Falling For My Father's Best friend

"Home sweet home"

The apartment smelled the same—coffee grounds, faint cigarette smoke from years ago, and the metallic tang of old pipes. Nothing had changed in four years except the tension that now lived permanently in the walls.

I’d dragged my single suitcase inside and left it near the door like it was ready to bolt at any second. Which it was. I stood in the hallway, heart hammering, waiting for the explosion I knew was coming. Waiting for Nathan to storm out, point at the door, and remind me—again—that I was no longer welcome.

“I never asked to be born,” he’d snarled over the phone once. “I never asked to raise you alone. I’m done carrying dead weight.”

I’d replayed it so many times the words had carved grooves in my brain.

I tiptoed to the dining table, pulled out a chair as quietly as possible. It still squeaked like a betrayal.

“Sorry, Dad,” I called, forcing a bright laugh that sounded hollow even to me.

He appeared from the kitchen carrying two plates—scrambled eggs, bacon, toast. No greeting. No eye contact. He set one in front of me and sat across the table like we were strangers sharing a booth at a diner.

We ate in silence.

For once, I didn’t mind. I needed to think and my hungover wasn't done dealing with me yet.

At least the food drowned out the echo of last night. The stranger’s hands on my skin. The way Mateo had looked at me like I was something he intended to keep. The way I’d let him. The way I’d begged.

I was still on the pill—thank God! so pregnancy wasn’t the worry. The worry was how badly I’d wanted to stay in that penthouse bed. How I’d almost reached for the cash scattered across his nightstand like loose change. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Enough for first and last month’s rent somewhere decent.

But I hadn’t taken a cent.

I didn’t want to owe anyone. Not him. Not anyone.

I cleared my plate and carried it to the sink, using the excuse to wander the kitchen. Everything was familiar… except the shiny new espresso machine gleaming on the counter like an accusation.

“Dad?” I called lightly, forcing a smile as I stepped back into the dining area. “Since when do you drink espresso?”

He was already standing there, empty plate in hand, expression flat.

“I have a girlfriend, Isabella.”

The words landed like a slap I hadn’t seen coming.

“Oh.” I swallowed. “That’s… good. I’m happy for you.”

He didn’t look happy. He looked exhausted. “I was eighteen when I had you. Your mother left the next day. I gave up everything—parties, friends, freedom. I worked double shifts so you could have diapers and formula and school supplies. And now…”

He trailed off, but the rest hung between us like smoke.

I blinked hard, refusing to let tears fall. “I get it. You didn’t sign up for both of us. Mom bailed, and I was the reminder.”

He should have been protected.

“Don’t twist it,” he snapped. “I need a life too. Someone who isn’t… baggage.”

Baggage.

The word sliced clean through me. Wow.

I turned away, pretending to rinse my plate, but my hands shook so badly the water splashed.

He kept talking—about how he’d loved my mother, how she’d betrayed him, how he should’ve handed me over to social services when they came knocking. Same story. Different day. Twenty-four years of the same guilt trip.

Just kill me already.

I walked out of the kitchen before I said something I couldn’t take back.

Later, I found him in his bedroom. The door was open. The room looked different—new king bed with crisp white linens, fresh wallpaper in soft gray, a vanity table covered in makeup and perfume bottles. A woman’s touch. Expensive.

I knocked anyway.

He glanced up, saw me, sighed like I was an inconvenience. I knew I was.

“You know I can see you standing there,” he said.

I swallowed. “Can I… stay? Just for a week? Please. I’ll find a job. I’ll be gone.”

His eyes narrowed. “One week.”

Relief flooded me so fast my knees almost buckled. “Thank you.”

“And my wedding’s in two weeks,” he added casually, like it was nothing. “Your stepmother-to-be doesn’t want you here. Not when she’s pregnant.”

Pregnant.

The word echoed.

I forced the fakest smile I’d ever worn. “Congratulations.”

He didn’t say thank you. He just stared until I backed out of the room.

Three days later I was curled on the couch watching reruns of Grey’s Anatomy when he walked past—for the fifth time—phone to his ear.

“Yes, buddy. Wedding’s in two weeks. No, she’s still here… Yeah, I know.”

He scoffed, ended the call, and glared at me like I’d personally offended the universe.

I stood up, went to the kitchen, drank water straight from the tap because the glass I grabbed had mysterious residue on the rim. Whatever. Germs wouldn’t kill me faster than this conversation.

When I came back, he was sitting in his armchair, staring.

“He’s doing it for old times’ sake,” Dad said suddenly.

I blinked. “Who?”

“My friend. Mateo Rossi. London. He’s giving you a job. Company apartment too. Private nurse for the executive floor. You leave as soon as the ticket arrives.”

My heart stuttered.

London.

Europe again. Far from here. Far from him.

I nodded slowly. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Don’t embarrass me,” he warned. “Be useful for once. Act like your age!.”

I sat down across from him because he clearly expected it.

“You know how much the electric bill was last night?” he asked, voice rising. “Lights and AC on all damn night while you binged reality tv trash?”

I stared at my hands. “I was studying in Berlin, Dad. Not partying. I’m sorry about the bill.”

He stood up. “I let you in here. Big girl now. Don’t forget that.”

“And don’t forget you kept me out of school for three years because you blew the college fund on your ‘business,’” I muttered under my breath.

He froze in the doorway.

I didn’t take it back.

The next morning my phone rang—an unknown London number.

The voice on the other end was crisp, professional, accented. A quick video interview. Questions about my nursing training, availability, willingness to relocate. They offered the job on the spot. Company apartment in Kensington. Flight ticket being arranged. Start in five days.

I said yes before I could overthink it.

That night I lay on the couch—suitcase packed beside me—staring at the ceiling. I researched Rossi Enterprises again. Billion-dollar conglomerate. Luxury goods, real estate, tech investments. Good reviews. Strange that they needed a full-time private nurse for office staff, but maybe executives were dramatic.

I didn’t sleep.

Dawn came too soon. Headache pounding, I shuffled to the kitchen for water.

A sharp knock at the door.

I opened it.

A woman stood there, blonde, tanned to an unnatural glow, lips plumped, eyes framed by lashes that looked glued on. Mid-forties maybe, trying hard for thirty. Jean mini-dress barely covering anything. Black stiletto boots.

She looked me up and down.

“You’re the daughter?” she asked, tone dripping disdain. No need to hide the hate.

Before I could answer, she shoved past me. Her extensions whipped across my cheek, stinging my eye.

I shut the door harder than necessary.

She click-clacked straight to Dad’s room like she owned the place.

A minute later they emerged together. Dad’s arm around her waist. Her hand on her flat stomach.

“She’s pregnant,” Dad announced. No hello. No introduction. “And she doesn’t want you taking up space. You’ve got your ticket. Use it.”

The woman smiled sweetly. “I’m sure you understand, honey. Baby needs room.”

I stared at them both.

Then I walked to my suitcase, grabbed the handle, and rolled it toward the door without a word.

I didn’t say goodbye.

I didn’t cry until I was in the elevator. London couldn’t come fast enough.

Good riddance.