His Best Friend's Daughter

CHAPTER 5: THE MORNING AFTER

I woke to sunlight streaming through my curtains and the distinct feeling that everything had changed.

For a long moment, I just lay there, replaying the night before. The library. The kiss. The kitchen. Damien's hands on my waist. His voice, rough with years of suppressed longing, finally telling me he loved me. The confession about Victoria Ashford. The darker secrets about Vincent Moretti and the FBI investigation that had nearly gotten him killed.

I pressed my fingers to my lips, still able to feel him there.

Then I heard it. Voices downstairs. Laughter. My father's booming laugh, the kind that filled every corner of the house. And underneath it, the low rumble of Damien's response. Steady. Controlled. Completely normal.

As if he hadn't been kissing me senseless at two in the morning.

I threw on a cream sweater and jeans and forced myself to walk, not run, to the staircase. My heart was hammering. My palms were damp. I'd spent years perfecting the art of pretending I wasn't in love with Damien Cross, but somehow, this morning, it felt like the whole world would take one look at me and know.

They were in the breakfast room. My father was at the head of the table, newspaper in hand, reading glasses perched on his nose. Sunlight caught the silver in his hair, a reminder that he wasn't getting any younger. Damien sat across from him, perfectly composed in a charcoal suit, coffee cup raised to his lips. He looked immaculate. Untouchable.

Then his eyes met mine.

And the coffee cup paused. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to see the flicker of heat beneath the carefully constructed calm. Then it was gone, replaced by the neutral expression he wore like armor.

"There she is," my father said cheerfully, lowering his paper. "Sleep well, sweetheart?"

"Eventually." I took the seat beside him—directly across from Damien. Marta appeared like magic, pouring me coffee and setting a plate of fresh fruit in front of me. "What are you two discussing so seriously?"

"Business." Damien's voice was smooth. Effortless. "Your father's considering investing in a new venture of mine."

"International real estate," my father said. "Hotels, specifically. Damien's looking at properties in Greece, Italy, maybe the south of France. The Whitmore acquisition was just the beginning."

"That sounds exciting."

"It's high-risk." Damien set down his coffee. "I wouldn't recommend it for most investors. The European market is volatile right now."

"But you're recommending it to my father?"

"I'm recommending it to someone who understands the market." His eyes held mine. "And who trusts my judgment."

The double meaning wasn't lost on me. I felt heat rise to my cheeks and quickly looked down at my plate, pretending to be intensely interested in a strawberry.

My father clapped Damien on the shoulder as he rose to refill his coffee. "I've trusted your judgment for twenty-three years. No reason to stop now."

Damien's expression flickered. Just barely. A shadow of guilt that passed so quickly I almost missed it. But I saw it. The weight of what we'd done—what we were doing—settling on his shoulders like a physical thing.

"Speaking of trust," my father continued, returning to his seat. "I wanted to ask you something, Damien."

"Anything."

"Lizzy's been looking for work since she graduated. I was wondering if you might have something at Cross Industries. An internship. Entry-level. She's bright, she's hardworking, top of her class—"

"No."

The word was so sharp, so immediate, that my father blinked in surprise. Even Marta paused in her bustling.

"No?" I repeated, my voice harder than I intended.

Damien met my eyes. His expression was unreadable, but I saw the tension in his jaw. "That's not a good idea."

"Why not?" I demanded.

"Because working for a family friend can complicate things. It blurs boundaries. Creates conflicts of interest." He reached for his coffee, the gesture deliberately casual. "You'd be better off finding something on your own. Something you earned without connections."

"I think I can handle boundaries."

"Lizzy." His voice was a warning. Low. Controlled. "I said no."

The words stung more than they should have. After everything he'd said last night—the confessions, the promises, the I love you—he was pushing me away like I was nothing more than his best friend's daughter.

My father held up his hands, ever the peacemaker. "Alright, alright. No need to get heated. It was just a suggestion. Lizzy has plenty of options."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to demand to know why he was shutting me out after everything we'd shared. But my father was watching, his gaze shifting between us with the first flicker of confusion, and Damien's expression was a fortress, and I knew—suddenly and with painful clarity—that our secret would be harder to keep than I'd ever imagined.

