His Best Friend's Daughter

CHAPTER 4: SHATTERED GLASS AND SECRETS

I didn't sleep that night.

I lay in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by faded posters and stuffed animals I was too old for, staring at the ceiling. The house creaked and settled around me, the way old houses do. The rain had started again, a soft patter against the windows that should have been soothing.

It wasn't.

Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his hands on my face. His lips on mine. His voice, rough with years of denied desire, telling me he'd wanted me for eight years. Eight years. While I'd been pining for him, convinced I was just a foolish girl with a crush she'd never outgrow, he'd been fighting the exact same battle.

I pressed my palms against my eyes and let out a shaky breath.

Somewhere down the hall, I heard a door open.

Quiet footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Trying not to make noise and not quite succeeding.

The guest room was three doors away from mine. I'd memorized its location when I was sixteen, had counted the steps from my bed to his door a thousand times. Back then, it had been innocent. A schoolgirl fantasy. The kind of thing you daydream about but never expect to happen.

Now everything was different.

The footsteps stopped.

I held my breath.

Were they outside my door?

Silence stretched for so long I thought I'd imagined it. I could picture him standing there, one hand raised to knock, fighting the same internal war he'd been fighting for years. The honorable man versus the man who'd kissed me senseless in the library three hours ago.

Then the footsteps continued, fading down the staircase.

I threw off my covers.

The hallway was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the security lights outside. I moved on silent bare feet, avoiding the floorboard that always creaked—the one outside the linen closet. I'd learned its location as a teenager sneaking downstairs to watch movies after my parents went to bed. Now I was using that knowledge for something far more dangerous.

I found him in the kitchen.

He was standing at the island, his back to me. He'd shed his dress shirt and was wearing nothing but a white undershirt and sweatpants. The muscles of his shoulders caught the moonlight spilling through the window. His feet were bare. His hair was disheveled. He looked nothing like the polished billionaire who'd sat at our dinner table hours earlier.

He looked human. Vulnerable. Real.

A glass of water sat untouched in front of him. He was gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"Couldn't sleep either?" I asked softly.

He didn't turn around. But I saw his shoulders tense. Saw his grip on the counter tighten.

"You should go back to bed, Lizzy."

His voice was rough. Hoarse. Like he'd been talking for hours, or not talking at all.

"So should you."

"I don't sleep much these days."

I moved closer, my bare feet silent on the cold tile. The kitchen was bathed in silver light, the moon reflecting off the stainless steel appliances, the marble countertops, the glass-front cabinets. It looked like a photograph. Beautiful and still and unreal.

"Since when?" I asked.

He didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice was quieter. Softer. "Since you came home."

I stopped beside him. He still wouldn't look at me, but I could see his profile in the moonlight. The sharp line of his jaw. The slight stubble that had appeared since dinner. The way his throat moved when he swallowed.

"Damien."

"Lizzy, please."

"Look at me."

The word hung in the air between us. It wasn't a command. It was a plea. A request from a woman who'd spent too many years being invisible to the one person she wanted to see her most.

Slowly, like it cost him something physical, he turned his head. His eyes were dark in the moonlight. Haunted. Beautiful. They searched my face the way they always did, like he was memorizing me, like he was terrified this might be the last time he'd get to look.

"I'm trying to do the right thing," he said. His voice was barely above a whisper. "Every second I'm near you, I'm trying. But you make it impossible."

"I'm not trying to make anything impossible. I just—"

"You just what?"

I didn't have an answer. Or rather, I had too many answers, all of them terrifying. I just wanted to see you. I just wanted to make sure tonight was real. I just wanted to be near you. I just wanted to know if you're regretting what happened in the library.

"I just wanted to see you," I whispered finally.

Something broke in his expression. A crack in the carefully constructed mask. "You see me. You've always seen me. Even when I didn't want to be seen. Even when I was trying so hard to hide."

"Then stop hiding."

