Sublime Attraction

Bella’s POV

The polished mahogany door of my father's hotel suite swung open, revealing him in all his tailored elegance. "Dad," I said, my voice a mix of admiration and the comfort that only family can bring. He stood there, timeless, a figure from a glossy magazine.

"Cupcakes, you look beautiful," he greeted, his arms enveloping me in an embrace that seemed to aim to compress all our missed moments into one tight squeeze.

It was a Saturday brunch date, a sliver of time he'd carved out for me in his itinerary of endless commitments. Dressed in my peach flare gown, I felt like I was stepping into a scene from one of those old classic films he loved.

The suite was a testament to my father's taste for the finer things—a trait I'd inherited in my own way. I watched him adjust his tie with meticulous care, each movement a silent reminder of the distance between his world and mine.

"How's your mother?" he inquired, his back to me, his attention seemingly fixed on his reflection. But his casual tone couldn't mask the undercurrent of genuine interest.

"She's good," I responded, offering the breadcrumb of information. "I mentioned you were in town."

His reaction was subtle, a slight pause in his movements. "And?" he prodded, turning now to face me.

"She wasn't particularly moved," I said with a shrug, trying to sound indifferent despite the tightness in my chest.

His jealousy was almost palpable when he asked about her new husband, a subject that always seemed to hang like an uninvited guest between us. I relayed the news of their upcoming vacation, watching as he masked his emotions with a practiced ease.

With a final spritz of his signature cologne, he declared himself ready. I teased him about his youthful appearance, and his laughter filled the room, a sound that seemed to bridge the gap between his sporadic visits.

As we made our way to the hotel's dining area, I couldn't help but be taken aback by the opulence. The place was an orchestra of luxury, each detail fine-tuned to create an ambiance of exclusivity.

Our meal arrived, and I was compelled to capture the moment. "Still love photography, huh?" he asked, his voice tinged with nostalgia.

"It's not about the photography," I admitted, snapping a selfie with him. "It's about remembering today."

Our brunch was a dance of flavors and familiar conversation, but it was interrupted by the sight of a man at a corner table. He was like a character from a novel I'd yet to write—mysterious, alluring, and utterly distracting. Our shared glance was a silent conversation, one that left me breathless and momentarily lost to the world around me.

When I returned to the present, my father's concern was evident. I brushed off my distraction, blaming it on work, and reassured him that I was handling the demands of my job. But as I mentioned the need to leave for my night shift, I knew that our time together was slipping away, as fleeting as the smile from the stranger who had unwittingly captured my attention.

"Dad," I started, my voice hesitant as I toyed with the edge of the fine linen napkin. "Can I ask you something personal?"

He looked up, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made me feel like a child again, searching for answers that were always just out of reach. "Of course, cupcakes. Anything," he replied, his voice steady.

I took a deep breath, the words heavy on my tongue. "It's just... the people you meet with, the places you stay, the secrecy—it all feels a bit... off. It's like there's this part of your life that's shrouded in shadows. Dad, are you... are you involved with something dangerous? Something like... the underworld?"

For a moment, there was a silence so profound that I could hear the clinking of cutlery from the other tables. Then, my father's expression softened, and he reached across the table, taking my hand in his.

"Isabella," he said, his voice a blend of warmth and a sternness that demanded my full attention. "I know my career has always been a bit of a mystery to you, and I'm sorry for that. But I want you to know, no matter what, I've always made sure that my actions, my decisions, are for the good of our family. You have nothing to worry about."

"But the rumors, the whispers, they suggest..." I trailed off, unable to voice the fear that perhaps my father was not the man I believed him to be.

He squeezed my hand reassuringly. "Rumors are just that—rumors. I've made many sacrifices, walked on complex paths for the life we have. But I assure you, I'm not a man who would ever bring danger to our doorstep."

I wanted to believe him, to trust in the man who had raised me, the man whose sporadic presence had been a constant source of both comfort and mystery. Yet, as I looked into his eyes, I saw the veiled truths and the years of unanswered questions.

"Promise me, Dad," I pressed, needing the reassurance.

He nodded, his gaze never wavering. "I promise, Bella. You're my world. Nothing and no one will ever change that."

The conviction in his voice offered a temporary solace, but as we left the dining area, my mind couldn't help but wander back to the unspoken stories behind my father's well-rehearsed smiles, and to the unsettling feeling that there was much more to my father's life than I would ever truly know.