I said, my voice low enough that they had to lean in, "the Zanzibar resort acquisition closes in forty-eight hours. If there are objections, now is the time to speak."

No one spoke, Mark Jackson-seated across the table, his fingers steepled, and eyes narrowed-gave the smallest tilt of his head. Not in agreement or dissent. Just calculation. He'd been gunning for a piece of the Connell Group's hospitality portfolio for two years, ever since I outbid him on the Maldives properties. He hadn't forgiven me, and I hadn't expected him to.

Hayes White, my right hand for fifteen years, cleared his throat. "All due diligence is complete. Environmental reports greenlit. The local government signed off, and we're clear."

I nodded once. "Then we proceed. Hayes, you'll handle the final signatures in Dar es Salaam next week. I want daily updates."

Mark's smile was thin. "Always efficient, Rhys. One might almost think you're in a hurry to leave the country."

I met his gaze. "I have a daughter who expects me home for the holidays. Efficiency ensures that happens."

A ripple of polite laughter from the others, but Mark didn't join in.

The meeting wrapped in under an hour. I stayed seated as the room emptied, watching the city lights flicker on below. Dusk came early this time of the year. The skyline looked colder than it had in years past-sharper edges, fewer warm windows glowing. Or maybe that was just me.

I pulled out my phone. There were no new messages from Mirabel. She'd texted yesterday.

Mirabel; Classes are killing me but I'm surviving. Miss you. Don't work too hard, old man. 

Me; Miss you more. Come home soon. I'll have the chef make your favorite. 

She'd sent back a string of heart emojis and a photo of her dorm room-books everywhere, a half-eaten pizza box on the desk.

My thumb hovered over the screen. I typed, deleted, and typed again.

Me; Be good baby, you'll be home soon.

Sent.

I leaned back, and loosened my tie. The office was empty now except for the hum of the HVAC and the faint tick of the wall clock. I hated this part of the day-the transition from Rhys Connell, CEO, to Rhys Connell, widower, father and man who still woke up reaching for a woman who'd been gone twenty-five years ago.

Elena's photo sat on the corner of my desk in a small silver frame. Her smile was soft, eyes crinkled at the corners. Mirabel had inherited that smile, that exact way of tilting her head when she laughed. Every time I looked at the picture, the grief hit fresh-dull blade, familiar wound.

I didn't date, not really. I've had a handful of dinners over the years, a few nights that ended in hotel rooms with women whose names I barely remembered. They were polite, beautiful but empty. None of them looked at me the way Elena had-like I was the only thing in the room worth seeing.

None of them had ever made me feel like I was drowning and breathing at the same time.

Except once.

Three years ago, at Loungefield Hotel, during a charity gala I hadn't wanted to attend. Too many people, too many condolences disguised as small talk. I'd gone anyway, because Connell Group optics demanded it.

Then I'd seen her.

Her blonde hair catching the chandelier light, freckles across her nose like scattered stars, pouty lips that parted when our eyes met. She'd been young-too young, maybe-but the way she looked at me hadn't been innocent. It had been hungry.

We hadn't exchanged names, hadn't needed to. The way she'd gasped when I pinned her to the wall, the way she'd begged without shame, the way her body had clenched around me like it was made for mine. I'd fucked her until we both couldn't move, until dawn crept in and I fell asleep with her curled against my chest.

When I woke, she was gone.

It was like she had disappeared into thin air, she left without a trace, and left me wondering if all that happened was a dream. Just the scent of her on the sheets and the ache in my cock that lasted days made me conclude it was never a dream.

I'd looked for her, discreetly. Asked the hotel staff, pulled security footage. But found nothing, she vanished like smoke.

Sometimes I wondered if I'd really imagined her, and the ache in my cock and the scent was just my brain playing a tricky game on me. But the memory was too sharp-the taste of her skin, the sound of her moaning "Daddy," the way she'd trembled when I filled her. No imagination could fake that.

My phone buzzed.

Mirabel: Yep, coming home soon. And YES I'll be  bringing someone. My best friend Alicia. You'll love her-she reads even more than I do. Don't scare her off with your brooding face pls.

I stared at the screen, then typed back a simple reply.

Me: Looking forward to meeting her. I'll tell the cleaners to get the rooms ready. You guys should pack warm please, the pool heater's finicky. And I don't want anyone to fall sick.

I clicked the send button.

I stood, crossed to the window. The city glittered below, indifferent. I pressed my palm to the cool glass.

It was two weeks until the holidays, and two weeks until Mirabel filled the house with noise and laughter and the smell of cinnamon from the kitchen. Two weeks until I have my darling daughter back.

I turned off the lights, locked the door, and headed for the elevator.

The ride down was silent except for the soft ding of floors passing. My reflection stared back at me-gray at the temples now, lines deeper around the eyes, shoulders still broad but carrying more weight than they used to. I'm just a lonely forty-five year old, lonely billionaire.

The doors opened to the lobby. Cold air rushed in as I stepped outside. My driver waited at the curb, the black SUV idling.

"Home, sir?"

"Yes."

The city blurred past the tinted windows. I leaned my head back, and closed my eyes.