His hand moved before he seemed to realize it, reaching out and tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch was electric. Gentle. Everything I'd ever wanted and everything I was terrified to lose.

I leaned into it without meaning to. My eyes fluttered closed for just a second. When I opened them, he was staring at me with an expression I couldn't quite name. Longing. Guilt. Desire. Fear. All of it, tangled together.

"Your father would never forgive me," he murmured. His fingers lingered on my cheek, tracing the line of my jaw. "If he knew what happened tonight. If he knew what I've been thinking about for years. He'd never forgive either of us."

"My father doesn't have to know."

The words hung in the air. Dangerous. Seductive. A line neither of us had dared to speak aloud before. At least not like this. Not in the quiet darkness of the kitchen, with the rain pattering against the windows and the rest of the house sleeping around us.

"Lizzy." My name was a prayer and a curse. He said it like it cost him something. Like every syllable was a step closer to a cliff he couldn't come back from. "If we do this—if we even start down this road—there's no going back. You understand that? There's no version of this story where we just 'see what happens' and then go back to normal. If I let myself have you, even for a moment, I won't be able to pretend anymore. I won't be able to sit at your father's dinner table and act like you're just his daughter."

"I don't want to go back. I've never wanted to go back." I stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. "I've been running away from my feelings for you since I was fifteen years old. I'm exhausted, Damien. I'm tired of pretending. I'm tired of hiding. I'm tired of feeling like I'm the only one who feels this way."

"You're not." The words came out fast. Almost desperate. "You're not the only one. God knows you're not the only one."

"Then prove it."

He studied my face for a long moment. I could see the war raging behind his eyes. The honorable man who wanted to send me back to my room. The man who'd spent eight years wanting me, who'd kissed me in the library until neither of us could breathe, who was standing here in the dark fighting the same battle he'd been fighting since I was seventeen.

"Victoria Ashford," he said finally, and the name landed like a stone in still water. "You need to understand what you're getting into. Who I really am. The things I've done."

"I know who you are."

"No. You don't." He pulled his hand back, running it through his hair. The gesture was agitated. Frustrated. "You know the version of me your father wanted you to see. The family friend. The successful businessman. The man who shows up to birthday parties and remembers your favorite foods. But that's not—" He stopped. Swallowed. "That's not all of me."

"Then tell me the rest."

He was quiet for so long I thought he wasn't going to answer. The rain picked up outside, drumming against the windows. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere in the distance, a car passed on the wet street.

"I was engaged to Victoria Ashford," he said finally. "Three years ago. We were together for two years before that. Her family is old money. The kind of wealth that comes with lineage and influence and connections I could never have bought on my own. On paper, we were perfect. The rising billionaire and the heiress. The business merger disguised as a love story."

I stayed silent, letting him talk.

"But it wasn't a love story." He turned away from me, bracing his hands on the counter. His back was tense. His voice was flat. "Victoria's father, Charles Ashford, was using my company to launder money. I didn't know at first. By the time I found out, I was already engaged to his daughter. Already entangled in their world."

"What did you do?"

"I gathered evidence. For months. I pretended everything was fine while I built a case against him. And when I had enough, I went to the authorities. Charles Ashford was arrested. His company collapsed. Victoria's family lost everything." He paused. "Victoria lost everything."

I swallowed. "And the acquisition? She said you orchestrated a hostile takeover."

"The acquisition was a cover story. The official narrative was that I'd outmaneuvered them in business. It protected the investigation. Protected the sources who'd come forward. Protected me from retaliation." He turned back to face me, and his eyes were anguished. "But Victoria doesn't know that. She thinks I used her to destroy her father. She thinks our entire relationship was a lie."

"Was it?"

He was quiet for a moment. "At first, no. At first, I thought I loved her. But looking back, I'm not sure I've ever really loved anyone. Not the way I should have."

The implication hung in the air between us. Not the way I love you. He didn't say it. He didn't have to.

