Sinfully Taken by Daddy’s Best Friend

Aria

Returning home felt like stepping into a costume that no longer fit.

I let my suitcase thud onto the marble floor of the foyer.

My sandals came off next.

The cool stone was a shock against my soles, a welcome contrast to the oppressive summer humidity outside.

Nothing had changed.

Not the sleek leather sofa that promised to stick to skin.

Not the pristine stack of unread financial journals on the glass table.

And certainly not the scent—expensive cologne, a hint of aged whiskey, and that crisp, filtered air that whispered of old money and quiet power.

Home.

Or at least, the address on my driver’s license when university wasn’t in session.

I had just finished my first year of a Master’s in Strategic Communications at Columbia.

Twenty-three, with my undergraduate degree a fresh memory, I was exhausted.

My bank account was drained from textbooks, and finals week had left me permanently twitchy at the sound of a coffee grinder.

A fancy degree that had mostly taught me to spot insincerity from a mile away and dread cocktail party chatter.

This summer was supposed to be my sanctuary.

A quiet pause to breathe.

First order of business: food.

My diet for the last twelve hours had consisted of airline pretzels and anxiety.

I drifted toward the kitchen, already envisioning something simple.

Scrambled eggs, maybe.

Or toast.

My phone vibrated on the granite countertop.

Chloe.

A smile touched my lips as I answered. “That was fast. Did you track my flight?”

“Obviously. Did you make it back to the fortress in one piece?”

“Just walked in. It’s the same. Sterile. Silent. Judgmental.”

“Sounds like your dad.”

I let out a short laugh. “And every piece of art in this place.”

“Have you seen him yet?”

“Not a trace. Probably still at the office. Doing… whatever titans of industry do.”

Chloe snorted. “I bet he’s on a conference call, sipping something that costs more than my rent.”

I smirked, pulling open the massive refrigerator. “An accurate portrait.”

The fridge was fully stocked, thankfully.

But everything looked either aggressively healthy or intimidatingly gourmet.

I settled on eggs and bread.

Comforting. Foolproof.

Chloe kept talking while I found a skillet.

“So, you ready for three months of glorious nothing?”

“More than ready. I want to sleep past noon. I want to watch terrible television. I want to eat my body weight in french toast.”

She chuckled. “You’ve earned it.”

“Damn right I have.”

We talked a little longer, until the eggs were cooked and the toast was buttered.

After we said goodbye, I set my phone aside and perched on a stool at the kitchen island.

Finally, I could just… be.

My mother used to say the kitchen was the soul of a home.

She loved this room—the tall windows, the white marble, the copper pots that hung like artwork.

She died when I was eleven, but sometimes I still catch flashes of her.

Barefoot on these tiles, music playing, a dusting of flour on her nose.

After she was gone, the housekeeper, Margaret, essentially raised me.

My father buried himself in work.

He built Lockwood Enterprises from nothing into a powerhouse on the East Coast.

While other fathers helped with homework or grilled burgers, mine was closing multi-million dollar deals and crossing oceans as casually as crossing the street.

Margaret was all warmth and no-nonsense, always humming and calling me ‘sweetheart’.

I glanced around now, half-expecting to see her polishing something or gently scolding the latest cook who never seemed to last.

But the room was still.

Too still.

Plate in hand, I walked toward the living room just as the front door opened.

My father stepped inside, his suit jacket draped over his arm, his tie loosened.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he said, a genuine smile lighting his face. “I was starting to enjoy the quiet.”

I rolled my eyes. “Still holding onto those comedy dreams, I see.”

He crossed the room and pulled me into a hug.

It was firm and familiar.

“You look good,” he murmured into my hair. “Too thin. Are they not feeding you at that prestigious university?”

I smirked. “Only a starvation diet of existential dread. Where’s Margaret?”

“Visiting her sister for a few days,” he said, dropping his keys into a ceramic bowl. “She’ll be back by the weekend.”

“Hmm.” I took a bite of toast. “Feels strange without her here.”

“I know. She’s been part of this house longer than you have.”

“Exactly.”

He finished loosening his tie and gave me that appraising parental look. “I hope you’re prepared for tomorrow.”

