Tempted by My Best Friend’s Father

Serena recognized her before she said a word.

It was late morning, and she was alone—waiting for Damon to return from a security meeting—when the elevator to the penthouse opened without warning.

She turned, expecting a guard.

Instead, a woman stepped out as if she owned the air around her.

Elira.

Every inch of her radiated deliberate perfection.

Long black coat draped over porcelain shoulders. A gown the color of blood clung to her like a second skin. Her heels made no sound as she crossed the marble floor.

And her eyes?

Icy. Calculated. Beautiful in a way that hurt.

Serena didn't move.

Neither did Elira.

The silence curled between them like a ribbon dipped in poison.

"I thought you'd be… younger," Elira finally said, smiling faintly. "Or dumber."

Serena blinked once, slowly.

"Disappointed?"

Elira stepped closer, like a dancer taking her mark. "Intrigued."

---

Damon entered moments later.

His footsteps faltered the instant he saw them—two women at opposite ends of the room, the air charged, the tension thick.

"Elira," he said, voice low and unreadable.

She didn't even turn to look at him. "Still wearing heartbreak like it's tailored to fit you."

He stepped forward, placing himself between them—instinctively, like a shield.

"Elira, this isn't your place anymore."

Her lips twitched. "You're wrong, Damon. It never was mine." She leaned slightly, her voice a blade wrapped in velvet. "But it was never hers either."

Serena stared her down.

"No," she said evenly. "But it will be."

Elira's smile faded.

Then—almost too quickly to track—she turned and walked away, her perfume lingering like an accusation.

Before the elevator closed, she said without looking back:

"Some men fall in love to forget. Others… only remember when it's too late."

---

That night, Damon barely spoke.

He stood in the shower longer than usual.

Scrubbed harder.

As if trying to rinse off a version of himself she hadn't yet met.

Serena waited on the edge of the bed, wearing only one of his shirts, her knees drawn up, the city flickering behind her.

"You don't have to protect me from your past," she said quietly.

Damon didn't respond immediately.

When he finally sat beside her, towel slung around his neck, his eyes didn't meet hers.

"She's not just a woman I loved, Serena."

"I know."

"She was the reason I stopped believing love meant anything."

Serena reached over and placed her hand on his chest, just above the old scar.

"And I'm the reason you remember it does."

He looked at her then. Really looked.

His expression was raw. Open. Stripped bare in a way few men ever allowed themselves to be.

"I want to believe in us."

"Then do."

He took her hand.

Lifted it.

Pressed it to his lips.

"You make me feel… alive again," he whispered. "And that terrifies me."

"Then be terrified," she said. "But don't run."

---

They made love slower that night.

Not like a fire consuming them, but like a story being rewritten—line by line, wound by wound. His hands mapped her skin as if trying to unlearn someone else's touch. Her breath shook beneath him, not from fear—but from the depth of trust.

When he entered her, it was with reverence.

Not hunger.

When he whispered her name, it sounded like a vow.

And when she moaned his—he shattered.

---

Later, as they lay wrapped in each other beneath the city lights, Serena traced the line of his jaw with her finger.

"Do you still see her when you look at me?"

Damon didn't answer for a long time.

Then—

"No," he said. "I see who I was before her. And who I am with you."

Serena closed her eyes.

And for the first time in days… she let herself believe.

But far across the city—

Elira was already unraveling a new plan.

And this time, she wasn't coming for Damon.

She was coming for Serena's past.