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.

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.

**MATEO'S POV**

Isabella.

That girl has no idea what she does to me.

Since that night in the Velvet Room, she's lived rent-free in my head. Every curve, every gasp, every time she looked up at me like I was the only thing that existed. When I learned she was Nathan's daughter, it felt like fate handed me the perfect excuse to pull her close. To keep her. To make sure no one else ever touched what was already mine.

I went to her apartment that day telling myself it was just concern-she looked wrecked at work, pale and unsteady. But the second I saw her in that towel, hair dripping, skin flushed... all restraint vanished. I told myself she was too drunk that first night to remember me. That's why she never brought it up. That's why I never pushed. I wanted her to come to me on her own. Wanted her to crave it the way I did.

Dang it. I shouldn't have gone.

Shouldn't have looked at her body.

Shouldn't have touched her.

Her soft, wet heat under my tongue. Her lips parting on a moan. Those wide eyes locked on mine while she came apart.

I was asking too much and I knew it. Seem I always had Oliver's Twist after all.

I've barely slept since. Every night I watch the feeds-her office camera, the hallway ones, even the building entrance. I sit in this chair and stare like a goddamn addict. Today was worse. Seeing her talk to one of the junior analysts, laughing at something he said... it clawed at me. I don't even know the guy's name. Doesn't matter. No one gets to make her smile like that except me.

Then she left her office. Walked down the hall for water. My dispenser on her floor had been empty for days-I'd meant to have it fixed. She stopped at the main one. Filled her cup. Drank. Filled it again.

That's when he appeared behind her.

Nathan.

His hand landed on her ass like he had the right.

Rage hit me so fast my vision tunneled. That perfect curve belonged to me. Only me.

I watched her flinch. Watched her try to step away. Watched him crowd her against the wall, whispering something that made her face drain of color. She looked terrified. Small. Like she knew exactly what he was capable of.

I slammed my palm on the desk.

"I'll fucking kill him."

I grabbed my phone. Dialed her extension. It rang out. Dialed again.

Finally she answered, voice small. "Hello, Mr...?"

"Get to my office. Now."

I kept the feed open while she hurried down the hall. Derrick watched her go, that smug tilt to his mouth. I zoomed in. Couldn't read his expression clearly, but I didn't need to. I knew men like him.

A knock. I barked for her to enter.

Aisha stepped in first. "Sir, you have the board meeting in an hour, and-"

"I know. I'll handle it." I waved her out.

She gave a quick bow and a professional smile, then paused at the door. Isabella was approaching. They exchanged a few quiet words-Aisha said something that made Isabella laugh. A real laugh. Soft. Bright. The sound hit me like sunlight after weeks of dark.

Then she was inside.

She stood in front of my desk, eyes glued to the floor. Hands trembling at her sides. That cheap dress clung where the water had soaked through. Shoes scuffed. Hair falling out of its tie. She looked fragile. Exhausted. Nothing like the woman who'd begged under me days ago.

It hurt to see her like this.

"What happened to your dress?" I asked, keeping my voice flat.

She hesitated. Eyes darted everywhere but my face.

"I... I went to get water. Almost tripped on the way back. It spilled."

Bullshit.

"You almost tripped."

She swallowed hard.

"I'm talking to you, Angioletto."

The nickname slipped out sharper than I meant. She flinched.

"There was no water in my office dispenser," she tried again. "I got thirsty. Tripped coming back."

Still lying. Still refusing to meet my eyes. What was she hiding?

I leaned forward. "Look at me."

She did-finally. Those big eyes glassy, scared. Like she thought I was about to fire her. I feel like she always assumed the worse.

"I'm sorry, Sir. It won't happen again."

She sat when I nodded toward the chair. Good girl. Always so quick to obey.

I studied her. The way she held herself together even when she was falling apart. The night in New York she hadn't taken a single bill from the nightstand, even when hundreds were scattered like trash. She could've grabbed my watch. My black card. Anything. She didn't. That kind of honesty is rare. It makes me want to wrap her up and never let the world touch her again.

"I have a headache," I said.

She stood immediately. Uncertain.

"Aren't you going to check?"

She nodded. Rushed around the desk. Stood between my knees. Her small hands settled on my head-gentle, careful. She drew me closer until my forehead rested against her stomach. Fingers threaded through my hair, massaging slow circles over my scalp.

Christ.

I closed my eyes. Let myself feel it. Her warmth. Her scent-clean soap and faint vanilla. My cock twitched. I ignored it. Focused on the soft pressure of her fingertips. On the way she didn't pull away.

Her phone buzzed on the chair across the room.

She didn't move.

"You going to get that?"

She smiled faintly. Stepped back. Picked it up. The screen lit her face for a second before she angled it away-but not fast enough.

Nathan.

The name burned into my brain.

She ended the call without answering. Walked back. Hesitated.

"I should get something for your headache, Sir."

I rolled my eyes. Stood. Pointed near the mini fridge in the corner.

"Stay here the rest of the day. Drinks are in there. My head's fine."

She looked like she might argue-then thought better of it. Walked slowly back to the chair. Sat.

"Yes, Sir," she whispered.

The saddest sound I'd ever heard from her.

I straightened my tie. Grabbed my tablet. I should attend my Meeting first. Then I deal with Nathan.

And after that... I deal with her.

No more hiding. No more pretending she doesn't remember.

She's mine.

She just doesn't know it yet.

And the massage? I knew she remembered me .