My Bestie's Dad Likes Me Wet-Chapter 24 Lost

Nova POV

Lena is snoring beside me, dead to the world, while I’m lying wide awake, marinating in the chaos she dumped into my brain before passing out.

Then my phone buzzes.

I glance at the screen expecting some useless promo notification. Instead, an unknown number message awaited me.

"Come to my room."

Not even a question mark. Just a command. Like my libido needed the green light, and it can only be one person.

I glance at Lena, grab a pillow, and sneak it into my spot like some Disney Channel runaway trick. She’s usually a log when she sleeps, so I doubt she’ll notice. Hopefully.

My hair’s still down, my scandalous outfit from earlier intact. Lip gloss gone, but whatever because if Grant is texting me at midnight, he’s not coming for my lips. At least not first.

I tiptoe down the hall, trying not to think about how badly I want to burn this forbidden haze out of my system. Just one or two good fucks, and maybe I’ll have clarity. Or closure. Or a wrecked pussy. Honestly, I’ll take any.

His door’s cracked open, candlelight flickering like an invitation to sin. Except when I step inside, flip—full light floods the room, and there’s Grant. Not shirtless. Not waiting in bed. Nope. He’s in some crisp two-piece leisure set like a rich dad about to play polo at midnight.

Buzzkill.

"Sit, Nova." He gestures at a pair of chairs I swear weren’t here yesterday.

So not a booty call. Ugh.

I sit anyway, folding my legs tight. We’re across from each other under harsh light, like I’m a suspect in some crime drama—minus the cuffs. (Not that I’d complain about cuffs, but still.)

"I have something for you," he says.

His gaze is glued to me. Too intense. I fidget. Why isn’t he talking? Why the suspense?

Finally, I blurt, "I don’t know anything about the spam messages. I swear."

That should be the reason for this midnight torture scene.

His brow twitches. "Leave corporate talks for the office. Home is where I unwind."

Okay, then why summon me at midnight, sir?

"But why didn’t you tell me you’re being stalked?"

My stomach drops. My body freezes. Stalked?

Does he mean Sandra? Or the faceless creep my godmother warned me about?

"It’s nothing, sir," I say quickly. "I didn’t want to disturb you."

"Disturb?" His voice sharpens. "If anything happens to you under my roof, I’m responsible. And I take my responsibilities seriously."

...Yum. That line alone could’ve led to an orgy if we weren’t mid–interrogation.

"You need to be honest with me so we can handle this without ripples."

So yeah. He means Sandy. Has to be.

"It’s fine. I haven’t seen Sandy since I started riding with your driver."

"Sandy?" His eyes narrow.

"Your ex-secretary. And Aaron from HR—"

"Oh. The tacky one." He actually scoffs.

"Yes. That Sandy. She—she stalked me, but it’s over now."

And just like that, he’s out of his chair, pacing, firing questions like bullets:

"Since when? Has she touched you? Why didn’t you tell me? Are you hurt?"

He grabs my chin, tilts my face like he’s checking for bruises, and I nearly laugh at how dramatic he’s being.

"I’m fine," I insist.

"Do you need a doctor?"

And now I’m rolling my eyes in my head because this man ignored Tyler almost raping me, but Sandy sends him into full protective dad mode? Weird.

"It’s been a while. I’m fine," I repeat.

He finally slows down, his thumb brushing my temple. "You need to talk to me, Nymph. Not just when you’re babbling about dolphins or sex trivia. About this. About threats."

Wait. Did he just...call me out on my random fact dumps? Rude.

"I wasn’t aware."

"Now you are." He pats my head softly, then checks the time like he hasn’t just thrown me into existential dread.

"Go back. Sleep. You’ve got work tomorrow. Lena leaves in the morning. We’ll finish this at daybreak."

I nod, speechless.

"Sleep tight, Nova."

The next morning had me spiraling in confusion.

They said the executive department had called an impromptu meeting, but if you ask me, it was less of a "meeting" and more of an impromptu grilling.

Random names were being called, one after the other, mostly from my department, and every time a name boomed out into the room my stomach turned into a blender of dread.

The air was thick with tension, the kind that presses down on your chest and makes you wish you could dissolve into thin air before anyone remembers you exist.

"Nova Harts."

