Owned By My Father's Enemy

Ronan's residence sat high above the city, a structure built from wealth, silence and control. The night clung to the glass walls like a shadow, while the interior glowed faintly under warm recessed lighting that did nothing to soften the coldness of the space.

The living room stretched wide with polished black marble floors that reflected every light like water. A crystal chandelier hung above like frozen fire, scattering fragmented light across the room. The furniture was expensive but uninviting, dark leather sofas, steel framed tables, abstract paintings that spoke more of power than emotion. There were no family photos anywhere. No warmth. No life. Only precision. Only dominance.

Ronan stood near the glass wall that overlooked the city skyline. A glass of whiskey rested loosely in his hand while his other hand remained tucked inside his pocket. His expression was unreadable, carved from something colder than anger.

Behind him stood a man, the investigator, shifting uncomfortably as though the air itself pressed against him.

Ronan did not turn.

"Talk," he said.

The investigator straightened immediately.

"Sir, about Nicholas Whitmore."

Ronan's fingers paused slightly around his glass but he still did not look back.

"He is dead," the investigator said carefully.

Ronan turned slowly at that, his eyes narrowing.

"Dead?"

"Yes, sir. But it was not made public, hence nobody knew".

Ronan set his glass down with slow precision.

"Explain."

The investigator swallowed before continuing.

"His death was hidden. No public announcement, no obituary. Even the burial was done in secrecy. Only a very small circle knew."

Silence settled heavily in the room. Ronan stared at him for a long moment before speaking.

"So the man who destroyed my family dies and the world pretends he never existed."

The investigator hesitated. "Yes, sir."

Ronan's jaw tightened.

"That does not sound like death. That sounds like someone cleaning up a mess."

The investigator nodded quickly. "There is more. No one knows how he actually died. The hospital record was sealed almost immediately after the report."

Ronan exhaled slowly, his gaze turning distant for a moment as something sharp flickered through his expression.

"If someone got to him before I did," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else, "then I want to know who."

He turned away from the glass wall and walked a few steps forward, the weight of his thoughts filling the space.

"And the family?" he asked.

The investigator opened the file in his hands.

"His wife is alive. She currently lives in the Whitmore villa. He also has two daughters. One is his biological daughter and the other is from his wife's previous relationship."

Ronan's hand slowly curled into a fist.

"They still live comfortably," he said in a low voice.

"Yes, sir."

A dangerous silence followed. Ronan reached for his phone without looking at the man.

"Inform the men," he said calmly. "We move tomorrow morning."

"Yes, sir."

The investigator left quickly, almost relieved to escape the pressure in the room. When the door closed, Ronan remained still. His eyes darkened as he stared into nothing.

"Nicholas Whitmore," he said under his breath.

"You do not get to die and escape what you did."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE WHITMORE'S VILLA

Morning arrived at the Whitmore villa with a false sense of normalcy. The house was large and elegant, but it no longer felt like a home. It felt like a place that had forgotten how to breathe.

Adaline Whitmore stood in the dining area arranging plates on the table. Not because she wanted to, but because it was expected of her. The maids no longer treated her like family. After her father's death, she had become something between a burden and a servant.

Behind her, footsteps echoed down the stairs.

Mrs Whitmore entered first, followed by Elsie.

Elsie sat down immediately and glanced at the breakfast with irritation.

Adaline placed a cup of coffee in front of her carefully. Elsie took a sip and immediately spat it out.

"What is this?" Elsie shouted, slamming the cup down. "Are you trying to kill me?"

Adaline blinked in confusion.

"I made it exactly how you like it," she said softly.

Elsie stood up, grabbed the cup and poured the remaining coffee over Adaline.

"Make another one," she said coldly. "If you don't want to go hungry today."

Adaline lowered her head quickly, her hands trembling.

"Yes," she whispered.

She turned toward the kitchen but stopped when the front doors suddenly burst open. A loud crash echoed through the villa. Everyone froze. Men entered. Armed. Dressed in black tactical gear.

The servants immediately bowed their heads in fear. The atmosphere changed instantly from tension to terror. Elsie stepped back toward her mother.

"What is happening?" she whispered.

