Last night I barely slept. The walls in Dad’s apartment were thin, and they didn’t even try to whisper.

“She’ll be fine, Nathan,” the girlfriend said in that syrupy voice. “She’s a big girl now. Let her go figure it out.”

Dad grunted something I couldn’t catch—probably agreement. Probably relief. Who knows?

I lay there staring at the ceiling cracks until my eyes burned, then gave up and scrolled flight confirmations on my phone for the hundredth time. Anything to drown them out. Anything to pretend I wasn’t already gone in my head.

Morning came gray and cold. I dragged my suitcase to the door without knocking. No one came to see me off. No hug. No “good luck.” Just the echo of the front door clicking shut behind me like a period at the end of a sentence nobody wanted to finish.

At the gate, I whispered to the empty seat beside me, “To your face, Mom.” Then I closed my eyes and let the plane carry me away.

I slept the entire flight—deep, dreamless at first, then softer. In the haze I saw myself in crisp scrubs, clipboard in hand, people thanking me, paying me. A real life. A smile tugged at my lips even in sleep.

Until my neck snapped sideways against the window and I jolted awake with a sharp hiss. Heathrow. London. New start.

The company had arranged a driver. I followed the texted instructions through arrivals, dodging luggage carts and accents thicker than fog. I kinda loved it.

When I spotted the car, my stomach dropped. Not a taxi. A sleek black Ferrari, low and predatory, idling at the curb like it owned the whole airport.

Was i being trafficked or kidnapped?

I double-checked the number. Called. A voice answered... almost familiar, clipped, calm.

I walked over anyway. Opened the back door. Slid inside.

“Huh—Hello,” I said quietly.

Silence.

The driver wore dark shades, black suit, hands steady on the wheel. He glanced at me in the rearview. Then he reached up and slowly removed the glasses.

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought it might crack one.

Ethan.

My Ethan. The one who ghosted me in Berlin without a word. The one who’d made me feel small, owned, then disposable.

“Hi, Isabella,” he said, expression blank—the same flat, expectant look he used whenever he wanted me to fall in line.

I gripped the door handle. Every instinct screamed get out. But my legs wouldn’t move.

“You’re calling the pickup line,” he said, almost amused. “I work for Mr. Mateo Rossi now. He asked me personally to collect you.”

I swallowed. Nodded once. Forced a tight smile.

He drove in silence at first. Then faster. Too fast. The Ferrari growled through traffic like it was hunting. I watched his eyes flick to the mirror every few seconds—watching me. Always watching.

We pulled up to a towering glass building in Canary Wharf. Gold letters on the side: **R**ossi **E**nterprises. Twenty-plus floors of polished arrogance.

“You start tomorrow. Nine sharp,” Ethan said. “Boss’s office. Don’t be late—he’ll be gone by ten if you’re not there.”

He handed me a sleek key fob. Our fingers brushed. He held on a second too long. Yuck!

“Room 203,” he murmured. “Mr. Rossi arranged the apartment himself… Bell.”

The old pet name hit like a slap. My stomach twisted—part rage, part something darker I refused to name.

I yanked my hand free and stepped out. Didn’t look back until I reached the entrance. He was still there, leaning against the car, arms crossed, smirking like he’d already won.

“I know you’re nothing without me, Bell,” he called. “I can still help you.”

Something snapped.

I dropped my bag. Marched back. And slapped him—hard. The crack echoed off the glass.

“Fuck you, Ethan,” I hissed. “Fuck you forever.”

Then I ran. Up the steps. Into the elevator. Into 203. Door locked. Back against it. Sobbing until my throat burned.

Why did it still hurt? Why did his voice still make my knees weak? Why did I hate that part of me still remembered how his hands used to feel safe before they turned controlling?

I cried until I couldn’t anymore. Then I crawled into the too-perfect bed—fresh sheets, plush pillows, city lights glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows—and slept like the dead.

Morning came crisp and merciless.

The apartment was stupidly nice. Open-plan kitchen, rainfall shower, king bed that smelled faintly of cedar. I ran the coffee maker (after three failed attempts), showered until the water went cold, and dressed in my best attempt at professional: burnt-orange dress, hair smoothed back, old purse clutched like a shield.

