Secret Dating With My Father's Enemy

Never Hurt The Family

By the time Elara stepped onto the road, the first hints of dawn were brushing the horizon with pale, trembling light.

The darkness no longer held the same authority it had an hour ago, though it still lingered like a heavy curtain over the quiet street. The streetlights hummed softly, casting long, wavering shadows that stretched across the pavement as she walked.

Her steps were measured, deliberate, yet brisk—not because she was late, but because standing still felt unsafe, as though the very air was conspiring to trap her in place. She had left Damien’s house at precisely six thirty, timing her escape so she could reach home before her father stirred. Every second seemed vital, every shadow a potential threat, and her thoughts drifted backward despite her focus.

She remembered Kate’s pleading voice, low and hesitant, fingers gripping the strap of her bag so tightly it left pale impressions in her skin. “Please… just a little longer,” Kate had murmured, her voice breaking only slightly. “I’m not ready to leave yet.

Damien had listened quietly, his expression as unreadable as polished stone, before responding without emotion, and without hesitation. “Your brother is already home he had said, the words matter-of-fact, almost casual, yet carrying a weight that made Kate stiffen.

Elara had watched from a distance, pretending to busy herself with some inconsequential task she couldn’t even remember now. Yet she had smiled quietly to herself, a small, private smile. Not at Kate’s distress, not at Damien’s quiet control, but because a fleeting thought had crept into her mind, unwelcome but persistent.

Now, walking down the street with the cold air brushing her face, the memory brought a small, embarrassed smile that quickly faded as she approached her own gate.

Her pace slowed, every movement careful as she eased the gate open, conscious of the familiar creak at the hinge, slipping inside with as much quiet as she could muster. She closed the door gently behind her, taking a deep breath before stepping into the house itself.

Before she saw her father he was not slouched in a chair but was standing upright, immovable, framed in the dim morning light that spilled through the window.

His presence was immediate, commanding, a silent assertion of authority that pressed against her chest. His eyes, sharp and watchful, pinned her in place before she could even think of relief.

“Would you tell me,” he asked slowly, his voice measured, icy, and deliberate, “where you are coming from at this hour, Elara?” he questioned, his brows slightly raised, scanning her like one examines a document.

Her heart skipped violently, a jolt she could feel in her stomach. She swallowed hard, straightening instinctively, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. Fear prickled along her skin, but she forced herself to maintain control, aware that panic would betray her more than words ever could.

“I—” she began, voice quivering despite her effort. “I went out,” she said, she added, her tone soft but deliberate, choosing the words like stepping stones across a river.

Her father’s gaze did not waver, but the silence stretched, pressing down with quiet intensity.

“I was with some people,” she continued, choosing carefully. “We were discussing business and the conversation went longer than I expected,” she said, her hands flexing at her sides as though she could anchor herself through the gesture.

“And it got late,” she added, softer now, her voice almost a whisper. “I didn’t think it would be safe to walk home, so I stayed over at a friend’s place,” she admitted, her words spilling into the cold air of the hallway.

And immediately she finished talking she noticed the way her father’s gaze sharpened ever so slightly.

“In what condition,” he asked calmly, almost a whisper, his brows furrowed just slightly, “was it unsafe for you to come home?” he questioned, tilting his head fractionally, the question heavy with expectation.

Inside her mind, alarm bells rang frantically s**t she thought to herself she had let her mouth slip again.

So… you were drinking, Elara? He asked his tone icy as hell,

The question hung in the air, and though it was quiet, it carried a weight that made her stomach churn.

“No,” she said quickly, a rush of words spilling out before she could catch herself. “Not really. Just a sip… just a little,” she explained, she added, her voice trembling despite her attempt at control.

She tried to sound reasonable, rational, careful.

“You know how I am,” she said softly, emphasizing the caution, “I don’t handle alcohol well. Even a small amount affects me,” she admitted, glancing briefly toward him before dropping her gaze.

Her father’s expression shifted subtly, the change almost imperceptible, but it spoke volumes.

“You know,” he said quietly, low and deliberate, his lips pressing into a thin line, “that is not an excuse,” he said, his brow furrowing slightly, his tone controlled but sharp.

“I know,” she responded immediately, nodding, she added, her voice small, careful.

“And you know how much I hate you drinking,” he said slowly, voice tightening, gaze fixed unwaveringly on her, “especially after what happened five years ago,” he said, his brows knitting as he questioned her with unspoken expectation.

The words settled heavily between them, suffocating in their precision.

“Yes,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, she added, lowering her gaze as though it might protect her.

“That’s why I didn’t go past that,” she admitted, cheeks flushing, she said, “I was careful,” she said, the words deliberate, measured.

Another pause hung in the room.

“Which friends were you with?” he asked finally, his voice steady, brow raised, tone deliberate, piercing as if measuring her honesty.

Her stomach dropped, twisting sharply.

She forced herself to breathe slowly, deliberately.

“You know very well,” he continued, tilting his head slightly, lips tight, “that you have only one close friend. And she is not even in the country right now,” he said, gaze steady, questioning, he did this, the words precise, leaving no room for evasion.

“So who are these people?” he asked next, brows furrowed slightly, lips pressed thin, gaze unflinching, he asked, the question deliberate, awaiting her explanation.

Her mind raced frantically.

Jesus, she thought. He’s right. He knows everything.

She hesitated just long enough to appear contemplative.

“While you were away,” she said finally, words careful, steady, “I met some people through work. Business associates. They helped me manage a few tasks that came up,” she said, looking up briefly to meet his gaze, steadying herself as she added, “That’s all it was.”

He studied her for a long, quiet moment, the kind of silence that measured truth against falsehood with precision. Then he nodded once, sharply, decisively.

“That better be true,” he said quietly, his voice low, brows furrowed, tone controlled, deliberate, he said, “We don’t need any more scandals.”

Her chest loosened ever so slightly, and she exhaled, relief flooding her carefully controlled posture.

“Yes,” she said immediately, voice steady now, though her hands still trembled. She added, “I know that. I would never do anything to hurt this family.”