Mrs Whitmore did not answer. Then Ronan walked in. Everything about him silenced the room without effort.Tall. Controlled. Dangerous.

He did not rush. He did not look around in surprise. He walked in like someone who already owned the place.

Adaline froze the moment she saw him. Something inside her tightened. When his eyes swept across the room, they stopped briefly on her. Adaline quickly lowered her head. Ronan moved forward and sat at the head of the dining table as though it belonged to him. He looked at Mrs Whitmore.

"Do you know me?" he asked.

Mrs Whitmore frowned.

"No. I do not."

Ronan gave a short, cold laugh.

"I know your husband is dead," he said.

The words landed heavily. Mrs Whitmore stiffened.

"Yes," she replied carefully.

"Whatever problems you had with him, has died with him," she added quickly.

Ronan tilted his head slightly.

"That is not how it works."

His voice hardened.

"Who killed him?"

Mrs Whitmore shook her head.

"I don't know."

Her voice rose slightly in panic.

"We only received a call from the hospital. He was dead. That was all."

She hesitated before continuing.

"We kept it quiet. It would have destroyed the company image. The stock value would have fallen."

Ronan listened without emotion. When she finished, he spoke again.

"I do not care how he died," he said.

His voice dropped lower.

"I only care that he did."

A pause.

"Who killed him?"

"I told you, I don't know," she insisted.

Elsie suddenly spoke.

"Why don't you take your revenge elsewhere? We did nothing to you."

Ronan looked at her sharply and Elsie shivered immediately, hiding behind her mother in fear.

Mrs Whitmore knew she had to do something as Ronan's attention is on her daughter. Then she pointed at Adaline.

"She is his daughter. Take her. She carries his blood. You can do whatever you want to do with her".

Adaline froze. Slowly, she turned her head toward her stepmother in disbelief.

"Now you remember I am his daughter?" she whispered, her voice shaking.

Ronan glanced at her. His daughter. She carries the true blood of him. Killing her would feel right, it would make everything better. He has been plotting for his revenge after that night and he would make sure he pays, starting from his own flesh and blood.

He then walked toward her slowly. Each step felt heavier than the last. Adaline tried to move back but could not. Her feet was stuck, her legs felt weak, like she could fall any moment from now. When he reached her, he lifted her chin. She flinched immediately.

"Please," she whispered, tears forming in her eyes. "I did nothing wrong."

Ronan studied her for a moment.Then he released her chin, making Adaline to fall down in fear. He stepped back.

Mrs Whitmore watched him carefully, her fear growing. She wanted to know what he was thinking, what he would do next but no one could predict his moves. Ronan turned slightly towards Mrs whitmore.

"I will give you twenty four hours," he said.

A pause.

"Use it well."

Mrs Whitmore nodded quickly.

"Yes. Yes, I will make sure she does not leave this house."

Ronan looked at her once more. Cold and final.

"This is only the beginning," he said.

Then he turned and walked out without looking back. The men followed him immediately. The doors shut. Silence swallowed the room.

Adaline stood frozen in the middle of it all.

Twenty four hours. The words echoed in her mind repeatedly.

What happens after twenty four hours?

Her body trembled slightly.

Was he going to kill her?

Or something worse?.

Her chest tightened.

Because no one knows what Ronan Frost has in mind.

Ronan stepped into his villa in silence, the heavy doors closing behind him with a final sound that echoed through the vast interior.

The house was dark, but not empty. It was designed that way. Expensive marble floors stretched across the hallway, reflecting faint light from the hidden ceiling panels. Abstract paintings hung on the walls, cold and meaningless, chosen more for intimidation than beauty. Everything in the house felt controlled, distant, untouched by softness.

Ronan did not slow down. He walked straight toward his room.

On the way, he pulled out his phone and made a single call.

"I want Camilla here," he said simply. "Now."

He did not wait for a reply before ending the call. Camilla always came when he called.

And right now, he did not want silence. He wanted release.

Camilla was already in his room when he arrived. She sat comfortably on the edge of his bed as if she belonged there more than anyone else ever could. Silk clung to her skin, confidence wrapped around her like a second outfit. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes were sharp, observant, waiting.

