Caleb’s POV

My hand reaches across cold sheets, finding nothing but empty space and regret.

I bolt upright, blinking against harsh morning light and the sledgehammer realization: she’s gone.

The room still smells like her—something floral mixed with the unmistakable scent of sex. I scan for any trace she’d left beyond the ghost impression on the pillow next to mine. Nothing. Not even a hastily scribbled note.

Of course she ran. What twenty-two-year-old wants the morning-after awkwardness with her father’s friend? Especially when said father would literally destroy both our lives if he found out.

I scrub my face, trying to reconcile the composed businessman I’m supposed to be with the man who just fucked his best friend’s virgin daughter. The cognitive dissonance is almost comical.

The shower doesn’t wash away the guilt—it sharpens it like a whetstone against steel.

Memories flood my brain: Mikaela at that birthday dinner—emerald dress, fake smile, dying inside as everyone speculated about her like she was a particularly promising stock option.

When exactly did she stop being Gunther’s little girl with pigtails and start being… her? That woman with fire in her eyes and determination in her spine?

Fifteen years ago flashes through my mind—the quarrel that ended my friendship with Gunther.

I’d unilaterally diverted a major partnership, bypassing his counsel and costing us both the deal of a lifetime.

His voice still echoes in my nightmares: “Business is built on trust, Caleb—not convenience.” Our relationship crumbled overnight, reduced to boardroom nods and carefully worded emails.

The irony cuts deep. Without Gunther’s ruthless ambition, Mikaela wouldn’t exist.

And without my catastrophic business blunder, I might never have reconnected with him—never seen her again. Despite everything, I’m profoundly grateful for her: bold, fierce, determined to be free.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, jolting me back to the present. Paul.

“Jesus Christ, Caleb, that was incredible.” Paul’s voice drips with the satisfaction of a predator after a kill. “That little blonde thing? Worth every penny. Virgin pussy really is different, isn’t it?”

I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, seeing the faint scratch marks she’d left on my shoulder. My stomach churns with disgust—not at her, at Paul, at this entire fucked-up situation.

“So,” Paul continues, tone shifting to casual curiosity, “have you seen Wallace’s daughter recently? Word is she had a listing on that same site. Wonder if she’s met her buyer yet.”

The toothbrush snaps in my hand. “No idea what you’re talking about,” I manage, voice carefully neutral while my knuckles turn white around the phone.

Paul laughs, the sound grating against my eardrums. “Come on, man. Her photos were all over that auction. Gunther’s precious virgin daughter selling herself to the highest bidder? Fucking poetic, really. Almost five hundred grand was the final bid, I heard.”

My jaw clenches so hard it aches. “She’s barely an adult, Paul. And Gunther’s kid.”

“Which is exactly why someone probably paid that much. Trophy virginity.” He pauses, and I can practically hear his smirk through the phone. “You think she went through with it? Must be weird, fucking a complete stranger for your first time.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I say, acid burning my throat.

“If I’d had the cash…” Paul whistles low. “Would’ve been quite the investment opportunity.”

“We’re meeting Gunther at noon,” I cut him off, desperate to change the subject before I put my fist through the mirror. “His money’s transforming our Asian expansion, remember? Try to keep your fantasies about his daughter to yourself.”

I dress with precision—each button another quiet betrayal. Gunther trusts me: with millions, his home, his dinner table. And how do I repay him? By taking what he values most—his daughter. By showing her what pleasure feels like, how to arch her back just right—

I stop the thought, yanking my tie into a Windsor knot. The guilt is sharp, but beneath it? No regrets. Not when I remember her eyes—like I was both salvation and ruin, and she wanted both.

The truth sinks in: I’d do it again. That makes me either the worst kind of bastard, or the only honest man she knows. Maybe both.

I think about Anthony Harris, that entitled prick who’d inherit her like a trust fund. About Gunther, who’d rather see his daughter miserable than see his legacy tarnished. About Camille, who’d been broken so thoroughly she’d break her own daughter to spare her the disappointment.

No. What happened last night wasn’t betrayal. It was mercy.

The elevator to Gunther’s office feels like a descent into hell.

Each floor brings me closer to the moment I’ll have to look my oldest friend in the eye and pretend I didn’t spend the night showing his daughter exactly how much pleasure her body was capable of feeling.

The boardroom doors loom ahead, gleaming mahogany and brass like the gates to some exclusive circle of damnation.

Paul’s already inside, slouched over his phone like it contains the nuclear codes. He barely acknowledges my entrance—just a half-assed chin lift that screams “I’m too important to stand.”

“Sleep well?” he asks with that smirk he probably practices in mirrors. As if we’re sharing some locker room brotherhood based on his conquest and my… whatever he thinks I did last night.

“Fantastic,” I reply, the lie slipping out clean as a surgeon’s cut. My handshake is precisely calibrated—firm enough for respect, brief enough to minimize skin contact with someone who treats women like collectibles. His palm is clammy. Of course it is.

Then Gunther enters—commanding the room with his presence, completely unaware that his perfect plan is already crumbling.

We lock eyes across the polished table, and for one heart-stopping moment, I wonder if he knows—if Mikaela somehow confessed, if the hotel called, if there’s some paternal sixth sense lighting up his brain.

But his smile is genuine, trusting. He crosses the room in three confident strides, hand extended. Our palms meet, firm and familiar.

“Caleb,” he says, the rare use of my first name an indication of how far we’ve come. “Good to see you.”

I return his smile, swallowing the guilt like a bitter pill. “Always a pleasure, Gunther.”

“Shall we get started?” He gestures to the seats, every inch the magnanimous host. “The future of O’Brien-Wallace Investments in Asia won’t build itself.”

As we settle into the leather chairs, I catch Paul watching me with that insufferable smirk—the one guys wear when they think they’ve joined some exclusive club you’re desperate to enter.

Little does this asshole know I’m founding member and president of a much more fucked-up fraternity: Men Who’ve Betrayed Their Friends By Sleeping With Their Virgin Daughters. Membership: exactly one. Me.

The kind of man who can smile in a father’s face while still feeling his daughter’s fingernails on my back.

The worst part? I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

The meeting begins, numbers and projections flashing across screens while I nod at appropriate intervals.

But beneath the veneer of business as usual, my mind replays last night on endless loop—the way she’d whispered my name, how her inexperienced hands had clutched at my shoulders, the perfect trust in her eyes when I’d positioned myself above her.

“Caleb?” Gunther’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “Your thoughts on the Tokyo timeline?”

I clear my throat, summoning the businessman persona that’s served me well for decades. “Ambitious but achievable. We’ll need to fast-track the regulatory approvals.”

He nods, satisfied, and returns to his presentation. Crisis averted.

For now.

I’ve gotten very good at keeping secrets. At compartmentalizing. At playing roles. But as I watch Gunther confidently outline our joint future, I wonder how long I can maintain this particular performance.

Because the truth is, I don’t just want Mikaela’s body. I want her mind, her fire, her future. And that’s the one thing I absolutely cannot have.