"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.

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.