She was not just his mistress. In the corporate world, people whispered about her. They called her his shadow. His second command. The woman who handled meetings when he was absent, crushed negotiations without hesitation, and smiled while others broke under pressure.

With Ronan, she was different.

Close. Dangerous. Replaceable in name only.

The moment the door opened, she felt it.

The air changed.

Ronan stepped in, and the atmosphere in the room tightened instantly. His presence carried something heavy, something unstable.

Camilla tilted her head slightly.

"Bad day?" she asked softly, a faint smile playing on her lips.

Ronan did not answer. He shut the door behind him and stood there for a moment, as if holding himself together by force alone. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked painful. His eyes were darker than usual, stripped of restraint.

Camilla's expression shifted slightly. She understood him without words.

Before she could stand, before she could say anything else, Ronan crossed the room in two strides.

He grabbed her wrist, then her waist, and pulled her toward him with a force that erased all distance between them.

His kiss came without warning. Hard. Deep. Uncontrolled. It was not gentle. It was not affectionate. It was something else entirely.

Release.

Camilla gasped against his mouth for a second, but she did not resist. Her fingers tightened around his shirt as she responded to him with equal intensity.

Ronan pushed her back onto the bed without breaking the kiss.

The mattress dipped beneath their weight as he hovered over her, his movements driven by anger rather than desire. Every action carried frustration, every touch carried something unresolved.

Camilla felt it. The rage in him was not random.

It was focused. Controlled chaos. She let it happen. Because she understood him better than anyone else did.

The room grew quieter in sound but heavier in energy. Their breathing filled the space, uneven and fast, until everything else disappeared into the background. Time blurred. And then, gradually, stillness returned.

Later, Camilla lay against his chest, her fingers tracing slow patterns across his skin as if nothing unusual had just happened.

Ronan stared at the ceiling, his expression still tight, still distant. Camilla studied him quietly.

"Something happened," she said finally.

Ronan did not respond immediately.

Then, coldly, he spoke.

"I finally got my revenge, after many years of plotting".

Camilla caressed him slightly. Ronan continued.

"My revenge is just beginning."

A brief silence followed. Then his voice hardened further.

"I am going to break their daughter. Slowly. Until she begs for death."

Camilla's fingers stopped for a second.

"His daughter?" she asked.

Ronan turned his head slightly.

"Yes."

His tone did not change.

"She will pay for everything her father did."

There was no hesitation. No emotion. Only certainty. Camilla watched him for a moment longer, then something subtle flickered in her eyes. Not fear. Not concern. Something closer to possession.

"So she is not a threat," she murmured slowly.

"Just a target." Because she wasn't about to let any woman take away her man.

Ronan did not correct her. He did not need to.

Camilla relaxed again, her earlier tension fading into something more controlled.

If this girl meant nothing to his attention, then she meant nothing to her. And that was enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At the Whitmore villa, morning did not feel peaceful. It felt like something was ending.

Mrs Whitmore's voice cut through the room the moment Ronan left earlier.

"Take her."

Servants moved instantly.

Adaline barely had time to turn before hands grabbed her arms.

"Please," she struggled, her voice breaking.

"Wait, please."

No one listened. Her feet dragged against the floor as she was forced upward the stairs.

"Lock her in her room," Mrs Whitmore ordered sharply.

Her voice trembled, but not with sympathy.

With fear. Adaline was pushed into her room and the door shut behind her with a heavy click.

Silence followed.

For a moment, she just stood there. Then her knees weakened. She sank slowly to the floor as tears filled her eyes. This was her home. Or what was left of it.

A place filled with memories that no longer belonged to her. And now she was being handed over to a stranger who looked at her like she was already condemned.

Her hands trembled as she covered her face.

She did not even know what was coming. Only that it would not be mercy.

Downstairs, Elsie paced nervously in the sitting room.

"I'm scared," she said quickly. "What if she tries to escape?"

Mrs Whitmore sat calmly, though her expression was tight.

"She won't get the chance to" she said coldly.

Elsie frowned.

"And if she does?"

Mrs Whitmore leaned back slightly.

"She wouldn't dare, she has become too weak to fight for anything, not even her own life".

