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Sophia

Coming home always felt like slipping into a life I'd outgrown. I dropped my suitcase at the front door and kicked off my sandals. The marble floor felt cool against my toes, a relief from the sticky summer heat. Nothing had changed. Not the leather couch that clung to bare skin, not the stack of untouched Forbes magazines on the glass coffee table, and definitely not the scent—cologne, faint whiskey, and that sterile air-conditioned chill that whispered money lives here.

Home. Or at least, the place I slept whenu school wasn't in session.

I'd just wrapped up another semester at Columbia—first year of my Master's in Communication and Media. At twenty-three, with my undergrad degree barely a year behind me, I was tired, broke from textbooks, and one coffee away from a full-on breakdown during exams week. Fancy title for something that's made me allergic to small talk and very aware of bullshit. So, summer back home was supposed to be a break. A quiet reset.

First step? Food. I hadn't eaten anything but trail mix and stale airplane crackers.

I wandered into the kitchen, already thinking of eggs or maybe a grilled sandwich—something quick to silence the growl in my stomach.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

Bree.

I grinned and swiped to answer. "Miss me already?"

"You better believe it. Did you get home in one piece?"

"Yeah, just walked in. Place looks the same. Cold, quiet, and judgmental."

"Sounds like your dad."

I laughed. "And every wall in this house."

"You seen him yet?"

"Not yet. Probably still at work doing... important CEO things."

Bree snorted. "Bet he's got a Bluetooth in one ear and a glass of scotch in the other."

I smirked, pulling open the fridge. "That sounds accurate."

The fridge was stocked, thank God, but everything looked either too healthy or too... fancy. I settled for eggs and bread—simple, comforting, hard to mess up. Bree kept talking while I grabbed a pan from under the counter.

"So, you ready for the summer of zero stress?"

"God, yes. I want lazy mornings, shitty reality TV, and my weight in pancakes."

She chuckled. "You deserve it."

"Damn right I do."

We chatted a bit longer while I cooked, until the eggs were sizzling and the toast popped. After saying goodbye, I tossed my phone aside and sat on the kitchen island stool, finally letting myself breathe.

Mom used to say the kitchen was the heart of the home. She loved this space—big windows, white marble counters, copper pans hanging like ornaments. She died when I was eleven, but I still see her in flashes, dancing barefoot across these tiles, music playing, flour on her cheek.

After she passed, the housekeeper, Mrs. June, basically raised me while Dad drowned himself in work.

He'd built Sullivan Holdings from the ground up—one of the biggest investment firms on the East Coast. While other dads coached soccer or flipped pancakes on weekends, mine was negotiating billion-dollar mergers and traveling across time zones like it was nothing.

Mrs. June was warm and strict, always humming and calling me baby girl like I was hers. I looked around now, expecting to see her like always, wiping down counters or bossing around the cook who never lasted more than a month.

But it was too quiet.

I grabbed my plate and walked to the living room, just as the front door opened. My dad stepped in, suit jacket slung over his arm, tie loose around his neck. "Look who's here," he said, a smile dancing across his lips. "Didn't think the house would survive the silence."

I rolled my eyes. "Still got that stand-up career on the back burner?"

He walked over and pulled me into a hug—tight, warm and familiar.

"You look good," he murmured. "Too skinny. Are they starving you at that fancy grad program?"

I smirked. "Only emotionally. Where's Mrs. June?"

"Gone to visit her family for a few days," he said, setting his keys down. "She'll be back by the weekend."

"Huh." I took a bite of toast. "Weird not seeing her here."

"I know. She's been around longer than you've been alive."

"Exactly."

He loosened his tie more and looked me over with that typical fatherly glance. "Hope you're ready for tomorrow."

I frowned. "Tomorrow?"

He raised a brow. "Don't tell me you forgot the anniversary gala."

My stomach dipped. Right. His company's twenty-fifth anniversary.

"I may have... pushed that to the back of my mind," I muttered.

"Well, it's happening. Full turnout. All the city's elite. You're coming."

I groaned. "Kill me."

He smirked. "Exactly. So dress nice, play sweet, and smile for the cameras."

"Do I have a choice?"

"No. But you do have a designer dress in your closet upstairs. I may have called in a favor."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "That's manipulative."

"That's parenting."

I took a sip of water, letting the coolness distract me from my rising annoyance. "Well, it's still up to me what I do with the rest of the night."

He shrugged, already loosening his watch. "Cool. As long as it's not getting wasted at your father's company anniversary."

I rolled my eyes and turned away, muttering under my breath, Maybe I'll do something much worse.

Like sin in silk and heels. Like let my curiosity walk straight into the arms of temptation.

