The Man My Bestfriend Call Dad

  

BELLA'S POV

The amber liquid inside my crystal tumbler caught the low glow of the chandelier, reflecting tiny pinpricks of light against the mahogany bar.

I hated double dates. I especially hated double dates arranged by well-meaning friends who assumed that because I was twenty-five and single, I was somehow incomplete

.

Across the velvet booth, Todd—a junior associate at a mid-tier venture capital firm—was currently midway through a twenty-minute monologue about his crypto portfolio. Beside him, my friend Chloe was giving me an apologetic I’m so sorry look over her Cosmopolitan.

Under the table, my phone buzzed on my lap. I glanced down.

Sofia: Please tell me you haven't murdered your date yet. I'm on my way back from Milan tomorrow and need you alive for coffee.

A genuine smile touched my lips. Sofia De Luca had been my anchor since our freshman year at NYU. Her quick text was the one grounded moment in an otherwise insufferable evening. I tapped out a lightning-fast reply: Barely hanging on. If I go missing, check Todd’s crypto wallet.

"So anyway, the risk-to-reward ratio on decentralized liquidity pools is where the real alpha is," Todd said, taking a loud sip of his gin and tonic. He gestured with his hands, almost knocking over his napkin. "You follow market volatility, Bella?"

"Only when it’s polite enough to introduce itself first," I said smoothly, forcing a polite smile that didn't reach my eyes.

I picked up my purse, sliding out from the leather bench.

"Where are you going?" Chloe asked, her voice dipping into a conspiratorial whisper.

"Powder room," I lied, keeping my tone light. "Don't pause on my account, Todd. I’d hate to interrupt the alpha."

I didn't head for the powder room. I walked straight past the mirrored hallway, through the heavy velvet curtains, and out onto the secluded outdoor terrace of L’Observatoire—a penthouse lounge perched forty stories above the glittering grid of the city skyline.

The night air was crisp, carrying the cool bite of early autumn. I leaned my forearms against the cold glass balustrade, taking a deep, cleansing breath. Below me, the city hummed—a sea of red and white tail lights stretching toward the horizon.

"Escaping?"

The voice came from the shadowed corner of the terrace. It was low, rich, and naturally velvet—a baritone that vibrated straight down my spine before I even turned around.

I turned slowly.

He was sitting alone at a low marble table, a half-empty glass of neat scotch resting near his elbow. He looked like he belonged to an entirely different tier of society than the boyish tech bros inside.

He was older. Forties, easily. Broad shoulders filled out a dark, bespoke Italian suit that looked impeccably tailored to his commanding frame. His dark hair was silvered at the temples, cut sharp and immaculate, framing a face defined by a hard jawline, high cheekbones, and dark, watchful eyes. A faint, precise scar ran barely a quarter-inch along the outer edge of his left jaw—a rugged contrast to his tailored perfection.

He wasn't just handsome; he possessed a quiet, magnetic aura that made the space around him feel smaller, more dangerous, and undeniably intimate.

"Is it that obvious?" I asked, resting my hip against the glass railing.

"You walked out here like a woman fleeing a hostage situation," he noted. His dark eyes swept over me with deliberate, unhurried precision, tracing the outline of my sapphire dress before rising to meet my gaze.

"I assume the young man in the linen suit wasn't holding your interest?"

A self-deprecating smile touched my lips.

"He was explaining liquidity pools."

A low, rich chuckle rumbled in his chest.

"A tragic waste of a night." He gestured toward the vacant leather armchair across from his table.

"Sit. Unless you'd prefer to go back to the alpha."

Every sensible instinct I had cultivated told me to walk back inside, grab Chloe, and call a cab. This man exuded wealth and an unyielding, quiet authority that warned you to keep your distance. The lounge staff moved around him like ghosts, filling his water glass without him making a sound, obeying his unstated presence without him ever raising a hand.

Yet, despite the formidable air surrounding him, there was a startling gentleness in the way he offered the chair—a refined, effortless courtesy that didn't feel patronizing.

Instead of leaving, I walked over and sat down.

"I don't even know your name," I said softly as a waiter materialized out of the shadows, silently placing a fresh drink on the table without being called.

"Good," the stranger said, picking up his glass. His gaze held mine, steady and unblinking. "Names bring expectations. Obligations. Tonight, we don't need either."

"Just two strangers on a balcony?"

"Just two people who appreciate a quiet glass of whisky and a quiet night." He tilted his glass toward mine. "To escaping."

I clinked my glass against his. The touch of his eyes on me felt warmer than the alcohol going down my throat.

For the next hour, time stretched and liquefied. He didn't ask me what I did for a living, where I lived, or who my family was. Instead, we talked about architectural lines, the lingering autumn cold, and the strange weight of city lights at midnight. He spoke with a quiet restraint that commanded total attention, yet he listened to me as if every word leaving my lips was genuine, valuable intelligence. He was a man completely accustomed to controlling his environment, yet when I countered one of his sharp observations about city design with a dry joke, his lips twitched into an unexpected, breathtakingly genuine smile.

When he finally stood up, buttoning his jacket with a single, fluid movement, he held out a hand to me.

"Come with me," he said. It wasn't a command; it was a quiet, confident invitation.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

"Where?"