The robotic voice calling my name made my stomach lurch, my legs freeze, my brain reboot. Still, I stumbled forward, pushed more by the heat of twenty-plus pairs of cold, sharp gazes stabbing into me than by any actual courage.

"Here," I croaked. Except that voice?m was definitely not mine.

Up on the raised platform, I became hyperaware of everything. The sea of men in black, custom-fitted suits radiating authority, their faces unreadable masks of stone.

They sat there like a firing squad, so still and sharp they might as well have been carved out of marble. It was so out of sync with the office aesthetic around us of cream-and-gold accents, warm lights, a design that was supposed to feel welcoming. But nothing about this room, or these men, felt welcoming.

I kept my eyes darting anywhere but Grant’s direction — Mr. Calloway now, with his laser-focus burning a hole straight through my forehead. Last night’s glitch between us was the last thing I needed replaying in my head while standing on a podium facing judgment.

"Miss Nova..."

And the grilling began.

I tried to keep my answers sharp, honest and brief, anything to get through it fast. I didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to be the center of attention, didn’t want to feel twenty suits dissecting me with their blank gazes. The less they saw of me, the better.

Then came the verdict.

"After careful examination and proper research, your laptop was not hacked. You installed the malware into the device yourself. Knowing fully well the risks it poses."

...Excuse me, what?

I blinked at them like maybe the translator in my brain had malfunctioned. "No... that has to be a mistake."

"Did you, or did you not, visit a certain site... SmuttyBunnies?"

And just like that, my stomach did a backflip and landed in hell. Smutty. Fucking. Bunnies. The name is innocent enough. This must be a wild joke.

Oh. My. God.

"Yes, I visited... I mean, I visited a lot of sites," I tried, but my voice wobbled.

"For personal purposes aside from office research," the monotone voice droned on, cutting me to shreds with every word.

And then I heard the click of keys and the hum of the projector. My humiliation came to life on the screen behind me.

Projected larger than my worst nightmare: the actual landing page of the stupid site, the very form I had filled out to get that too-good-to-be-true "free delivery of erotic comics and steamy novel collections." I swear there had been glowing reviews! Testimonials! It looked legit, okay?

But there it was. My form. Uncensored. Unencrypted and definitely exposed .

Sexual orientation. Kinks. Fetishes. Fantasies. Experience level. Exploration type. Every single thing I had written down to help some shady site "match" me with the perfect smut.

It was all there. For them. For everyone.

And just in case fate thought my humiliation wasn’t cinematic enough, the operator scrolled leisurely down the form, line by line, detail by humiliating detail, until they reached the cherry on top: the so-called "introductory video file" I had downloaded. The one that hadn’t even played.

Apparently, it wasn’t a glitch. It was a virus-packed bomb. And now the code was blown wide open on the screen for everyone to see.

It didn’t matter what I said. It didn’t matter that it was "just for books." It didn’t matter that I’d checked every damn box half out of curiosity, half out of boredom.

Nobody in this room was going to believe me. All they saw was a girl dumb enough to compromise their system with her horny little hobbies.

"Call for the instant removal of Miss Nova Hart from the organization," one of the stone men declared, voice stripped of sympathy.

Removal. As in fired. As in internship gone?. As in my future, the degree, the course, the scholarship, the plans — all of it circling the drain in real time.

"Supported."

"Agree."

"Seconded."

One after another, the men voiced their execution votes, not even sparing me a glance. My lips trembled, my throat tightened, tears itched at my eyes. I fought to keep them back, because if I cried now, I knew I’d be done for.

"It’s a done deal," someone said, already closing his file.

"We wish you well in your future endeavors, Miss Nova, and—"

"Sit down, Landon."

The voice cut through the room like a blade. Deep. Commanding. Absolute.

Grant.

Mr. Calloway’s tone left no room for argument. The man addressed — Landon — sat down immediately, eyes lowered. Silence slammed into the room, heavy and suffocating, until all you could hear was the echo of Grant’s words.

"This is my company," he said, quiet but lethal. "And I have the final say."

No one breathed but they nodded in agreement.

"She stays."

Just two words. And chaos exploded. Voices overlapped, men raised hands, protests flared but Grant didn’t break eye contact with me. His gaze held me steady, tethered me in the middle of the storm.

Then, calm as ever, his lips shaped the words only for me:

"In my office."

And that was my cue and salvation as well as my doom. I scurried out like my life depended on it — because it actually did.