Tempted By My Father's Best Friend

**Isabella's POV**

I stepped off the plane in New York last night, jet-lagged and hollow, but I still couldn't bring myself to face my father. Not yet. Not when I had nothing to show for the last four years except a useless degree, an empty bank account, and the ghost of a boyfriend who vanished the moment I stopped being convenient.

Ethan had controlled everything...my schedule, my friends, my dreams. He made sure I never worked, never partied, never even breathed without his permission. Then one afternoon I came home from lectures to an empty apartment. His clothes, his cologne, his half-hearted promises-all gone. Just like that.

And my father? Nathan Hartley had made it crystal clear over the phone months ago:

"You're not a child anymore, Isabella. I'm done carrying you."

"Haven't you taken enough from my life already?"

Those words still burned behind my eyes every time I closed them.

I checked into a cheap midtown hotel because I had nowhere else to go. The plan was simple: hide for one night, gather whatever courage I had left, then show up at Dad's apartment tomorrow and beg for a temporary roof. One month. That's all I needed to find a job, rent something small, and start pretending I had my life together.

I wanted to be a nurse. I'd trained for it in Berlin! long hours, blood, compassion, decent pay in a country where medical bills could bankrupt you overnight. One ambulance ride here could cost a thousand dollars. I'd rather limp down the street bleeding than owe that kind of money.

I laughed bitterly at myself in the dark hotel room, then rolled out of bed. Sleep wasn't coming. I needed air. I needed something to quiet the noise in my head.

I slipped into the only dress I still liked-a deep burgundy number that clung in all the right places and flowed loose at the hem. Not expensive, not designer, but it made me feel like I still had some power over how the world saw me. I twisted my hair into a messy knot, grabbed my phone, my purse (the one I was half-tempted to pawn), and walked out.

Three blocks later I spotted the neon glow of a lounge tucked between two high-rises. The sign read "Velvet Room." Looked upscale enough to be intimidating, quiet enough to feel dangerous. I had seventy-five dollars in cash. Fifteen on a drink, save the rest for the bus to Dad's tomorrow. Sounded reasonable.

I pushed through the heavy door.

The bass hit me first, low and throbbing. Dim amber lights, leather booths, the scent of expensive whiskey and expensive cologne. Heads turned; some curious, some predatory. My stomach twisted, but I forced my chin up and walked straight to the bar.

The bartender was tall, tattooed forearms, easy smile and looked me over as I slid onto the stool.

"You look young," he said, voice warm but cautious.

I rolled my eyes, pulled out my ID, and