"Why didn't you tell anyone the truth?" I asked. "My father—he doesn't know any of this, does he?"

"No one knows. The investigation was sealed. Charles Ashford took a plea deal to avoid a public trial. The official story is the one Victoria believes—that I orchestrated a hostile takeover for profit." He laughed bitterly. "It's cleaner that way. Better for business. The ruthless billionaire who destroyed his fiancée's family is a more marketable story than the truth."

"But it's not the truth."

"No. It's not." He met my eyes. "But I let people believe it anyway. I let the world think I'm a monster because it's easier than explaining what really happened. Because it protects the people who helped me. Because—" He stopped.

"Because what?"

"Because maybe I am a monster." His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I didn't love Victoria. Not really. And when I realized what her father was doing, I didn't hesitate. I didn't try to protect her. I didn't warn her. I just gathered my evidence and watched her world burn. What kind of man does that?"

"A man who was doing the right thing."

"The right thing would have been telling her the truth. Giving her a chance to make her own choices. Instead, I let her believe I'd betrayed her. I let her hate me." He shook his head. "And now she's back, and she's using you to hurt me. Which means I've dragged you into a mess I should have cleaned up years ago."

I stepped closer. "You didn't drag me into anything. I walked into this with my eyes open."

"Did you?" He turned to face me fully. "Because loving me comes with consequences, Lizzy. Real ones. Victoria isn't the only enemy I've made. There are others. People who'd love to see me destroyed. People who wouldn't hesitate to use you to get to me."

"Then we'll face them together."

"You keep saying that. But you don't know what you're promising."

"Then tell me. Tell me all of it. No more secrets."

He studied my face for a long moment. Then he exhaled slowly. "When I was twenty-two, I made a deal with a man named Vincent Moretti. He was a venture capitalist. Big name. Big money. He offered to fund my first company. I was young and desperate and I didn't ask enough questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"The kind that would have told me Moretti was laundering money for organized crime." Damien's jaw tightened. "By the time I figured it out, I was in too deep. He owned thirty percent of my company. He had leverage. He had connections. He had people who would hurt me—hurt anyone I cared about—if I tried to get out."

My blood ran cold. "What happened?"

"I spent three years building a case against him. Working with the FBI. Wearing wires to meetings. Pretending to be his loyal business partner while secretly documenting every crime he committed." He paused. "It almost got me killed. Twice. But in the end, Moretti went to prison. His organization collapsed. And I walked away with my company intact and a reputation for being someone you don't cross."

"That's why you're so guarded. Why you don't let people in."

"Part of it." He met my eyes. "I've spent my entire adult life surrounded by enemies. People who wanted to use me, destroy me, take what I built. I learned early that trust is a liability. That caring about people makes you vulnerable. That the only way to survive is to keep everyone at arm's length."

"But not my father."

"No. Not your father." His expression softened slightly. "Marcus is the only person who ever helped me without wanting something in return. He gave me a job when I had nothing. He introduced me to people who changed my life. He trusted me with his home, his family, his daughter." His voice cracked. "And I'm repaying him by sneaking around behind his back with you."

I reached out and took his hand. His fingers were cold. Tense. But they curled around mine like I was a lifeline.

"You're not betraying him," I said quietly. "We're not betraying him. We're two adults who have feelings for each other. Feelings we didn't ask for and couldn't control."

"He won't see it that way."

"Maybe not at first. But he loves you. He loves me. Eventually, he'll understand."

"And if he doesn't?"

The question hung between us. Heavy. Terrifying. Real.

"Then I'll have to make a choice," I said. "But that's my choice to make. Not yours. Not his. Mine."

Damien stared at me for a long moment. Then he pulled me against his chest, wrapping his arms around me like he was afraid I'd disappear. I could feel his heart pounding. Could feel the slight tremor in his hands.

"You're the bravest person I've ever met," he murmured into my hair. "Do you know that? You walk into a room and you're not afraid. You say what you mean. You go after what you want. You don't apologize for existing."