A pause. Then she added quietly.

"Everything that happens to her now... is not our problem anymore."

Elsie hesitated.

"So... we're really just giving her away?"

Mrs Whitmore's lips curved faintly.

"Would you like to go in her stead".

Elsie shook her head

"No".

"Good, we are just protecting ourselves ".

Her eyes hardened.

"Your father created this mess. Not us."

Elsie slowly nodded.

"Yes... you are right."

A brief silence passed. Then Mrs Whitmore spoke again, softer this time.

"She will not survive what is coming anyway."

And for the first time that morning, she smiled.

Not kindly. Not warmly. But like someone watching a problem remove itself.

Mrs. Whitmore didn't sleep, but it wasn't because she cared about Adaline. No, Adaline was the least of her concerns, and if anything, the girl being taken away was exactly what she wanted, a problem removed, a stain erased, a constant reminder of a past she wished had never existed finally gone from her sight. Twenty four hours had passed, yet Ronan's cold voice still echoed in her mind, replaying over and over again like a quiet threat that refused to fade, each word sharp, deliberate, final, with no hesitation, no softness, no mercy, only a command that could not be undone.

Still, beneath her carefully controlled exterior, fear lingered, coiling deep in her chest, refusing to let her breathe properly as thoughts she didn't want forced their way in, what if he changed his mind, what if instead of taking Adaline he decided to make them all suffer, what if this was only the beginning. That fear had kept her awake the entire night, her mind restless, her body tense, and even as the first light of morning crept into the villa, nothing eased, the air itself feeling heavy, like something was about to break. The house no longer felt like a home, it felt like a place waiting to collapse under the weight of something unseen and inevitable.

By early morning, tension hung thick and suffocating, pressing down on everyone within the walls as the maids moved quietly, their usual chatter completely gone, each step careful, each movement restrained, because no one wanted to make a mistake and no one wanted to draw attention to themselves. Elsie paced beside her mother, her anxiety impossible to hide as her fingers twisted the fabric of her dress, her steps uneven, her breathing shallow, her composure hanging by a thread.

"Mom what if he changes his mind and comes for us instead"

Mrs. Whitmore turned to her, already preparing a response, already ready to offer reassurance whether it was true or not, because control was the only thing she had left, but before she could speak, she heard it, the low, powerful rumble of engines entering the compound, a sound that sent a sharp jolt through her body as her heart skipped and her stomach tightened instantly, dread settling in before she could stop it.

"He's here"

The words slipped out under her breath before she could hold them back as the black SUVs rolled into the compound with controlled precision, their presence dominating everything around them, the morning light reflecting faintly off their dark surfaces, making them seem even more intimidating, more final, more inescapable.

The vehicles came to a stop and for a brief moment everything felt too still, too quiet, like the world itself was holding its breath, then the doors opened and Ronan's men stepped out one after the other, armed, silent, focused, their expressions cold, their movements sharp and coordinated as they spread out across the compound with practiced ease, like this was routine, like fear was something they were used to creating.

A firm knock sounded on the door, not loud, not aggressive, but strong enough to send a wave of fear through the entire house, the kind of knock that didn't need force to command attention. Elsie froze instantly, her body going rigid, while Mrs. Whitmore straightened her shoulders, forcing her fear down and burying it beneath a mask of composure as she walked to the door and opened it slightly. Standing outside was one of Ronan's guards, his expression unreadable, his presence alone enough to reinforce the reality of what was happening.

"The boss is here for the girl"

Adaline, the burden, the unwanted child, the reminder she wanted gone.

Good riddance.

Mrs. Whitmore stepped aside without hesitation, her decision immediate, her tone steady despite everything tightening inside her.

"She's in her room, locked up, exactly how he wanted"

The guard gave a small nod, indifferent, as though this meant nothing to him.

"Go get her"

Mrs. Whitmore turned without wasting another second, motioning for a servant to follow as she made her way toward Adaline's room, her steps quick, her mind focused only on getting this over with, because the sooner Adaline was gone, the sooner this tension would leave with her.