"Fine," I said coolly, pushing back from the table. "I have other options."

"I'm sure you do." Damien's voice softened almost imperceptibly. "You deserve the best, Lizzy. Nothing less than what you earn on your own merit."

It wasn't an apology. But it was something.

My father looked between us again, frowning slightly. "Is everything alright between you two? You've been acting strange since Lizzy got home."

"Everything's fine," Damien and I said at the same time.

Too quickly. Too synchronized.

My father's frown deepened, but before he could press further, my phone buzzed against the table. I grabbed it like a lifeline, grateful for the distraction.

Then I read the message.

Unknown Number: You don't know me, but you need to know the truth about Damien Cross. He's not who you think he is. Meet me at The Rosewood Café. 11am. Come alone. Don't tell anyone—especially not him.

The blood drained from my face.

"Lizzy?" My father's voice broke through. "Everything alright? You've gone pale."

"Fine," I managed, pocketing my phone with shaking hands. "Just a friend from university. She wants to meet for coffee. I should probably get going."

I stood too fast, nearly knocking over my chair. Damien's eyes narrowed, tracking my every movement. He'd seen something in my face. He always saw everything.

"I'll walk you out," he said, rising.

"That's not necessary—"

"I insist."

His hand found the small of my back as we left the breakfast room. The touch was brief. Proprietary. Gone before anyone could notice. But it sent electricity racing down my spine.

The moment we were out of earshot, he pulled me into the mudroom, his voice low and urgent. "What's wrong? What was that message?"

"Nothing. Just a friend."

"Lizzy." His hand caught my wrist. Gentle but firm. "Don't lie to me. I know your tells. You're a terrible poker player."

I hesitated. The text said not to tell anyone—especially him. But looking into his dark eyes, seeing the genuine concern there, I couldn't keep it from him.

I showed him the message.

The change in Damien was immediate. His expression went cold. Hard. The mask of the billionaire businessman slid into place so completely it was like watching a door slam shut.

"Victoria," he said quietly. "It has to be."

"How do you know?"

"Because this is exactly how she operates. Anonymous messages. Cryptic warnings. She tried the same thing with a journalist who was investigating the Ashford case three years ago." He handed the phone back to me. "Don't go."

"I have to. If I don't, she'll find another way. She already has photographs of us, Damien. From the garden."

His jaw tightened. "What photographs?"

"She showed me one. Yesterday. At the café. You didn't know?"

"No." The word was ice. "I knew she'd been watching, but I didn't realize she'd gotten that close. This is worse than I thought."

"What do I do?"

He was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then he pulled out his own phone and typed something rapidly. "There's a coffee shop two blocks from The Rosewood. It's called The Blue Mug. I have a security team that can be there in fifteen minutes. Text me when you arrive. Text me when you leave. And if anything feels wrong—anything at all—you call me immediately."

"Damien—"

"I'm not letting her hurt you." His hand cupped my face, tilting it up to meet his eyes. "I've spent my whole life protecting myself. My money. My reputation. My company. But none of that matters compared to you. Do you understand?"

I nodded, my throat tight.

"I love you," he said quietly. "I should have said it years ago. I should have been brave enough to say it when you left for university, when I had the chance to stop you from leaving. But I was a coward. I'm not going to be a coward anymore."

"You're not a coward."

"I was. But I'm done running from this. From you." He pressed his forehead to mine. "Meet with Victoria. Hear what she has to say. But remember—she's not interested in the truth. She's interested in revenge. And she'll use whatever she can to get it."

I nodded again. "I should go."

"One more thing." His hands settled on my waist, pulling me close. "Victoria is going to tell you things about me. Some of them might even be true. I've made mistakes. I've hurt people. I'm not a good man, Lizzy."

"You are to me."

"Then hold onto that. No matter what she says. No matter what evidence she shows you. Remember that what we have—what I feel for you—is the only honest thing I've done in years."

He kissed me then. Brief. Desperate. A promise and a plea wrapped into one.

Then he let me go.

---

The Rosewood Café was exactly as I remembered it. Small. Elegant. The kind of place where wealthy women went to drink eight-dollar lattes and pretend they weren't gossiping about their friends.

