Falling For My Father's Best friend

I woke up alone. Sheets tangled, body still humming from yesterday, but the space beside me was cold. Mateo was gone—no note, no text, no lingering scent on the pillow. Just silence.

For a second I let myself wonder if he had regretted it. If the taste of me on his tongue had turned sour in the daylight. If he’d decided one slip was enough and I was now just another favor he’d done for my father.

Was I? No! I refuse to believe myself.

I shoved the thought away. We weren’t anything. One night in New York. One afternoon here. No promises. No labels. Overthinking would only make me stupid.

I dragged myself to the bathroom, stood under the shower until the water ran lukewarm, then figured out the coffee maker. Microwaved leftover fish and chips from the delivery he’d sent yesterday. Ate standing at the counter, staring out at the gray London skyline.

By the time I flagged a taxi to work, I’d convinced myself yesterday was a fluke. A moment. Done.

Done! I really want to believe it was done.

The elevator doors slid open on the lobby floor. There she was again—the woman from yesterday. Today she wore a sleek black bodycon dress that hit just above the knee, hair pulled into a high, glossy ponytail. A delicate diamond choker caught the light at her throat. She looked expensive. Untouchable.

I tried to shrink behind her, suddenly hyper-aware of my plain black blouse, yellow skirt, and the scuffed edges of my brown shoes. I didn’t belong in the same frame as her.

“Hi,” she said brightly.

I startled. Looked at my feet.

“I’m Aisha,” she added, extending a hand. Her smile was warm, genuine.

“Isabella Hartley.” I shook her hand. Her grip was firm, confident.

“You’re American,” she said, tilting her head. “New York?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Nigeria. Eastern and northern part.” She laughed softly at my obvious confusion. “My dad's from the north. People always think mixed . You know, Blasian because of the eyes. Nope. Just me.”

She was stunning—olive skin, full curves, monolid eyes framed by thick lashes. I felt small next to her, but not in a bad way. More like… seen.

Before I could say anything else, the doors opened. Four men piled in—suits rumpled, voices loud, already mid-conversation about some woman they’d seen in the break room.

Their eyes landed on us. Smirks spread.

One nudged the other. “Look who’s back. Boss keeps bringing in strays.”

Laughter. Crude. Directed at me.

“How many does he have on payroll now? Six?”

I pressed closer to Aisha. Heart thudding.

“Are you babysitting the new one?” the loudest asked Aisha, jabbing a thumb at me.

She didn’t flinch. Just smiled—sharp, dangerous—and took my hand. Squeezed once. Then lifted her chin.

“You won’t be smiling when I report this,” she said calmly. “Cameras are everywhere. One more stupid comment and you’re gone. Again.”

The word “again” hung heavy. Their faces changed—uncomfortable, suddenly fascinated by the floor numbers. They shuffled to the side. Silent for the rest of the ride.

When the doors opened on her floor, Aisha stepped out first. Glanced back at me.

“See you around, Isabella.”

I rode the rest of the way up alone, chin a little higher.

The rest of the day was the same as before: sit in my private office on the executive floor, watch movies on the laptop Mateo had left, pretend I was doing something useful. I still didn’t understand why I was here—except that he’d done it for my father. A cushy favor disguised as a job.

Two more days passed like that. Elevator run-ins with Aisha. Quick smiles. No more men bothering me. She’d become a quiet shield without even trying.

Then the weekend hit.

Saturday afternoon found me pacing the apartment. Bored. Restless. Mateo hadn’t called. Hadn’t texted. Hadn’t shown up since he left me sleeping with his taste still on my lips.

I told myself I didn’t care.

The doorbell rang.

I opened it expecting nothing important.

A delivery guy stood there holding a single red rose, a box of chocolates, and a cream envelope.

“He said you’d like it,” the guy grinned.

I took everything, cheeks already heating. Ripped open the envelope inside.

I want you back.

We will make it work.

—Ethan

My stomach dropped.

No sorry. No explanation for disappearing in Berlin. Just demands.

The phone rang. His name on the screen.

I answered before I could talk myself out of it.

“Get dressed,” Ethan said without greeting. “I’m taking you out. I’m at your door with your dress.”

I yanked the door open.

There he was. Blue suit. Polished shoes. Holding a garment bag with a black dress peeking out—short, tight, the kind he always liked me in.

“I want you back,” he said again, stepping forward like the apartment was still his territory.

“You’re kidding.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t invite him in. But he walked past me anyway. Dropped onto the couch. Set the bag beside him.

“Get dressed.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

His jaw clenched. Eyes flicked around the room—taking in the expensive furniture, the view, the life I’d somehow landed without him.

“I didn’t expect to see you in London,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t expect you to ghost me in Berlin like I was nothing.”

Silence stretched. Thick. Ugly.

I stepped closer. Met his eyes dead-on.

“Get out of my apartment, Ethan. I don’t want to see you again.”

He stared at me for a long beat—like he was waiting for me to crack, to apologize, to fall back into line.

Then he stood. Picked up the dress bag. Walked to the door.

He paused with his hand on the knob.

“You’ll regret this.”

The door clicked shut.

I locked it. Double-checked the deadbolt.

Leaned against it and let out a shaky breath.

For the first time in years, telling him no hadn’t come with fear. It had come with power.

And I wasn’t giving it back.