Falling For My Father's Best friend

Sunday dragged by in silence—no calls, no knocks, no unexpected deliveries. Just me, the apartment, and the growing certainty that Mateo had already moved on. Monday morning came too fast. I dressed in the same cautious outfit—black blouse, yellow skirt, brown jacket—and headed to the office with zero expectations.

The elevator ride started the same way. Aisha stepped in on the lobby floor, today in a tailored emerald-green blazer and wide-leg trousers that made her look like she owned the building. She smiled the second she saw me.

“Morning, Isabella. Survive the weekend?”

“Barely,” I admitted with a small laugh. “You?”

“Family calls from Port Harcourt. Always chaos.” She leaned against the wall. “You should come out with me sometime. Girls’ night. No pressure, you know.” she wiggled her brows sheepishly.

The invitation warmed something inside me. “I’d like that.”

We rode in comfortable quiet until her floor. She squeezed my arm before stepping out. “See you around, newbie.”

The rest of the morning passed in the usual haze: laptop open, company Wi-Fi streaming free movies. I barely paid attention to the screen. Instead I opened social media on my phone and scrolled straight to my father’s profile.

Photos from the wedding. Him in a sharp gray suit. His new wife in white lace, beaming. Flowers everywhere. Smiles that looked real.

“She’s beautiful,” I whispered to the empty room.

Tears came without warning—hot, silent, sliding down my cheeks. I was happy for him. I really was. But the pictures didn’t include me. Not one. Not even a mention. I was invisible again.

My thumb hovered over his contact. Call? Text? Congratulate him? Ask why I wasn’t worth an invitation?

I hit call. One ring. Panic surged. I ended it before the second.

Shit! Shitt! Shittt!

“I can do this,” I told the empty office.

I opened messages instead. Typed. Deleted. Typed again. The words spilled out raw and honest.

Dad,

I forgive you for never really liking me. Thank you for not giving me up to foster care when you could have. Thank you for college, even if it came with strings. Mr. Rossi has been kind—paid my rent, gave me cash when I needed it, made sure I had a place. I ran into Ethan here, You won't know him. He wants me back. I’m scared he’ll hurt me again, but part of me wonders if I’m the problem.

Congratulations on the wedding. She looks happy. You look happy. I wish I’d been there, but it’s okay if I wasn’t. I hope you’re okay.

Love,

Isabella

I hit send before the tears could blur the screen completely. Then I cried harder than I had the day he first told me I was a burden. Ugly sobs. Chest-heaving. Alone in a glass office on a foreign continent.

What about Ethan? If I went back to him, would he really change? Would he stop the control, the disappearing acts, the quiet threats?

And Mateo… one night in New York. One afternoon here. He’d made me come so hard I saw stars, but he hadn’t even stayed till morning. Maybe he didn’t recognize me after all. Maybe he came to my apartment to remind me of the debt—four hundred euros, food, rent, utilities, flight ticket. The list was endless. How the hell would I ever repay that?

I stood up abruptly. Walked to the water dispenser in the hallway. Empty. Of course.

Frustrated, I grabbed my phone and left the office for the first time during work hours.

The executive floor felt different mid-day. Quieter. Darker suits everywhere. Men moving with purpose, eyes forward, ignoring me completely. I passed a reception desk and stopped.

“Hi, I’m Isabella, I just need to—”

“Go straight, left at the end of the hall,” the guy muttered without looking up.

I hesitated. Glanced up. A camera stared back from the corner.

He finally lifted his head. Pale blue eyes. Long blond hair tied back. Thin lips pressed flat. Nameplate: Frank.

“Thanks, Frank,” I said quietly.

Recognition flickered in his gaze—brief, then gone. He looked back at his screen.

I filled my cup at the dispenser down the hall. Drank. Filled it again.

A palm landed on my ass. Firm. Possessive.

“What are you doing out here, Bell?”

Ethan.

I jerked away. Water sloshed over my hand, soaking the front of my outfit. He stepped closer. Smiled like nothing had happened Saturday.

“You should be in your office.”

I tried to sidestep. He blocked me. Pressed in until my back hit the wall. The cold water seeped through fabric, clinging to my skin.

“You’re wet,” he whispered, eyes dropping to my chest.

I swallowed hard. “Fuck you.”

Anger flashed across his face—quick, familiar. The same look he used to give me right before he’d grab my arm too tight or slam a door inches from my face. Never a direct hit. Always close enough to scare.

“Please leave me alone, Ethan,” I said, voice shaking. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

His hand slid to my upper arm. Caressed down to my wrist. Slow. Deliberate. Then across my stomach. To my waist. He leaned in until his breath touched my ear.

“I want what’s mine.”

My heart hammered. Fear and fury twisted together.

“Let go.”

He didn’t.

Not until footsteps echoed down the hall—sharp, purposeful.

Ethan released me instantly. Stepped back. Smoothed his tie like nothing happened.

“See you soon, Bell.”

He walked away. Casual. Calm.

I stood there dripping, shaking, cup clutched so tight my knuckles went white.

The hallway felt colder than before.