**

The sun had barely risen when I decided to tackle my room. Since I'd be home for the next three months, it felt only right to make the space feel like mine again. That meant swapping out the old navy curtains for something softer, moving the dresser to the opposite wall, and pulling open every drawer like I was reclaiming territory. My territory.

Somewhere between rearranging my books and switching out my bedding, the afternoon slipped by. The room smelled like fresh linen and lemon polish by the time I tossed myself onto the bed, already dreading the part of the day that came next.

Until evening time when I had forced myself out of bed from a little nap and headed to the bathroom to start getting ready. By the time I was done playing bubbles in the shower I finally stood in front of the mirror in a half-zipped dress, questioning every life decision that brought me to this moment.

"Why is this thing so tight?" I grumbled, wrestling with the zipper at the back of the gown.

The screen of my phone, propped against a stack of books, lit up with Bree's amused face. She burst out laughing. "Maybe you gained weight."

"Gee, thanks," I huffed, giving the zipper another desperate tug. "I think I lost some."

"Well, your ass looks great, so stop complaining."

I looked at my reflection—tight black satin hugging every curve, neckline plunging a little too low. The dress screamed elegance, but it whispered something filthier too. Like it wasn't meant to be worn to a gala. Like it was meant to be ripped off in a hallway.

"You really going through with this thing?" Bree asked, probably munching chips like the traitor she was.

"Apparently I have no choice. Dad already RSVP'd for me and guilt-tripped me with couture."

She snorted. "Classic."

"Just promise me if I text you halfway through saying I've died of boredom, you'll lie and say there's an emergency."

"Girl, I'll stage a kidnapping if you need it."

I laughed, still fumbling with the zipper. "Ugh. I need to find someone with strong hands."

Bree wiggled her brows. "Be careful what you wish for."

I didn't know then that she was right. That strong hands—and sinful eyes—were closer than I thought.

By the time I made it outside, I found the car my dad sent over already waiting for me. The expensive black Mercedes Benz gleaming under the porch lights. The young driver stepped out and opened the back door without a word. I slid in, gathering the fabric of my dress so it didn't wrinkle.

Dad had left earlier, said he needed to oversee last-minute details. I hadn't argued. I was too busy trying to get my zipper up and not smudge my lip gloss.

When we arrived at the event hall, the place was glowing. Spotlights swept across the marble entrance, and expensive cars lined the driveway like it was a red carpet. A few photographers milled about, snapping flashes at the glittering guests who looked like they lived in luxury.

I stepped out slowly, heels clicking against stone, clutching my small black purse. The satin of my dress clung to me in all the right places, and I knew I looked the part—sophisticated and polished.

Inside was all shimmer and shadows. Crystal chandeliers, waiters gliding past with champagne and silver trays. I moved through the crowd with ease, my eyes scanning the room for one face.

Dad.

A small smile curled my lips when I saw him near the front, surrounded by colleagues and grinning that proud, businessman grin of his.

But then the smile froze.

Standing next to him, tall and poised, in a charcoal suit that looked far too good on a man his age, was him.

Damian Wolfe. My father's best friend.

Three years. Three years since I last saw him.

And somehow, in those three years, he'd only gotten more dangerous-looking.

The sharp lines at the corner of his mouth, the way he stood like he owned more than just the ground beneath him. He didn't look like someone who showed up—he looked like someone who commanded the room.

Our eyes met. Briefly. But enough.

Enough to make my breath catch, just for a second.

I didn't smile. Neither did he.

Just a glimpse of recognition in those storm-grey eyes. Eyes that used to look softer. Warmer. But now... now they looked like trouble. The kind that could ruin you with just a touch.

He was still looking at me even as I slowly walked towards them. Not just looking—assessing. The way a man might eye a glass of whiskey he wasn't supposed to touch but couldn't quite ignore.

His gaze dipped, slow tracing the shape of my dress like he had every right. It lingered where it shouldn't have—on the curve of my waist, the slope of my hips. Then it came back up, calm, composed. Like he hadn't just undressed me in his mind.

My skin prickled.

"Sophia," my father said, unaware or pretending to be. "You remember Damian."

"Yes Dad how could I forget your best friend?" A smile forced its way out of my lips as I said it.

Back when I used to visit during undergrad, he'd always be around. Business talks, cigar smoke, and those quiet glances that never felt appropriate. I was barely twenty then—young, uncertain, still figuring myself out. But even then, I could feel it.

The way he looked at me like he shouldn't.

"Wow," my father said, grinning proudly. "My little girl's not so little anymore."

Damian's eyes didn't leave mine. His smile was almost predatory, "She's grown."

He looked like a man who didn't need to raise his voice to command attention. Like someone who never had to ask for what he wanted—he just took.

And standing there under the weight of his gaze, something hot and reckless twisted low in my belly.