Secret Dating With My Father's Enemy

Not My Type

Elara lay on the couch staring at the ceiling, one arm tucked beneath her head, the other draped loosely over her stomach. The apartment had settled into that peculiar, half-asleep quiet—where the air felt heavier, where every small sound seemed louder simply because nothing else was happening.

The lights in the sitting room had been dimmed at some point without her noticing, leaving only a soft glow spilling in from the kitchen and the faint city light slipping through the curtains.

Her eyes were just beginning to close.

Not fully asleep—but just hovering there, balanced delicately between thought and rest—when a voice cut through the silence.

“Elara?”

She frowned slightly, her brows knitting together as her mind struggled to catch up.

“…Are you sleeping?”

Her eyes opened again, slow and annoyed.

She turned her head to the side, shifting just enough to look past the back of the couch—and that Damien was already there on the other couch. One arm stretched along the backrest, his head tilted toward her, his figure mostly swallowed by shadow.

The lights were lower than before, low enough that she could only make out the outline of his face, the faint gleam of his eyes watching her far too attentively for someone who claimed to be tired earlier.

She sighed through her nose.

“No,” she said flatly. “Unfortunately.”

Then there was a brief pause.

“Oh,” Damien said, sounding almost surprised. “You’re not sleeping. I thought you were already out.”

Elara rolled her eyes and adjusted her position, pulling the throw pillow closer to her chest.

“What?” she muttered. “Do you want me to do something for you again?”

“No,” he replied quickly. “Nothing like that. I just—” He hesitated. “I want to ask you something.”

And immediately she let out a tired, humorless laugh.

“Damien,” she said, glancing at the clock on the wall, “It’s past one in the morning. If this is another one of your power-trip conversations, please don't ask cause, I genuinely need my sleep.”

“It won’t take long,” he insisted. “Just one question.”

She groaned softly but didn’t turn away.

“What is it?” she asked.

And there was another pause at his end which was long enough that she began to regret agreeing.

“Why,” Damien asked slowly, “do you hate me so much?”

Elara blinked.

Then she laughed.

Not a gentle laugh and certainly not a polite one. But a sharp, disbelieving burst escaped her before she could stop it.

She pushed herself up slightly on one elbow and stared at him like he’d just asked her why the sky was blue.

“You cannot be serious,” she said. “Damien, you’ve asked this question more times than I can count.”

“I’m serious,” he replied.

And she scoffed before replying,

“ Well, the answer to your question is that I hate your guts, she said plainly. “I hate everything about you. Your attitude. Your smug face. Your voice when you think you’re winning. Pick one.”

He hummed, unbothered. “Yes. I know you hate my guts. That part is very clear.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“But,” he continued, “hypothetically—let’s say our families weren’t enemies. No history. No bad blood. None of this mess. Would you date me?”

For a split second, Elara simply stared.

Then she burst out laughing and this time she couldn’t stop it.

She threw her head back, laughter spilling out of her in loud, unrestrained peals. She snorted once—actually snorted—and slapped a hand over her mouth too late to take it back.

“Date you?” she repeated between laughs. “Damien—oh my God—never. Not in a million years. Not in several lifetimes stacked on top of each other. Don’t even let that thought finish forming in your head.”

He shifted slightly on the couch. “I wasn’t saying we would date,” he said defensively. “You’re not even my type.”

She froze mid-laugh, then slowly, she turned her head to look at him fully.

“Oh?” she said. “I’m not your type?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I mean—”

She cut him off.

“Then why,” she demanded, “were you asking me those stupid questions?”

He sighed, then said far too casually, “Because i just wanted to ask and i like my women solid, thick and confident. But you’re built like—”

She raised an eyebrow.

“—like a perfectly good drumstick,” he finished. “Strong from head to toe.”

There was a beat.

Then Elara lost it again.

She laughed so hard she had to roll onto her side, burying her face briefly into the pillow to muffle the sound. When she surfaced, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining with amusement.

“Damien,” she said, still laughing, “You know that’s not true. You know very well I’m well packaged.”

He snorted.

“Even if I’m not blessed up top,” she continued smugly, “I am abundantly blessed everywhere else. Perfect hips. Perfect backside.

Balanced proportions. Unlike you—”

She squinted at him dramatically.

She let out a sharp laugh at her own words, the sound echoing softly through the dim sitting room.

Damien shifted on the couch, finally turning his head fully toward her. Even in the low light, she could see the lift of his brow, the faint smirk tugging at his mouth as though he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or entertained.

“Oh?” he said slowly. “And how exactly would you know that?”

Elara grinned into the darkness, the kind of grin that was all teeth and mischief. She adjusted her position slightly, propping herself up just enough to look smug without fully sitting up.

“I don’t need to see anything,” she replied lightly, her tone maddeningly casual. “Clothes tell stories, Damien.”

She shrugged, as if this were common knowledge.

“The way someone walks. The way they stand. The way they overcompensate,” she added, ticking the points off lazily. “It’s all very educational.”

She snorted softly, then turned her face back toward the couch cushion, clearly pleased with herself, leaving Damien staring at her in silence—half incredulous, half amused, and entirely unsure how that conversation had turned so thoroughly against him.

His brow lifted. “So you look at me through my clothes?” he asked as she paused.

Then she groaned, rolling onto her back again.

“You know what?” she said. “Please just shut up and let me sleep.” She said aloud as she turned away, facing the back of the couch again, pulling the pillow tighter against her chest.

But this time, her lips were still curved in a smile.

Her laughter faded into quiet breaths, her face warm, her cheeks betraying her far more than she would ever admit. Even as she closed her eyes again, she could still feel it—the ridiculousness of it all, the absurd banter echoing in her head and how she was even now imagining how big he was going to be down there.