Tempted by My Best Friend’s Father

Serena woke before the sun.

Not because of a sound.

But because of a feeling.

That strange sensation you get when something has changed while you slept. Like the air itself had shifted into a different rhythm. As if the universe had taken a deeper breath.

Damon was no longer beside her.

His side of the bed was still warm.

And on the pillow he left behind—

A single white rose.

No note. No message. Just that. A fragile bloom with edges kissed in dew.

Serena sat up slowly, the bedsheets falling to her waist. Her bare skin shimmered in the gray light of early morning. Her fingers hovered over the rose.

It was beautiful.

But it didn't feel like a gesture of love.

It felt like a warning.

---

She found him in the library, shirtless beneath his open blazer, hands gripping the edge of his desk like he was holding something inside from detonating.

His eyes didn't move as she entered.

But he spoke.

"She's back."

Serena's heart skipped.

"Elira?"

He nodded once.

"She's in the city."

Serena stepped forward, slowly, like approaching a wound. "How do you know?"

He turned then.

And for the first time, she saw real fear in Damon Cross's face.

"She sent the rose."

Her breath hitched.

He walked toward her—tight, angry, restrained. Like his body was caught between desire and defense.

"She always did this. Before she burned a bridge, before she broke something… she left white roses. Pure on the outside. Poison underneath."

Serena looked down at the flower still in her hand.

Suddenly it felt colder.

Sharper.

"You think she's here to hurt you?" she asked.

"No," he said. "She's here to hurt you."

---

That night, they stayed in the penthouse. Guards reactivated. Cameras that Damon had left idle were turned back on. The feeling of safety—the fragile bubble they'd built over the past few weeks—shattered.

And yet…

Serena refused to leave.

"I'm not running," she told him, voice low, firm, unwavering. "Not from her. And not from whatever we've started."

Damon looked at her like she was made of glass and steel all at once.

"You're braver than I ever was."

"Maybe. Or maybe I've just never been in love with someone who made me afraid before."

He stepped toward her.

Their bodies didn't touch. But the air between them was heat.

She searched his eyes. "What did she do to you, Damon?"

He hesitated.

And then—

"She taught me how to bleed… beautifully."

---

Later that night, they didn't talk.

They just held each other.

But their bodies spoke everything.

He touched her like she might disappear.

She kissed him like he was the answer to every ache she'd buried.

And when he entered her—it wasn't just need.

It was defiance.

A promise.

That no matter what ghost returned…

No matter what war Elira came to start…

Serena would not be the one to walk away.

---

Afterward, as they lay tangled in the sheets, skin damp, chests rising together like they shared the same breath, Serena whispered into his throat:

"You're not the man she broke anymore."

His fingers tightened around her spine.

And in the darkness, he whispered something back—

Not a confession.

But a vow.

"I'll protect you. Even if it means becoming that man again."

---

But neither of them saw what happened across the city that same hour.

A tall woman, clad in ivory silk, stood before a window in a rival penthouse.

She held a wine glass between her painted nails.

Her lips curled.

Her eyes gleamed cold.

And on her table?

A folder.

With Serena's photo inside.

And a single line written in ink above it:

"Break the girl, and the man follows."