Taxi to the building. Nine o’clock on the dot. First impression matters.

Elevator ride up with a woman in a flawless pink suit—hair perfect, heels lethal. She smelled like money. I smelled like anxiety and last season’s perfume.

She stepped off on fifteen with a polite “Bye.” I smiled back, wondering if she could see the peeling leather on my shoes. I could.

Reception: a man in a sunshine-yellow suit, receding hairline, overly white teeth. He directed me to the top floor without small talk.

I knocked once. Pushed the door open.

He was at the desk—back to the window, city sprawling behind him like a kingdom. Dark suit. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. Tattoos curling around his forearm. That same Blancpain watch catching the light.

I knew before he turned.

He did. Slowly.

Our eyes met.

“Hello, Isabella,” Mateo Rossi said. Voice low. Rich. Familiar in ways that made heat pool low in my belly.

I froze.

He leaned back in his chair, studying me like a puzzle he’d already solved.

“I never knew Nathan had a daughter quite like you,” he said, the faintest curve to his lips. “All grown up.”

Relief crashed through me so hard my knees almost buckled.

He didn’t recognize me. Not from the bar. Not from the penthouse. Not from the way I’d moaned his name while he fucked me senseless.

Or… he was pretending.

I forced my voice steady. “Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Rossi.”

He gestured to the chair across from him.

“Sit.”

I did.

His gaze never left my face.

"Huhhhhhhh" he nodded as he stared longer.

I sank into the leather chair across from him, pulse roaring in my ears. Mateo’s gaze swept over me, slow, deliberate, like he was cataloging every detail: the way my dress clung slightly from nerves, the faint tremble in my hands pressed flat against my thighs.

“Most employees start at nine and leave at five,” he said, voice low and even. “You? Ten to six. I don’t want you wandering the streets after dark.”

I managed a tight, polite smile and nodded. Ten to six. Safe hours. Protective. Almost fatherly.

Except nothing about the man in front of me felt fatherly.

I kept my eyes on the edge of his desk, terrified that if I looked too long he’d see the recognition flash in my own. The memory was still too fresh: his weight pinning me to silk sheets, the way he’d growled my name while he thrust into me, the way I’d begged without shame.

If he remembered—if he put it together—that one reckless night could ruin everything. My father’s oldest friendship. My fragile new job. My last shred of dignity.

Balls!

My father had already thrown me away. What was one more betrayal?

Mateo leaned back, fingers steepled. “Anything you want to say, Isabella?”

I shook my head quickly, lips pressed into what I hoped looked like a neutral smile.

“As my personal nurse, your office will be on the executive floor. Private. No mingling with the rest of the staff. You’re here for one reason only.” He paused, then rose.

He rounded the desk. Stopped right in front of me. Close enough that I could smell that same dark musk-and-leather cologne from the bar. From the penthouse.

My breath caught. Damn.

He looked down at me for a long beat, expression unreadable. Then he sighed—soft, almost regretful.

“I promised your father I’d look after you,” he said quietly. “So keep your head down. Do your job. Stay out of trouble. We’ll be fine.”

He returned to his chair. The moment stretched. I sat frozen, thighs clenched, trying desperately not to let my mind replay every filthy second of that night.

His voice alone was doing things to me. Deep. Commanding. The same timbre that had ordered me to look at him while he fucked me senseless.

I pictured it again—unbidden, unstoppable. Crawling to him on my knees. Fingers fumbling with his belt. Lips parting as I took him deep, tasting salt and heat, hearing him groan “good girl” while his hand fisted my hair. Then straddling him, sinking down slowly, arching so he could suck my nipples raw, biting just hard enough to make me cry out...

“Hey. Isabella.”

Three sharp claps snapped me back.

My face flamed. Heat pooled between my legs, wet, insistent, embarrassing. I squirmed in the seat, praying he couldn’t smell it. Don't know if it would be possible. But still. So he couldn’t see the way my chest rose and fell too fast.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softer now. “You just flew in yesterday. You must be exhausted.”