The soft click of the door lock jolted Adaline awake, pulling her from the shallow, restless sleep she had fallen into, her body heavy, her mind slow as she struggled to gather her thoughts, time having lost all meaning the moment she had been locked away, but the sound of that lock opening again told her everything she needed to know, the twenty four hours were over and he had come back. Her heart began to race instantly, each beat louder than the last as a cold wave of fear spread through her chest, settling deep within her bones as the door opened and Mrs. Whitmore stepped inside, her presence sharp, cold, suffocating.

"Stand up"

Adaline pushed herself up immediately, her movements quick despite the stiffness in her body, not daring to hesitate, not daring to give any reason for anger as Mrs. Whitmore's gaze swept across the room, inspecting everything with silent judgment, making sure there had been no attempt to escape, no sign of resistance, nothing out of place.

"You have wasted enough of my time, get out unless you want to be dragged out"

Adaline nodded slightly, her hands trembling as she smoothed down her wrinkled dress, the fabric creased and worn from being slept in, but she still tried to make herself look presentable, as if it mattered, as if anything about her still held value.

Once, she had been her mother's daughter, her mother's princess, she remembered warmth, soft laughter, gentle hands brushing through her hair, she remembered what it felt like to be loved, but that life was gone, and the moment her mother died, everything changed, leaving her with nothing, less than nothing, a burden, a mistake, someone no one wanted. She didn't speak, she didn't question, because silence was safer and words had never protected her.

Mrs. Whitmore stepped aside, but not before giving her a long, cold glare, one that carried years of resentment and something darker beneath it.

"Move"

Adaline obeyed instantly, her heart pounding as she walked past her, each step heavier than the last, each movement weighed down by something she couldn't escape as the door slammed shut behind her with a sharp echo that made her flinch. The moment she stepped outside the villa, the air felt different, colder, heavier, harder to breathe as her eyes lifted slowly, almost against her will, and then she saw him, standing beside his car with his hands tucked casually into his pockets, his posture relaxed in a way that didn't feel relaxed at all, because there was something about him that made the air itself feel dangerous, something controlled, something restrained, something that felt like violence waiting beneath the surface.

His gaze was fixed on her, cold, unforgiving, unblinking, and just one look from him was enough to drain the strength from her body as her knees felt weak and her chest tightened, fear wrapping around her like chains, suffocating, inescapable. She lowered her gaze immediately, unable to hold his eyes for more than a second, because looking at him felt like standing too close to something that could destroy her without effort.

Ronan stood there, his expression calm, but his mind anything but as his gaze remained locked on the villa, sharp and calculating, because Adaline Whitmore was only the beginning, the first step, the first crack in the foundation, the Whitmores' had taken everything from him, so now it was their turn to lose everything slowly, painfully, completely. Then she appeared, and his eyes shifted toward her instantly, taking in every detail, every weakness, every sign of what she had become, and she looked smaller than he remembered, weaker, her clothes worn and creased, her posture slightly hunched as if she was trying to make herself invisible, her eyes glassy like she was holding back tears she refused to let fall.

For a brief moment, their eyes met, and something unexpected happened, something he didn't want, something he refused to acknowledge, something in his chest tightened, a flicker, a twist, something unwelcome, unfamiliar, completely unacceptable, and his expression hardened instantly as he tore his gaze away as if looking at her any longer would be a mistake. Without a word, he turned, opened the car door, and got inside, shutting himself away from whatever that feeling was, because he didn't come this far to feel, he didn't come this far to forgive, he didn't come this far to understand, he came to destroy.

Adaline followed silently, her movements slow and careful as though any sudden action might make things worse, and when the door shut beside her, the sound echoed in her chest with quiet finality, sealing something she couldn't undo. Her hands rested on her lap, clenched tightly together as she tried to steady her breathing, her entire body tense as though bracing for something she couldn't predict, and then slowly she turned her head, her eyes falling on the villa, the place she had once called home, a place filled with memories, some warm, most painful, and she stared at it for a few seconds as her vision blurred slightly, tears gathering in her eyes despite her effort to hold them back.

This was it, there was no going back, and a part of her wanted to fight, to run, to scream, but she felt too weak, too tired, the will to resist distant, almost nonexistent, and deep down she knew that from this moment on, her life would never remain the same.