Tempted by My Best Friend’s Father

The wine-red silk felt like sin wrapped in elegance.

Serena stood frozen in front of the bedroom mirror—breath shallow, heart pounding in her ears. The mirror had been covered. Damon had made sure of it. Yet here it stood, uncovered again… as if it had never been veiled. As if it had been waiting.

But it wasn't just the mirror.

It was the way the gown clung to her hips, how the hem pooled around her ankles like blood. How her hands trembled, even though they didn't remember unzipping anything, didn't recall slipping the dress over her shoulders.

And the reflection—

The thing in the mirror that wore her face—

Smiled again.

Not mockingly.

But knowingly.

Like a promise.

Or a threat.

Serena took a step back, her heel catching on the edge of the carpet. "You're not me," she whispered to the glass.

The reflection tilted its head, mimicking her, then reached up and touched its own cheek—just a fraction of a second before Serena did the same.

It was subtle.

But it was enough.

She was no longer in control of her own reflection.

Her skin crawled.

A knock came at the bedroom door.

Not loud. Not urgent.

Just there.

She turned her head—but didn't answer.

When she looked back… the mirror was covered again.

And she stood in her white robe.

Alone.

The dress was gone.

Not folded. Not tossed.

Gone.

Like it had never been real.

But the scent of dark silk and ghosted perfume lingered on her skin.

---

Downstairs, moments later

Damon had returned from the phone call with clenched fists and silent fury. The moment Serena stepped into the hallway, he saw it—something fractured behind her gaze.

"You saw it again," he said, voice low.

She nodded, then stopped. "No. I didn't see it. It saw me."

He reached her in two strides, hands brushing her shoulders, grounding her.

"What happened?"

"The mirror was uncovered," she whispered. "And I was wearing her dress. The red one. I didn't put it on, Damon. I don't remember putting it on."

His jaw locked. "That dress should be in storage."

"It's not. And I swear—" her voice cracked, "it moved first. The reflection. It… moved first."

He stared at her like a man trying to deny something he already feared.

"That mirror," he said carefully, "didn't always belong here."

She blinked. "What?"

"I never told you how I got it."

---

Flashback – Seven Years Ago

It had been a gift.

Or so Damon had thought.

An anonymous crate delivered to his previous estate, accompanied by a note written in delicate ink:

"For the man who cannot forget. Let her look back at you."

He hadn't known what it meant.

Not until the mirror was unwrapped.

It had arrived just days after Lina vanished.

He'd placed it in the hallway—unthinking, grief-shrouded. For weeks, he'd pass it on sleepless nights, sometimes swearing he could still see Lina's outline when he walked by. A shadow behind his own. A whisper in the glass.

But eventually, the pain dulled.

And the mirror was moved here—to the penthouse.

Where silence reigned.

Where forgetting became survival.

---

Present

Serena's voice brought him back.

"Damon… that mirror didn't come from a store, did it?"

He shook his head slowly. "No. It came from someone who knew me. Who knew what I'd lost."

Serena swallowed. "And now it's showing me the same signs."

His hands tightened on her arms. "I won't let it take you."

She looked up at him, tears glinting in her lashes.

"I'm already slipping," she whispered. "I'm losing time. I'm seeing things. Feeling… her memories."

"Then we destroy it," Damon said.

But even as he said it, they both knew the truth.

Some mirrors don't break.

They bite.

---

That Night

They didn't speak much after.

Dinner went untouched.

Wine poured, but not sipped.

Instead, Serena wandered to the piano room—the only part of the penthouse untouched by the darkness.

She sat at the bench, fingers brushing the ivory keys.

And began to play.

Not a piece she remembered learning.

Not a melody she'd ever heard.

But her hands knew it.

Soft, tragic chords—delicate and aching.

Damon stood in the doorway, frozen. Because he recognized the music.

Lina used to play that.

A song she wrote herself.

A song never recorded. Never played after her disappearance.

His voice cracked across the still air.

"Where did you learn that?"

Serena blinked, hands going still.

"I… don't know."

He stepped forward. "Did someone teach it to you?"

"No," she whispered. "It was just… in me. Like I'd played it before. Like I remembered it."

He looked pale. Haunted.

"You didn't," he said. "That melody only existed in Lina's hands."

Serena turned to him slowly. "Then why do mine remember it now?"

---

Later, in bed

They lay facing each other, the distance between them almost non-existent, yet vast in silence.

His fingers brushed her hair, tender and reverent.

"You're not her," he murmured.

"I know."

"But she's trying to take you."

"I know."

His hand slid lower, tracing the line of her jaw, down her throat, to the hollow between her collarbones. "I won't let her."

Serena's eyes burned. "Promise me."

"I already did," he said.

"And when the mirror lies to you?" she asked. "When she uses my face… my voice… my body?"

His mouth met hers.

Not gentle.

But desperate.

The kind of kiss that wanted to claim her soul before something else could.

"You're mine," he growled against her lips. "I know you. I know your heart."

She clung to him, nails digging into his back.

"Then hold onto me," she whispered. "Even when I forget myself."

"I will," he said fiercely. "I'll remind you every night. I'll put you back together with my hands if I have to."

And he did.

That night, their bodies tangled not in lust—but in defiance.

As if every kiss, every thrust, was a warding against the mirror's claim.

And in the flicker of candlelight, she whispered his name over and over—

Like a lifeline.

Like a spell.

---

But still… in the darkest part of the night…

The mirror in the basement began to fog from the inside.

And from within the silver…

A second Serena opened her eyes.