Before I could answer, his hand settled on the top of my head—gentle, almost tender. Fingers threaded lightly through my hair, massaging my scalp in slow circles.

A low, involuntary moan slipped past my lips.

I froze. Mortified.

His touch stilled. Then withdrew.

When I dared look up, his eyes had darkened—pupils blown, jaw tight. The same look he’d worn right before he pinned my wrists and told me he was going to ruin me.

“Go home,” he said abruptly.

Panic spiked through me. “Did I—did I do something wrong?”

Tears pricked hot and fast. If he fired me now—if I had to crawl back to New York with nothing—

He exhaled roughly. “No. You look like you haven’t eaten. Haven’t slept properly.” His voice gentled. “Have you had breakfast?”

I shook my head, wiping at my eyes.

He pulled out his wallet—thick, black leather—and peeled off several crisp fifty-euro notes. Pressed them into my palm.

“One of my drivers will take you back. I’ll have food sent over.” He held my gaze. “Take care of yourself, Isabella. I’ll check on you this evening.”

I left in a daze.

The chauffeur was silent the whole ride. I clutched the money like it might burn me.

Back in the apartment, I stripped and stepped into the shower. The hot water hit my skin and I sagged against the tile, fingers sliding down my stomach, between my thighs.

The memory flooded back: Mateo above me, eyes locked on mine, thrusting slow and deep while he whispered filthy promises. I circled my clit, whimpering, chasing the ghost of that stretch, that fullness—

The doorbell rang.

I yelped, grabbed a towel, wrapped it around myself. Hair dripping. Skin flushed. Thighs slick.

I opened the door expecting a delivery guy.

Mateo stood there. Dark suit. No tie. Eyes raking over me like he was starving.

“You said evening,” I blurted.

A slow, dangerous smile curved his mouth.

He stepped inside. Closed the door with a soft click. Reached out and brushed wet strands from my cheek.

“You’re soaked, Angioletto.”

My breath hitched. “I—I just showered.”

“How wet are you, Isabella?” His voice dropped to gravel.

I clutched the towel tighter. Legs trembling.

He crowded closer. One hand cupped my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip. “When I ask you a question…”

He kissed me—soft at first. Then deeper. Hungrier.

The towel slipped. I tried to catch it. He caught my wrists instead. Pinned them gently behind me.

“Don’t hide from me,” he murmured against my mouth. “I want to see all of you. I want every fucking inch.”

He lifted me like I weighed nothing. Carried me to the bedroom. Laid me on the crisp sheets. Spread my thighs wide.

I whimpered when the cool air hit my soaked center.

“Look at you,” he rasped, eyes devouring me. “So pretty. So ready.”

He kissed down my stomach, my hips, inner thighs. Hot breath ghosting over my clit.

“We’re not fucking today,” he said, lips brushing my folds. “Not yet. I want you begging first. Desperate. Dripping. Saying my name like a prayer.”

Disappointment and need twisted inside me.

Then his tongue—flat, slow, deliberate—dragged up my slit.

I cried out. Back arching. Fingers fisting the sheets.

He ate me like he was making up for lost time. Sucking my clit. Thrusting two thick fingers inside. Curling. Pumping. Tongue flicking in relentless circles.

“Please—” I gasped. “Mateo—please fuck me—”

He only hummed against me. The vibration sent me spiraling.

My thighs shook. Stomach clenched. Walls fluttered around his fingers.

“Cum for me, Angioletto,” he growled against my pussy. “Let me taste how much you need this.”

I shattered.

Hard. Loud. Whole body jerking as pleasure ripped through me in violent waves.

He didn’t stop until I was boneless. Gasping. Tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.

Then he crawled up. Kissed me deep—letting me taste myself on his tongue.

“Sleep,” he whispered against my lips.

I did. Curled against his chest. His arms around me like they belonged there.

I didn’t know what this was.

I didn’t know how long it could last.

But right then, with his heartbeat steady under my cheek and the city lights bleeding through the curtains, I didn’t care.

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.