Falling for The Enemy's Daughter

Leila’s POV When I got home, Dad was waiting in the living room, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it had answers. Mom stood nearby, wiping her hands on a dish towel that already looked worn through. Something in the air felt wrong. Thick. Heavy. When he looked up, his face was pale, eyes rimmed red. “Leila,” he started, voice rough. “I need to tell you something.” My heart dropped into my stomach. “What happened?” “A man came to see me,” he said, words slow and heavy, as if each one weighed him down. “Adrian Blackwood.” I froze. The name sounded like it belonged in a newspaper headline, not our worn-out apartment. “Adrian Blackwood? Why?” Dad swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “He made an offer.” “What do you mean?” I managed to say. “What offer?” Dad swallowed, throat working painfully. “If you marry him… he’ll clear my debt.” The words slammed into me, cold and sharp. “What?” “He offered to wipe everything clean,” Dad whispered, almost like he hated the words in his mouth. “No more calls. No more threats.” My chest burned. “And you’re actually thinking of saying yes?” My voice came out cracked, too loud in the small room. “I don’t know what else to do,” Dad rasped. “Leila, they’ve started sending things.” “What things?” Letters. He reached behind him, pulled out a handful of envelopes, all ripped open. Some had big black letters scrawled across the front, others had red stamps that made my stomach tighten. My hands shook as I took them. I opened one and read words that felt like acid: Your time is running out. Family makes easy payment. Another: Pay up or pay in blood. My heart pounded so hard it hurt. “Dad… when did these start coming?” “Two weeks ago,” he said quietly. “At first, I thought it was just talk. But the last one…” He handed it to me. It was shorter, almost careless in its cruelty: Pretty daughters don’t stay safe forever. My fingers went numb. “Does he know?” I whispered. Dad’s face twisted, pain and shame fighting for space. “No. Only us three know about her. But if these men start showing up at our door…” His voice trailed off, but I knew what he meant. Eva. Mom’s voice broke in. “Leila, we never wanted this. We thought we could protect you.” Tears blurred my sight. “You thought you could protect me? By putting me on an auction block?” Mom flinched, as if I’d slapped her. Dad’s shoulders slumped, like the words weighed a thousand pounds. “I know it’s wrong,” Dad whispered. “But what choice do we have?” Choice. The word echoed inside me, hollow. My eyes stung, tears spilling hot down my face. “Why me? Why does he want me?” Dad shook his head, voice breaking. “I don’t know, Leila. I truly don’t.” For a moment, anger flared, hot and bitter. “You shouldn’t have borrowed money in the first place! You promised you’d stop” I yelled “I know,” he whispered. “I know I failed you.” I turned away, fists clenched so tight my nails bit into my palms. Eva. Her small hands clinging to me when I visited last. The way she said “Mama” in broken little sounds, too young to know different. My chest felt crushed under invisible weight. “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” Mom whispered. But her own voice cracked, betraying her. That night, I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the letters spread out like dark flowers. Dad had gone to bed early, defeated. Mom sat silently by the window, staring into the dark street. I tried to imagine standing beside Adrian Blackwood. A man I’d never met. A man whose name alone carried power. Would he look at me like property? Would he care at all what this would do to me? The clock ticked loudly in the silence. Midnight. One. Two. I pressed my palm to my chest, trying to slow the panic. They didn’t know about Eva. But if dangerous men started digging, asking questions, looking too close—they’d find her. And then everything would crumble. Only we three knew. And I had to keep it that way. By morning, my head throbbed from crying. The subway felt colder than usual. My reflection in the scratched window looked pale, hollow-eyed. Near the gallery, new construction had started across the street—orange barriers, metal frames, workers shouting over drills. I barely spared it a glance. My head was somewhere else. At work, I dropped papers twice, lost count while cataloguing, answered my boss in the wrong tone. At lunch, I sat behind a storage shelf, phone in my hand, staring at Dad’s last message: Please, Leila. Do this for us. I put the phone down, pressing my forehead to my knees. Eva. She couldn’t know. She couldn’t lose what little life she had. Tears welled up again, silent, hot. My heart felt too big for my chest, every beat echoing no no no—but the word meant nothing now. The choice wasn’t really mine. It had already been made the moment those letters arrived.