MY FATHER'S BEST FRIEND,MY FORBIDDEN ADDICTION のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 1 - チャプター 10

Chloe's POV My father’s house is my safe place. At least, it’s supposed to be.But when the big iron gates closed behind me, it didn’t feel like a refuge. It felt like a beautiful, quiet cage.I’d been hiding in my old bedroom for three days.The world thinks I’m hiding from the scandal. The pictures. The whispers.And I am.But that’s not all.I’m hiding from my own heart. Because it does this stupid, hopeful jump every time my father even says his name.“Richard is coming for dinner tonight,” Dad said at breakfast. He didn’t look up from his paper.My fork slipped. It clanged loudly on my plate.“Why?”The word was too sharp.He finally looked at me. His eyes are usually warm. Today they were flat. Like stones.“Because I invited him. He’s my oldest friend.”His voice got gentle. “He’s called me, Chloe. Every day since it happened. He doesn’t ask for gossip. He asks about you.”A shiver cut down my spine.Every day.---Then, salvation roared up the driveway.Rita’s bright red conv

Chloe's POV He didn’t let go all at once. It was slow. His arms loosened, and his hands slid down to my elbows, then fell away. The air felt cold where he had been.We didn’t speak. We just walked to the stone bench by the dark water and sat. Not touching, but close. My body still felt warm from where he’d held me. My cheek remembered the soft wool of his shirt.I pulled my knees up and looked at him. The moonlight showed the tired lines near his eyes. He didn’t look like my father’s friend just then. He just looked like a man. A man who had seen me cry and hadn’t looked away.Then the words left my mouth in a quiet breath.“What’s the worst way someone can betray you?”I don’t know what made me ask it. The words were just there, sitting in the quiet between us, and then they weren’t.“What would you call the worst kind of betrayal?”The night felt thick. We were on the stone bench by the pool, the water dark and still. Richard didn’t move. He just stared ahead, his face half in moon

The PermissionThe days began to feel different. Lighter. The house didn’t feel like a cage anymore.My dad noticed first. We were on the balcony one night, the stars bright above us.“He makes you really happy,” he said, his voice quiet in the dark.I looked over at him. “Is it that obvious?”“To me it is.” He smiled, a soft, sad thing. “Your mood… it’s like you’ve come back to life. Ever since Richard got here.”I felt my cheeks get warm. “He’s easy to talk to.”My dad turned fully toward me. His face was serious. “Richard is a good man. One of the best I’ve ever known.” He reached over and squeezed my hand. “Whatever makes you happy, my love. That’s all I want.”My throat felt tight. “Dad…”“I mean it, Chloe. I see the way you look at each other.”“It’s not…”“It’s not what?” he asked gently. “Wrong? Sweetheart, life is too short. Real goodness is too rare. If you find it, you hold on.”I couldn’t speak. I just nodded, tears in my eyes.---Richard didn’t act like some stuffy old

Richard's POVI have brought heads of state into this penthouse. I have signed deals at that dining table worth more than entire companies.None of that prepared me for watching Chloe Dufort turn slowly beneath my ceiling, New York glittering behind her like it rose just to witness her arrival. She looks younger here. Softer. And more dangerous to me than she has ever been."It's different," she says quietly. "From Orlando.""It's honest," I reply.I should feel in control. Instead I feel like a man standing on the edge of something irreversible."Close your eyes," I say.She stills. "Richard…""Trust me."A beat. Then she nods.I take a silk tie from the console table and step behind her. The fabric slides over her eyes. My fingers brush her temples, her hairline. I tie it carefully.My hand settles at the small of her back. She exhales slowly.We take the private elevator down three levels — below everything anyone associates with me. The doors open to dim light and the faint scent

The building is made of glass and certainty.I feel the gap the moment we step out of the car.It rises in front of us — steel, reflective, sharp against the Manhattan sky. His name sits discreetly beside the entrance, etched into brushed metal like it’s always belonged there.St. Clair Global.People move differently here. Faster. Straighter. Purposeful in a way that makes me instinctively check my posture.Richard doesn’t slow down.He doesn’t need to.The revolving doors part. The lobby is all marble and quiet power — muted conversations, heels clicking, security nodding before he even reaches the desk.“Good morning, Mr. St. Clair.”There’s a shift in the air when he walks in. It’s subtle but undeniable. Like gravity adjusting around him.He nods. Efficient. Calm. “Morning.”His hand rests lightly at the small of my back as we walk toward the elevators. Protective, not possessive. But I feel the eyes.Who is she?I feel young here.Twenty-four in a world built by fifty-year-old de