Falling For My Father's Best friend

Chapter 1

Isabella's POV

I stepped off the plane in New York last night, jet-lagged and hollow, but I still couldn’t bring myself to face my father. Not yet. Not when I had nothing to show for the last four years except a useless degree, an empty bank account, and the ghost of a boyfriend who vanished the moment I stopped being convenient.

Ethan had controlled everything...my schedule, my friends, my dreams. He made sure I never worked, never partied, never even breathed without his permission. Then one afternoon I came home from lectures to an empty apartment. His clothes, his cologne, his half-hearted promises—all gone. Just like that.

And my father? Nathan Hartley had made it crystal clear over the phone months ago:

“You’re not a child anymore, Isabella. I’m done carrying you.”

“Haven’t you taken enough from my life already?”

Those words still burned behind my eyes every time I closed them.

I checked into a cheap midtown hotel because I had nowhere else to go. The plan was simple: hide for one night, gather whatever courage I had left, then show up at Dad’s apartment tomorrow and beg for a temporary roof. One month. That’s all I needed to find a job, rent something small, and start pretending I had my life together.

I wanted to be a nurse. I’d trained for it in Berlin! long hours, blood, compassion, decent pay in a country where medical bills could bankrupt you overnight. One ambulance ride here could cost a thousand dollars. I’d rather limp down the street bleeding than owe that kind of money.

I laughed bitterly at myself in the dark hotel room, then rolled out of bed. Sleep wasn’t coming. I needed air. I needed something to quiet the noise in my head.

I slipped into the only dress I still liked—a deep burgundy number that clung in all the right places and flowed loose at the hem. Not expensive, not designer, but it made me feel like I still had some power over how the world saw me. I twisted my hair into a messy knot, grabbed my phone, my purse (the one I was half-tempted to pawn), and walked out.

Three blocks later I spotted the neon glow of a lounge tucked between two high-rises. The sign read “Velvet Room.” Looked upscale enough to be intimidating, quiet enough to feel dangerous. I had seventy-five dollars in cash. Fifteen on a drink, save the rest for the bus to Dad’s tomorrow. Sounded reasonable.

I pushed through the heavy door.

The bass hit me first, low and throbbing. Dim amber lights, leather booths, the scent of expensive whiskey and expensive cologne. Heads turned; some curious, some predatory. My stomach twisted, but I forced my chin up and walked straight to the bar.

The bartender was tall, tattooed forearms, easy smile and looked me over as I slid onto the stool.

“You look young,” he said, voice warm but cautious.

I rolled my eyes, pulled out my ID, and slid it across the polished wood. “Twenty-four. Don’t make me feel like a kid again.”

He chuckled, checked it, then handed it back. “Seth. Nice to meet you, Isabella.”

I blinked. “You read fast.”

“Practice.” He leaned on the bar. “What are you drinking tonight?”

I opened my mouth to ask for something cheap when a deep, accented voice cut through the music from behind me.

“Give her a Black Russian.”

My spine stiffened. I didn’t turn right away. I felt him before I saw him—the shift in the air, the way Seth’s easy smile tightened into something guarded.

Then he was there.

Tall. Broad shoulders filling out a charcoal Armani blazer like it had been tailored directly onto his body. Dark hair slightly tousled, silver threading at the temples. A jaw carved from stone. Tattoos peeking from the open collar of his black shirt—intricate lines curling around his neck like secrets. A Blancpain watch on his wrist that probably cost more than my entire existence.

He caught me staring at it.

“Blancpain,” he said simply, voice low and rough with a rich, rolling accent—Mexican edged with something darker, something Italian. “You like it?”

I swallowed. “It’s… nice.”

He smirked. The kind of smirk that said he knew exactly what effect he was having.

“I’m Mateo,” he said, sliding onto the stool beside me without asking. “And you’re not the usual crowd here, Amore.”

The endearment hit like a spark. I should’ve told him to back off. I should’ve walked out. Instead I met his eyes—dark brown, almost black, intense enough to make my thighs clench.

“Isabella,” I answered, voice steadier than I felt. “And I’m just passing through.”

Seth placed the Black Russian in front of me. I stared at the dark liquid like it might bite. Mateo lifted his own glass—whiskey, neat—and clinked it lightly against mine.

“To passing through,” he murmured.

I took a sip. Coffee, vodka, rich and smooth. Heat bloomed in my chest. I liked it more than I should.

We talked. Or rather—he talked and I answered in short, breathless sentences. He asked why I was in New York. I told him the truth, stripped bare: fresh out of university, ex disappeared, father probably wished I’d stayed gone. He listened without pity, without judgment. Just watched me with those predator eyes.

The second drink came. Then the third.

His hand brushed mine, deliberate. Electricity shot up my arm. I didn’t pull away.

“You don’t seem scared of me,” he said quietly, leaning closer. His cologne wrapped around me...dark musk, leather, sin. Sweet sin.

“Should I be?” I whispered back.

His thumb grazed my lower lip. Slow. Possessive. “Maybe.” he replied.

My breath caught. My body answered before my brain could catch up. I leaned in. He smelled like danger and expensive decisions.

“You’re shaking,” he noted, voice velvet.

“I’m not scared,” I lied.

He smiled—slow, filthy. “Good.”

The fourth drink blurred the edges. His hand slid to the small of my back, guiding me off the stool like I weighed nothing. I followed him through the crowd, pulse hammering in my throat.

Outside, a black SUV waited. Tinted windows. Driver didn’t even glance back.

He took me to a penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling glass. City lights glittering like fallen stars. I barely registered the view before his mouth was on mine—hard, claiming, tasting of whiskey and control.

Clothes disappeared in a frantic rush. My dress pooled at my feet. His shirt followed. Tattoos everywhere—beautiful, violent art across his chest, arms, ribs. I traced them with trembling fingers.

He lifted me like I was weightless, carried me to a bedroom that smelled like him. Laid me on silk sheets. Looked down at me with something feral and reverent at the same time.

“Look at me, Isabella,” he ordered, voice gravel.

I obeyed.

He stripped the last of his clothes. Thick, hard, intimidating. My mouth went dry.

He settled between my thighs, notched himself at my entrance, and pushed in—slow at first, letting me feel every inch. I gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Eyes on me,” he growled when my lids fluttered.

I locked gazes with him. Held it. Watched the way his jaw clenched, the way his pupils blew wide as he sank deeper.

“Fuck, you feel perfect,” he rasped, starting to move.

I moaned—loud, shameless. He thrust harder, deeper, setting a rhythm that made my back arch off the bed. Pain and pleasure twisted together until I couldn’t tell them apart.

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, hips snapping.

“You,” I gasped. “Harder. Please.”

He gave it to me. Relentless. Possessive. One hand pinned my wrists above my head; the other gripped my hip, angling me exactly how he wanted.

“You’re mine tonight,” he said against my throat, teeth grazing skin. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I breathed, lost in him.

He fucked me like he wanted to ruin me for anyone else. I came apart screaming his name, clenching around him so hard he groaned like it hurt. He followed seconds later, burying himself deep, pulsing inside me with a guttural curse in Spanish.

We stayed like that—sweaty, tangled, breathing hard.

He kissed my

temple, soft now. Almost tender.

“Sleep, Amore,” he murmured.

I did. For the first time in months, I slept without nightmares.