The wrong side of love: Enemies to lovers.

The neon sign of Murphy's Bar flickered against the rain-soaked window as I wiped down the last table of my shift. My hands moved mechanically, with muscle memory from four years of this routine. Pour drinks. Smile at jerks. Count tips. Survive another day. "Anora, you're spacing out again," Tracey called from behind the bar, her blonde hair catching the dim light. She was everything I used to be—confident, bold, and alive. Now, I was just a ghost of my former self. "I'm fine," I lied, the words as automatic as breathing. I hadn't been fine since the night my world exploded in blood and screams. The night Manuel pulled me from the wreckage of my family's empire, and we fled Colombia for what I thought was safety. Four years. Four years of Manuel's fists teaching me that salvation comes with a price. Four years of working double shifts while he drank away our rent money. Four years of becoming invisible. "There's a guy staring at you," Tracey whispered, nodding toward the corner booth. "Has been for an hour." My blood went cold. In our world, my old world, men who stared had reasons. Bad reasons. I glanced over, catching sight of dark hair and a face half-hidden in shadow. Something about him tugged at my memory, like a song I couldn't quite place. "He looks familiar," I murmured. "Familiar, how?" Tracey's voice sharpened. She knew fragments of my story, enough to recognize danger signs. Before I could answer, she was already walking toward him, her hips swaying with that confidence I envied. I watched them talk, saw her gesture toward me, and saw him nod once. When she returned, her eyes were bright with excitement. "He wants to take us both to dinner," she announced, practically bouncing. "Are you insane?" The words came out harsher than intended. "We don't know him." "Look at him, Anora. Really look." She grabbed my chin, forcing me to face the stranger. "When's the last time you had a real meal? When's the last time you did anything besides work and go home to that asshole?" She wasn't wrong. I'd lost twenty pounds I couldn't afford to lose, surviving on pizza crusts and whatever Manuel left behind. My reflection was becoming more ghost than a girl. "He could be dangerous," I protested weakly. "More dangerous than Manuel?" The question hit like a slap. "Come on. It's just dinner. What's the worst that could happen?" Famous last words. But my stomach cramped with hunger, and the stranger's eyes seemed to follow me even when I wasn't looking. Maybe Tracey was right. Maybe it was time to remember what it felt like to be human. "Fine," I said. "But if this goes wrong—" "It won't," she interrupted, already pulling me toward the back room. "Trust me." Twenty minutes later, I stared at my reflection in the cracked mirror. Tracey had worked magic with concealer and lip gloss, hiding the worst of Manuel's latest lesson about coming home late. For a moment, I almost recognized the girl looking back at me. "Ready?" Tracey asked. I checked my phone. 11:30 PM. Manuel would be passed out by now, but I still had thirty minutes before his internal clock woke him. Thirty minutes before, the questions and accusations started. "Let's go." The stranger waited by a black sedan that cost more than I made in a year. Up close, he was younger than I'd thought, maybe early thirties, with dark hair and darker eyes. A thin scar ran from his left temple to his jaw, giving him a dangerous edge that should have sent me running. Instead, something deep in my chest recognized him. Tracey slid into the back seat, leaving me no choice but to sit up front. He said nothing as we drove through the city, just classical music and the sound of rain on glass. I caught him glancing at me in his peripheral vision, studying me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve. The restaurant was small and intimate, the kind of place that served real Italian food instead of the Olive Garden knockoffs I was used to. He ordered for all of us in perfect Italian, his voice carrying an authority that made the waiter straighten his spine. "So," Tracey said, breaking the silence as our appetizers arrived, "what's your name, mysterious stranger?" His eyes never left my face. "Marco." Just Marco. But something about the way he said it sent ice through my veins. We ate mostly in silence. The food was incredible—fresh pasta, perfectly seasoned vegetables, wine that probably cost more than my rent. I tried to eat slowly, to savour it, but hunger won out. I hadn't realized how starved I was until real food touched my lips. Marco watched every bite I took with an intensity that should have been uncomfortable. Instead, it felt familiar. Safe, almost. After dinner, he drove Tracey home first. She hugged me goodbye, whispering, "He's gorgeous, and he clearly likes you. Don't mess this up." If only she knew. Alone with him, the silence stretched between us like a loaded gun. He drove toward my neighborhood but suddenly pulled over three blocks from my apartment. The engine died, leaving only the sound of rain drumming on the roof. He turned to face me, and when he smiled, my world tilted off its axis. "Anora Fausto," he said, my old name rolling off his tongue like a prayer. "Nice to meet you again." The air left my lungs in a rush. He knew. He knew who I really was. "How do you—" I started. "You don't remember me, darling?" The endearment hit like a physical blow. Suddenly, I was eighteen again, watching my father's empire burn while men in expensive suits decided my fate. I saw dark hair and darker eyes across a conference table. A boy barely older than me, sitting at his father's right hand. "Marco Romano," he said, confirming my worst fears. Romano. The name that haunted my dreams. The family that destroyed mine. "No," I whispered, my hand scrambling for the door handle. It didn't move. "No, no, no—" "Relax," he said, but there was nothing relaxing about the predatory smile spreading across his face. "If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't have bought you dinner first."