I frowned. “Tomorrow?”

One eyebrow arched. “Don’t tell me you forgot the anniversary gala.”

My stomach dropped.

Right.

The twenty-fifth anniversary celebration for Lockwood Enterprises.

“I may have… actively repressed that information,” I muttered.

“Well, it’s happening. The whole city’s elite will be there. You’re attending.”

I groaned. “Just end me now.”

He smirked. “Precisely. So dress appropriately, be charming, and smile for the photographers.”

“Do I have an option?”

“No. But you do have a rather expensive dress waiting in your closet upstairs. I may have called in a favor.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “That’s emotional blackmail.”

“That’s fatherhood.”

I took a long drink of water, letting the cold liquid distract from my simmering irritation. “Well, what I do with the rest of my evening is still my choice.”

He shrugged, already removing his watch. “Fine. As long as it doesn’t involve causing a scandal at your father’s corporate milestone.”

I turned away, muttering under my breath.

Maybe I’ll do something far more interesting.

Maybe I’ll trade this silk for sin.

Maybe I’ll let my gaze wander somewhere it definitely shouldn’t.

The next day, I decided to reclaim my room.

Since I’d be here for the summer, it needed to feel like mine again.

I swapped out the heavy drapes for lighter ones.

I shifted the furniture until the energy felt right.

I opened every drawer, rearranging contents like I was reasserting dominion.

My space.

My rules.

Somewhere between organizing my books and changing the linens, the afternoon melted away.

The room smelled of clean cotton and lemon oil by the time I collapsed onto the bed, already dreading the evening ahead.

When the time came, I dragged myself from a shallow nap and into the bathroom.

The process of getting ready felt like preparing for battle.

Later, standing before the mirror in a half-fastened dress, I questioned every life choice that had led me to this moment.

“Why does this feel like a straitjacket?” I grumbled, wrestling with the stubborn zipper at my back.

The screen of my phone, propped against a stack of novels, lit up with Chloe’s grinning face.

She burst out laughing. “Maybe you’ve been hitting the library snacks a little too hard.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I huffed, giving the zipper another futile tug. “I think I’ve lost weight, actually.”

“Well, your backside looks incredible, so stop whining.”

I studied my reflection.

The black satin clung to every curve, the neckline dipping lower than felt appropriate for a charity gala.

The dress spoke of elegance, but its whisper was something else entirely.

Something darker.

Like it wasn’t meant for polite conversation.

Like it was meant to be torn away in a moment of passion.

“You’re really going through with this?” Chloe asked, the sound of crunching chips in the background.

“My father RSVP’d on my behalf. He also guilted me with a designer gown. So, no, I have no choice.”

She snorted. “Classic Benjamin.”

“Just promise me if I text you mid-event saying I’m dying of boredom, you’ll fabricate a family emergency.”

“Honey, I’ll fake a fire alarm if you need an escape.”

I laughed, still struggling with the zipper. “Ugh. I need someone with more leverage.”

Chloe wiggled her eyebrows. “Careful what you wish for.”

I didn’t know it then, but she was right.

Strong hands—and a gaze that promised ruin—were much closer than I imagined.

The car my father sent was waiting outside when I finally emerged.

A sleek black Mercedes gleamed under the portico lights.

A young driver stepped out silently and opened the rear door.

I slid in, carefully arranging the folds of my dress.

My father had left earlier to handle last-minute details.

I hadn’t minded.

I’d been too busy battling my zipper and trying not to smudge my mascara.

The event venue was a spectacle of light.

Spotlights swept across the grand facade.

Luxury cars idled along the circular drive like jewels on velvet.

A handful of photographers lingered, their flashes popping as glittering guests ascended the steps.

I exited the car slowly.

My heels clicked a sharp rhythm on the stone.

I clutched a small black clutch.

The satin of my dress moved with me, and I knew I looked the part—polished, poised, the perfect daughter of Benjamin Lockwood.

Inside was a world of shimmering crystal and deep shadow.

Chandeliers dripped light.

Waiters moved like ghosts with trays of champagne.

I navigated the crowd with practiced ease, my eyes scanning for one face.

My father.