Tempted by My Best Friend’s Father

The photo haunted her.

It wasn't just the image—a woman so bruised and lifeless that it felt indecent to look at for too long. It was the caption that unravelled everything Serena thought she knew.

> "His wife didn't die. She disappeared."

Serena sat on the floor of her apartment, knees hugged to her chest, the phone lying screen-up beside her like a live wire.

The room was quiet. Too quiet.

No city noise. No hum of Damon's voice from the next room. No jazz floating from hidden speakers. Just silence and the sound of her own breath, which had started to come unevenly.

She kept staring at the picture.

She didn't know the woman.

But part of her wished she did. That way, maybe she could dismiss the whispering fear building behind her ribs.

But she couldn't.

Because she did know Damon.

Or she thought she did.

And that was the part that hurt.

The part that made her eyes sting and her pulse pound and her hands tremble as she reached for the glass of water that she couldn't seem to swallow.

---

Two hours passed before she moved again.

By then, the sun had dipped far enough to paint her walls amber and gold, and the phone had buzzed three more times.

She didn't check the new messages.

Not yet.

Instead, she stood slowly, made her way to the sink, and splashed cold water over her face. Her reflection in the mirror looked back at her with swollen lips, wild hair, and eyes that couldn't decide if they wanted to cry or scream.

She pressed both palms to the counter and whispered:

"Tell me you didn't lie to me, Damon."

Her voice cracked on his name.

Because it felt like a betrayal to even say it.

---

⟡⟡⟡

Elsewhere, Damon stood in a dark hallway of the estate—his father's old office—staring at the half-burned journal he'd pulled from the locked safe beneath the floorboards.

The name on the spine was scrawled in faint gold ink: Elaine Cross.

His fingers brushed over the pages, most of them charred or unreadable.

But the ones that remained were enough to tear through him.

Enough to remind him why he'd buried this version of himself deep beneath layers of silence and steel.

Because Elaine hadn't died the way they'd said.

Because the truth wasn't something a man like him could confess.

Not when the past had teeth.

And not when the woman in his bed now wore her heart on her sleeve and her trust like an offering.

He pressed a fist to his temple, jaw tight.

Serena.

He should've told her.

Should've told her everything.

But how do you confess to someone that the first woman you ever loved didn't leave you?

You left her—to save your own soul.

---

⟡⟡⟡

That night, Serena didn't sleep.

She sat on her couch, wrapped in a blanket that smelled like cinnamon and old memories, scrolling back through every moment with Damon—the way he hesitated when she asked about his past. The sadness in his eyes when she mentioned love. The way he'd pulled back every time she stepped too close to something real.

And suddenly… it wasn't mystery anymore.

It was fear.

Not of him.

But for him.

Because she knew what men looked like when they lied to manipulate.

Damon didn't look like that.

He looked like a man terrified of the truth.

She finally unlocked the rest of the messages.

> Unknown Number:

"She was last seen near the Cross estate 3 years ago."

"No police reports. No funeral. Just… gone."

"And the only person who never spoke about her again—was your Damon."

Another image followed.

This one wasn't of the woman in the hospital bed.

It was of Serena.

Leaning over Damon's shoulder. Smiling.

A photo clearly taken from afar.

> "Don't be next."

Her blood ran cold.

This wasn't just about Elaine anymore.

It was about her.

---

The sound of her doorbell cut through the air like a blade.

She froze.

Once.

Twice.

Then slowly stood.

She checked the time: 11:42 PM.

No one should've known she was back.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she walked barefoot across the living room floor, each step slower than the last. She didn't speak. Didn't ask who it was.

She looked through the peephole.

And her breath caught.

Because it wasn't a stranger on the other side.

It was him.

Damon.

Looking tired. Rain-slicked. And… vulnerable.

She didn't open the door immediately.

He didn't knock again.

He just stood there.

Waiting.

Bleeding silence.

Serena finally unlocked the door—but didn't move aside.

He met her eyes.

Didn't smile.

Didn't try to charm.

He just said, "I need to tell you everything."