"Up," he said softly, his thumb lightly brushing the inner pulse point of my wrist as I placed my hand in his. His skin was warm, slightly calloused, and sent a jolt of static straight up my arm.

"My private suite is on the top floor. No chatter. No liquidity pools."

I knew I should leave. That was precisely why I couldn't stop wondering what would happen if I stayed.

"Okay," I whispered.

The private elevator rose silently to the penthouse floor. No keycard was swiped; the elevator simply recognized him. The moment the brass doors slid shut, the atmosphere shifted from quiet conversation to a dense, undeniable pull.

He didn't rush. He stepped into my space, his heavy gaze resting on my lips. With slow, deliberate restraint, his calloused hand cup-framed my cheek, his thumb gently smoothing over my bottom lip before he leaned down and kissed me.

It wasn't aggressive; it was deep, devastatingly patient, and completely intoxicating.

He tasted like smoke, expensive scotch, and absolute composure.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in the thick, silver-laced hair at the nape of his neck. A low sound vibrated in his chest as his other hand came around my waist, pulling me firmly against the hard plane of his chest, holding me anchored to him as the elevator clicked smoothly to a halt.

The doors opened directly into a sprawling, darkened penthouse suite, illuminated only by the floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooking the city skyline.

The penthouse suite was bathed in the low, ambient glow of the city lights, forty stories of glass looking out over a sea of amber and white. The room felt cavernous, yet the space between us immediately shrank until there was no air left to breathe.

He didn't rush. That was the most devastating thing about him. A younger man would have let impulse take over, but this man moved with a slow, deliberate confidence that made my pulse race out of control.

He unbuttoned his suit jacket, tossing it casually onto a leather chair.

His dark eyes never broke contact with mine as he stepped closer, his broad frame blocking out the glow of the city behind him. When he stopped inches from me, I could smell the rich scent of his cologne—sandalwood, cedar, and the sharp bite of expensive scotch.

"Are you sure about this, piccola?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, raspy velvet that vibrated against my collarbone.

His hand rose slowly, his calloused palm framing my cheek. The contrast between his large, powerful hand and the tenderness of his touch sent a shiver straight down my spine. His thumb traced the curve of my cheekbone, then slid down to lightly brush against my lower lip.

"I'm sure," I whispered, my voice trembling slightly.

"Don't stop."

His eyes darkened, a silent shift occurring behind those watchful dark irises as his iron composure began to fray. He reached out and gathered me by the waist, his strong hands lifting me effortlessly onto the edge of the dark marble console by the window.

When his mouth met mine again, the restraint snapped. It wasn't a tentative kiss—it was deep, consuming, and fiercely possessive. He tasted like heat and smoke. My hands instinctively went to his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his crisp dress shirt, before traveling up to tangle my fingers in the thick, silver-laced hair at the nape of his neck.

A low, rumbling groan vibrated deep in his chest. His hands slid up the silk of my dress, his warm palms gripping my thighs with a firm, grounding pressure that anchored me completely to him. Every touch was heavy, deliberate, and intoxicating, making me forget my name, my life, and every rule I’d ever followed.

He pulled me flush against the hard, broad plane of his chest. Surrounded by dark velvet shadows and the distant hum of the city far below, he kissed me like a man who had been starving for years, claiming every breath, every sigh, and every quiet gasp that escaped my lips.

For hours, the world outside ceased to exist. In the dark, wrapped in his heat and surrendered to his strength, I lost myself completely to the intoxicating thrill of a man who held the entire room—and me—in the palm of his hand.

The pale gray light of early dawn was just beginning to streak the sky when I woke up.

My body felt warm, sensitized, and completely exhausted. Beside me, the stranger was fast asleep on his stomach, the white sheet draped low over his muscular back. Even in sleep, he looked formidable—a sleeping king in a high tower.

Panic hit me like a sudden bucket of ice water.

What did I just do?

I sat up quietly, my heart racing as reality came crashing back. I was twenty-five years old. I had a career, a life, and my best friend returning to the city today—and I had just spent the most explosive night of my life with a man whose name I didn't even know.

Carefully, so as not to disturb the heavy silence of the room, I gathered my clothes from the floor. I slipped my dress back on, my hands trembling as I zipped it up. I retrieved my purse and found my shoes by the armchair.

On the nightstand beside the bed rested a pair of heavy, solid-gold cufflinks. I paused, taking a closer look. Engraved deep into the polished gold was an intricate, striking family emblem: a crowned lion coiled around a broadsword.

My hands shook as I reached down to put my earring back in, but my clumsy fingers dropped the pearl stud into the thick carpet. I searched for two seconds in the dim morning light, but couldn't find it.

Impulsively, my fingers reached out for the heavy gold cufflink on the stand instead. Driven by an irresistible, illogical desire to hold onto a physical piece of this impossible night, I scooped up the solid gold crest and slipped it securely into the zippered pocket of my purse.

I took one last look at the sleeping man—the strong cut of his jaw, the silver in his hair, the faint scar on his cheek, and the absolute stillness of his rest—and slipped out the heavy oak door.

I entered the private elevator alone, the doors sealing shut with a soft, final click.