Chapter 199 199

Chapter 199 199
Hey beautiful and handsome readers,

Thank you so much for following my stories this far. Your love and support truly mean everything to me.

If you enjoyed Steve and Diesel’s stories, then I promise you… Nico and Delilah’s story will not be a waste of your time.

Delilah is the spoiled billionaire daughter who suddenly finds herself hiding out in the middle of nowhere… trapped under the same roof as her father’s dangerously attractive best friend.

He’s older. Protective. Off-limits. And the only man she has never been able to forget.

What starts as a safe hideout quickly turns into tension, temptation, and a kind of heat neither of them can control.

This story is messy, emotional, spicy, and full of forbidden chemistry. Trust me, Nico and Delilah are bringing trouble.

Thank you again for all the support. I can’t wait for you all to meet them.

CHAPTER ONE

DELILAH POV

"This is CNN Breaking News: Senator Alexander Harrington's daughter, Delilah Harrington, is alive tonight after a terrifying attack on the George Washington Parkway left her SUV hanging dangerously close to the edge of the Potomac bridge. Authorities say the twenty-two-year-old Yale graduate was chased by armed men before taking control of the vehicle herself and managing to stop it from crashing into the river below. Police are investigating the incident as a possible assassination attempt, while many are calling her survival nothing short of a miracle."

I slam the mute button on the remote so hard it bounces off the coffee table. One of the guards standing by the door actually flinches. The screen goes silent, but the images keep looping—my wrecked car, flashing lights, me looking like some lost kid while the cops drag me out. My hands are still sticky with sweat, or maybe blood, I don't care enough to check. I flop back on the leather couch in this stupid mansion that feels more like a prison than home. Bodyguards outside every door, cameras in every corner. Daddy's money buys everything except actual fatherly love.

Speaking of which, one of the suits—a big guy named Tony, who's been shadowing me since I was twelve years old—knocks once and pushes the door open without waiting. He pauses when he sees the TV replay again, jaw tightening a little before he schools his expression. He's got my phone in his hand, already lit up with an incoming call.

"Miss Harrington," he grunts. "It's your father."

I let out a dry laugh. Of course. My father isn't the type to rush home even when his daughter just escaped death. It's just another phone call. Maybe because it wasn't my body zipped in a bag tonight.

Tony walks closer and stretches the phone toward me. I stare at it for a second before taking it. I swipe to answer, pressing it to my ear.

"Are you alright?" His voice sounds distracted, rushed, like he's already doing three other things. "Are you hurt?"

I stare at the TV. "You can relax. I'm alive. Obviously."

"It's just another night dodging bullets because of your bullshit political career."

Tony shifts awkwardly beside me at that, clearly pretending not to hear. While my father gives that frustrating clear voice of his from the other end, who cares? We've been like this since Mom died ten years ago—cancer took her quick, left me with a ghost of a father who buried his grief in politics. Dirty politics. The kind where enemies multiply like rabbits, and when they can't touch him, they come for me.

He sighs again, that heavy, disappointed one he saves just for me. "Watch your language. And this wouldn't have happened if you'd stayed put. Tony said you snuck out last night. No detail, no heads-up. What the hell were you thinking?"

Just as expected. He'll blame me. Nothing like "I was scared for you, my daughter." No "thank God you survived."

I just laugh, bitter and sharp. He just asked me what I was thinking.

What was I thinking—maybe that I'm twenty-two and tired of being locked in this gilded cage while you jet around the world screwing over people. What was my offense? I went to a club, Dad. I danced. I had a drink. Normal shit. But no, your "enemies" decide to ram my car off a bridge because you pissed off the wrong lobbyist or whatever.

"You know the risks," he snaps back, voice going cold. "I've told you a hundred times—stay inside, let the security handle things. Your little rebellions put everyone in danger."

"My rebellions? You mean living? God, I hate this. I hate that your dirty games spill over on me. No friends—because who wants to hang with the girl who might get them shot? No boyfriends—because one leaked photo and your precious reputation tanks. So yeah, I sneak out. Sue me."

I can't even hold myself back any longer. I just want to hang up and throw this fucking phone at the wall and scream. Truth is, I'm a mess because of him. Spoiled rotten with cash and gadgets, but lonely as fuck. No real connections. Just me, my room, and a stack of erotic novels that make my cheeks burn and my fingers wander. I've touched myself to more filthy fantasies than I can count—imagining rough hands, deep voices, things that would make Dad's voters clutch their pearls. I know every trick in the book, every dirty word, but I'm still a virgin. Yeah, but not the sweet, innocent kind. I'm the kind who's dying to get railed but won't risk it because of one scandal and his campaign's toast. Even though I resent the shit out of him for it.

My dad goes quiet for a beat, then: "I'm putting an end to this. You're leaving. Tonight. To the countryside. Montana. You're staying with Nico until this blows over."

My stomach drops instantly. Then twists. Heats up in a way that's so wrong it's right.

Nico.

Nico Cephas.

The name hits like a punch. Dad's best friend since forever. Ex-fighter, built like a tank, the guy who practically raised me after Mom. He'd show up at the house when Dad was gone—fix dinners, scare off bullies at school, teach me how to throw a punch. Those gray eyes. That gravel voice.

I was a few months away from eighteen when I suddenly stopped seeing him as a father figure and started crushing on him hard. And that led to one night at the lake house. I got tipsy, climbed into his lap, and begged him to touch me. He shut it down hard. Carried me to bed, tucked me in, leaned close and whispered, "Not now, little girl. You're not ready for what I'd do." Then he vanished. Let's just say he's the only man I've ever been truly close to. Both as my dad's best friend and as someone I secretly wanted more from. When I finally turned eighteen, he moved out of D.C. Gone without a trace. But I've thought about him. A lot. In ways that leave me breathless and aching.

"Uncle Nico?" I say, trying to sound normal.

Tony glances at me for a second at the change in my voice before quickly looking away.

"Yeah," Dad says. "He's the only one I trust. No one finds you out there. Pack light. The plane leaves tomorrow morning."

I want to argue. Tell him to fuck off. But the thought of Nico—older, rougher, alone with me in some isolated cabin—sends a thrill straight between my legs.

"Fine," I mutter. "Whatever."

He hangs up without a goodbye. Typical.

I slowly lower the phone from my ear, staring at the dark screen. Tony clears his throat quietly like he wants to say something, then thinks better of it. I toss the phone onto the couch and sink back against the cushions, pulse racing.

Montana.

Nico.

Me.

This is gonna be trouble.