Victoria Ashford was already there.

She sat at the same table as before, dressed in navy silk, her dark hair pulled back in a severe knot. She looked like a portrait of old money. Cold. Polished. Untouchable.

"Lizzy." She smiled as I approached. It didn't reach her eyes. "I was hoping you'd come."

"You didn't leave me much choice." I slid into the chair across from her. "What do you want?"

"Straight to business. I admire that." She signaled the waitress, ordered an espresso, then folded her hands on the table. "I want to help you."

"I doubt that."

"You should. Because right now, you're in more danger than you realize." She pulled a manila envelope from her designer handbag and slid it across the table. "Damien told you about Vincent Moretti, I assume? The FBI investigation? The plea deal?"

I didn't touch the envelope. "He told me."

"Did he tell you that Moretti was released from prison six months ago?"

The world stopped.

"What?"

"Early release. Good behavior." Victoria's smile was thin. "Moretti's been rebuilding his network ever since. And he has a long memory. He knows Damien was the one who put him away. He knows Damien has a soft spot for the Hart family. And he knows about you."

My hands were shaking. I clasped them together under the table. "You're lying."

"Open the envelope."

I didn't want to. Every instinct screamed at me to walk away, to call Damien, to pretend this conversation had never happened. But my hands moved anyway, pulling out the contents of the envelope.

Photographs. Surveillance shots of Damien entering and leaving buildings. Bank statements I didn't understand. A list of names. And at the bottom, a single photograph that made my blood run cold.

It was me. Taken outside my university. Dated three weeks ago.

"Moretti's people have been watching you for months," Victoria said. "They know who you are. They know you're back in the city. And they know that getting to you is the fastest way to hurt Damien Cross."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I may hate Damien for what he did to my family." Victoria's eyes hardened. "But I don't want to see an innocent woman get caught in the crossfire. Moretti is dangerous. He's not playing by Wall Street rules. He will hurt you to get to Damien. And Damien—" She paused. "Damien will burn the whole world down to protect you. Which is exactly what Moretti wants."

"How do I know any of this is true?"

Victoria pulled out her phone, scrolled for a moment, then held it up. On the screen was a news article dated six months ago. Vincent Moretti Released from Federal Prison After Serving Twelve Years.

"The article doesn't mention Damien," she said. "It doesn't mention the investigation that put him away. But I have the court documents. Sealed records. Testimony transcripts. All of it." She set the phone down. "I've spent three years gathering evidence against Damien Cross. But what I found was bigger than him. Bigger than my family's ruin. Moretti is the real threat. And if you're smart, you'll get as far away from Damien Cross as possible before Moretti decides to use you as leverage."

I stared at the photograph of myself. Three weeks ago, I'd been walking to class, my backpack slung over one shoulder, completely unaware that someone was watching me. Photographing me. Planning God knows what.

"If what you're saying is true," I said slowly, "then leaving Damien won't protect me. It'll just make me an easier target."

Victoria's expression flickered. "Perhaps."

"So what do you really want?"

She was quiet for a moment. Then she leaned forward, her voice dropping to barely a whisper. "I want to take down Vincent Moretti. For good this time. And I need Damien's help to do it."

"You want to work with the man who destroyed your family?"

"I want to destroy the man who's been terrorizing innocent people for thirty years." Her eyes burned with something that looked almost like desperation. "Damien and I have a common enemy. Whether we like it or not, Moretti is coming for both of us. For all of us. And if we don't work together, he'll win."

"Damien will never agree to that."

"He might. If you ask him." Victoria sat back. "Think about it, Lizzy. You're in more danger than you know. And the only way out is through."

She stood, leaving cash on the table for her untouched espresso.

"Tell Damien I'll be in touch," she said. "And Lizzy? Watch your back. Moretti's people are patient. And they're closer than you think."

She walked out of the café, leaving me alone with the envelope and the photographs and the terrifying realization that my secret relationship with Damien Cross was the least of my problems.

Somewhere out there, a man who'd spent twelve years in prison was waiting for revenge.

And I was the weapon he planned to use.