"I'm terrified all the time," I admitted. "I'm terrified of losing you. Of losing my father. Of destroying our family. I'm terrified that I'm making a huge mistake and I won't realize it until it's too late."

"Then why are you still here?"

I pulled back just enough to look at him. "Because the thought of not being here—of walking away from this, from you—is more terrifying than any of the rest of it."

Something shifted in his expression. The last wall crumbling. The final barrier giving way.

"I love you," he said.

The words were quiet. Simple. Unadorned. No dramatics. No grand gestures. Just the truth, finally spoken aloud after years of silence.

My breath caught. "Damien—"

"I've loved you for years. I didn't want to admit it. I told myself it was just attraction. Just physical. Just a phase that would pass." He cupped my face in his hands. "But it never passed. Every time I saw you, it got stronger. Every time you smiled at me, I felt like I could do anything. Every time you left, I counted the days until you came back."

Tears pricked at my eyes. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I was afraid. Afraid of what your father would think. Afraid of what people would say. Afraid that you'd realize you deserved someone better. Someone younger. Someone without my baggage and my enemies and my past." He pressed his forehead to mine. "But I'm done being afraid. I'm done pretending I don't feel what I feel. I'm done letting fear make my choices for me."

"I love you too," I whispered. "I've loved you for so long I don't remember what it felt like before."

He kissed me then. Soft and slow and deep. Not like the desperate kiss in the library. Not like the frantic, years-of-denial kiss that had left us both breathless. This was something else. Something quieter. A promise. A beginning.

When he pulled back, his eyes were wet.

"We have to be careful," he said. "Your father can't know. Not yet. Not until I figure out how to handle Victoria. Not until I'm sure you're safe."

"I know."

"And we can't tell anyone. Not your friends. Not Marta. No one."

"I know."

"It's going to be hard. Hiding. Sneaking around. Pretending we're just family friends whenever anyone else is watching." He traced my cheekbone with his thumb. "Are you sure you're ready for that?"

"I've been pretending my whole life," I said. "Pretending I don't love you. Pretending it doesn't kill me to see you with other women. Pretending I'm just your best friend's daughter." I smiled slightly. "At least now the pretending has a purpose."

He laughed. Actually laughed. The sound was surprised and warm and so unlike the cold, controlled man the world saw.

"God, I don't deserve you," he said.

"Probably not. But you're stuck with me anyway."

He kissed me one more time. Brief. Sweet. Reluctant.

"Go back to bed," he said. "Before someone wakes up and finds us here."

"What about you?"

"I'll stay down here for a while. I don't think I could sleep if I tried."

I nodded. I understood. My own mind was racing, replaying everything that had happened. The library. The confession. The kiss. The words I'd waited eight years to hear.

I love you.

I made it to the kitchen doorway before his voice stopped me.

"Lizzy?"

I turned.

He was still standing at the island, silhouetted by moonlight. He looked younger somehow. Lighter. Like confessing his secrets had lifted a weight he'd been carrying for years.

"Whatever happens next," he said quietly. "Whatever Victoria does. Whatever your father says when he finds out. I need you to know that this—you and me—is the only thing that's ever felt real. I've spent my whole life chasing money and power and success, and none of it has ever made me happy. But you—" He paused. "You make me happy. You've always made me happy. Even when I wasn't allowed to show it."

I walked back across the kitchen. Rose up on my toes. Pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Then stop chasing," I whispered. "You've already caught me."

I left him standing there, surrounded by moonlight and silence and the echo of everything we'd finally said.

And when I crawled back into my bed, pulling the covers up to my chin, I let myself believe—just for a moment—that maybe we could actually pull this off. That maybe love could be stronger than secrets. That maybe the truth could wait a little longer.

But somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice whispered a warning I couldn't quite ignore.

Secrets never stay buried forever.

And when this one came to light, it was going to destroy everything.