All Chapters of Claimed By My Best Friend’s Daddy: Chapter 1 - Chapter 9

Trigger Warning: This novel contains mature themes, explicit sex scenes, and depictions of grief, trauma, and abduction. It is intended for adult readers. So, please read with care. DEDICATION To my girls who dream too big, love too hard, and refuse to apologize for it.This one is for you—the ones who believe in passion, healing, and happily ever afters, even when the world tries to convince you otherwise.Keep dreaming. Keep loving.You deserve it. PROLOGUE Three Years AgoHis mouth was already on mine the second the suite door slammed shut, he kissed me so hard like he had been starving since we met downstairs for dinner.I gasped into the kiss, my fingers clawing at his tux jacket. He tasted like whiskey and sin, but smelled so good, like expensive cologne and raw male hunger. One big hand fisted my hair at the nape, yanking my head back so he could devour my throat, his teeth scra

Rhys’s POVThe boardroom on the forty-second floor of Connell Tower was designed to intimidate. Floor-to-ceiling glass on three sides, the city sprawled below like a map someone had forgotten to fold. Polished black marble table long enough to seat twenty, though only six of us ever used it. Leather chairs that cost more than most people’s rent. And silence—thick, expectant silence—until someone spoke.Today, that someone was me.“Gentlemen,” I said, my voice low enough that they had to lean in, “the Zanzibar resort acquisition closes in forty-eight hours. If there are objections, now is the time to speak.”No one spoke, Mark Jackson—seated across the table, his fingers steepled, and eyes narrowed—gave the smallest tilt of his head. Not in agreement or dissent. Just calculation. He’d been gunning for a piece of the Connell Group’s hospitality portfolio for two years, ever since I outbid him on the Maldives properties. He hadn’t forgiven me, and I hadn’t expected him to.Hayes White,

Rhys’s POV I stood at the top of the main staircase, hands in my pockets, looking down into the foyer. The marble floors gleamed under the chandelier’s soft glow. The Christmas tree was already up, because Mirabel would complain if it wasn’t, towered in the corner, lights twinkling in slow, programmed patterns. Boxes of ornaments sat open on the floor, waiting for her to arrive and finish the job. She always insisted on doing it herself, saying the tree didn’t feel right unless she hung the crooked star at the top. I descended slowly, my footsteps echoing. The house had been built for a family—it had wide halls, multiple living rooms, a kitchen big enough for staff and chaos—but for years it had mostly held echoes. Mine and Mirabel’s laughter when she came home. And the quiet creak of floorboards when I walked alone at night. The chef and head of staff—Maria—had arrived earlier to prep. I could smell cinnamon and butter drifting from the kitchen. She poked her head out as I passed.

Rhys’s POV I stood at the window of my corner suite on the forty-second floor, hands in my pockets, watching the city below move in its usual hurried rhythm. Cars crawled along the avenues like ants, pedestrians streamed across crosswalks, and the late-afternoon sun cut long shadows between the buildings. It was the kind of view that used to ground me, a proof that everything kept turning, no matter what happened inside these walls. Lately, it just made me feel distant. The last meeting of the day had wrapped twenty minutes ago. The deal was officially closed—signed, sealed, and funds transferred. Hayes had texted the confirmation from the airport in Dar es Salaam: Done. You’re clear for the holidays. Go home. I’d replied with a simple Thanks. Safe flight back. No more. No need for elaboration. I turned from the window and crossed to my desk. The surface was unusually tidy—files stacked, laptop closed, Elena’s photo in its small silver frame catching the light. I picked it up

Rhys’s POV The phone rang as I stepped onto the front porch, coat already buttoned against the December chill. Mirabel’s name flashed on the screen. I answered immediately. “Dad—we’re here!” Her voice burst through, bright and breathless, the faint rumble of a car engine and traffic noise in the background. “We just pulled up to the outer gate. The ride driver’s turning around now. We’re walking up the drive. Like, two minutes!” I glanced toward the tall wrought-iron gates at the end of the long private driveway—already cracked open, the security guard visible in his booth, his hand raised in acknowledgment. Public vehicles aren’t allowed beyond that point. Not even rideshares or taxis, it’s a security protocol that the house has been using for a long time. The girls would have to walk in to the inner gate with their bags. “I see the gate,” I told her. “Guards are waiting. Maria and two of the staff are heading down now to help with luggage. Just come straight up.” “Yay! Se