Secret Dating With My Father's Enemy

HisAuthority

Elara’s hands were still trembling, her fingers pressing against her sides as if she could steady herself by sheer will alone.

Her chest heaved slightly, and the last remnants of adrenaline from being confronted about the drinking and her late return had left her mind buzzing and unfocused. She barely had time to process her relief when her father’s voice cut through the fragile quiet, sharp and deliberate, slicing through her scattered thoughts like a blade.

“By the way, Elara,” he said, each word crisp, precise, and commanding, “we’ll be going upstairs to tidy up. After that, we’re going to the office. Anytime from now.”

The words landed like stones in her stomach. Her mind froze. Her mouth opened and closed once, twice, as she tried to form a coherent sentence, but her voice failed her at first.

“You… you said what?” she stammered, her tone high, panicked, disbelief threading every syllable. “But… but… I thought you just came back! We— we need to rest! We can go to the office any other time!”

Her father did not blink. His posture remained rigid, shoulders squared and deliberate, the kind of stillness that reminded her why she had always feared confronting him. His eyes locked onto hers, cold, unyielding, and unflinching. The kind of gaze that could flatten anyone who dared question it.

“Elara,” he said, slower this time, the weight of each syllable carrying the force of iron, “are you trying to defy my orders? Have you forgotten that I am still the man of this house?”

Her stomach sank, twisting into knots. The warmth of her small reprieve had vanished instantly. She swallowed hard, her Adam’s apple bobbing as her throat tightened.

“I do not take orders from you,” he continued, his tone low now but sharp, like the edge of a knife brushing her ear, “I give orders.

And when I say we are going to the office this moment, we are going to the office. You know better than to challenge my authority, Elara.

Her mind raced, a flurry of panic and embarrassment. She forced herself to kneel slightly, lowering her gaze instinctively, though her heart thumped violently.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Dad,” she said quickly, her voice small and earnest, trembling slightly. “I never meant to… I just thought—”

His eyes narrowed fractionally, a subtle flicker of disapproval that made her knees feel weak. She swallowed again, the words tumbling out before she could pause to organize them.

“Okay, Dad. Whatever you say. I’ll… I’ll get ready.”

He nodded once, sharply, and the gesture carried approval, but there was no warmth in it.

“That’s better,” he said simply, his voice flat, controlled.

He turned slightly and moved toward the sitting room, each step measured, deliberate, radiating authority. Elara followed behind him, almost automatically, the echo of her footsteps soft against the polished floor. He seated himself carefully, crossing one leg over the other, the movement precise, deliberate, unhurried, the way a man always knows he owns the room.

From the table beside him, he picked up his newspaper, unfolding it slowly, flipping the pages with practiced efficiency. Not a word was spoken, not a glance given. The sheer calmness of his actions, the subtle display of control in even the smallest gestures, made Elara’s chest tighten with nervous energy.

She hesitated for a moment, caught in the tension of the room, before she turned and made her way upstairs to shower and get ready. Her movements were careful, precise, not because she was trying to sneak or hide, but because even the faintest misstep might be noticed.

Elara had barely reached her room when she felt the tension in her shoulders begin to loosen slightly. The orders from her father still lingered like a low hum in her chest, but at least the immediate confrontation was behind her.

She set her bag down by the corner, took a deep breath, and let her fingers brush across the messy bedspread she had abandoned the night before.

The room smelled faintly of her own perfume, a comforting, familiar scent that made the space feel hers again.

She turned on her phone and let the music spill into the room, soft and melodic, just loud enough to wash away the lingering echoes of her father’s harsh words.

The rhythm eased her thoughts, helping her untangle the tension knotted in her shoulders and the tight coil of nerves that had started in her stomach.

Tidying felt almost meditative as she straightened the sheets, fluffed the pillows, and pushed the scattered clothes into the corner. Every movement was careful, deliberate, a slow reclaiming of her own space, a gentle assertion that she could, in small ways, control her environment even when everything else felt like it was spinning.

Then, without warning, the music cut off abruptly.

Her phone rang.

Elara froze, heart skipping in a strange staccato rhythm. She glanced at the screen, squinting through the dim morning light, and saw the name flashing back at her: Damien.

“Um… hello?” she said cautiously, tilting her head and gripping the phone tightly.

“I just wanted to confirm you got home safely,” Damien’s voice chimed through, careful, almost awkward, with a hint of that clipped seriousness he always carried.

Her eyebrows shot up, and a laugh threatened to escape. “The hell, Damien?” she said, shaking her head, though her voice carried a mixture of incredulity and exasperation. “Your house is just… what, ten minutes from mine? Down the road? What do you mean by if I got home safely?” she asked, brows raised, voice incredulous.

“Well,” he began, clearing his throat nervously, “it’s not really… I mean, it’s not like you’re walking into some dangerous alley.

I just wanted to know you were okay,” he said, tone tentative, scratching the back of his neck as if the gesture could somehow make him appear more casual.

“You know, I don’t want any… debt on my head,” he added, voice careful, almost pleading. “And, you were so… so flat… like a broomstick last night, I thought you could’ve been swept away by the wind… or, you know, anything really. I just needed to confirm you were okay,” he said, and she could almost hear the way he had to stop mid-sentence, struggle for words, then start again awkwardly, like someone constantly tripping over their own tongue.

Elara stared at the phone for a second, one hand on her hip, the other tightening around the device, and then she burst out laughing.

The absurdity of it—the thought of herself being “swept away like a broomstick”—made her shoulders shake. She had to place a hand over her mouth to stop herself from snorting.

“Damien, please,” she said, still trying not to laugh too loudly, “just shut up and leave me alone. I’m not in the mood for this today, this morning, or any time in the next… I don’t know… forever. I have work to do, okay?” she asked, raising her eyebrows, voice a mix of exasperation and amusement.

There was a pause on the other end.

“Very well,” he said finally, calm now, as if he had realized he’d overstepped. “Then I’ll… busy seeing you,” he added, scratching his head, his words awkward and slightly mangled, before the call ended with the faint click of the line.

Elara leaned back against her freshly fluffed pillows, a slow grin spreading across her face. Her laughter had dwindled into soft giggles, her chest rising and falling with relief and amusement. She shook her head, muttering to herself under her breath, “

Then, with a final exhale, she returned to her room’s small tasks. She tucked in the edges of the sheets, straightened the pillows once more, and glanced around with a sense of satisfaction. The room was orderly again, her little sanctuary restored.

The faint echo of Damien’s ridiculous concern still lingered, but instead of irritation, it brought a small warmth—a reminder that, in spite of everything, someone cared.

She placed the phone down beside her bed, letting the screen glow faintly, and continued tidying, humming softly along with the music that automatically resumed.