Secret Dating With My Father's Enemy

Death Stare

Elara did not turn back toward him right away.

She remained where she was, standing a few steps away from the couch, her spine stiff, her weight unevenly distributed between her feet as if her body itself had not yet decided whether to flee or fight. Damien’s words hung in the air behind her, heavy and deliberate, and she felt them press against the back of her skull with an almost physical force.

You’re not leaving.

For a moment, she wondered if she had heard him correctly. The idea felt too absurd to process all at once, so her mind resisted it, circling around it instead, testing it from different angles, as if meaning might change if she examined it long enough.

And when she finally turned, she did so slowly.

There was no sudden movement, no dramatic spin. Just a gradual pivot, her shoulders following her head, her gaze lifting last.

Disbelief was written plainly across her face, not exaggerated, not theatrical, but raw and unguarded, the kind that surfaced when someone crossed a line you had never imagined needed defending.

“I don’t understand,” she said, her voice low, controlled, but threaded with an edge she did not bother to soften. “What do you mean by that, Damien?” She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she searched his face. “What exactly do you mean when you say I’m not leaving?”She asked, her brows knitted together.

But Damien did not answer immediately.

Instead, he leaned back against the arm of the couch, shifting his weight as though settling into a more comfortable position. One hand came up to rest casually at his side, the other slipping into his pocket. The movement was unhurried, almost bored, and that, more than anything else, made Elara’s chest tighten.

“Elara,” he said at last, his tone even, measured, stripped of warmth, “I don’t want to hear complaints tonight.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers, calm and unyielding. “You’re staying here and kate is also sleeping over.”

The words landed one by one, deliberate and final.

Her brows drew together, confusion giving way to something sharper, something more alert. “Staying here?” she repeated, incredulous. “Damien, that doesn’t make sense. I only came because you called me. I didn’t plan to—”

She stopped herself midsentence, pressing her lips together as frustration surged up too quickly and when she spoke again, her voice was steadier, but it took effort.

“What am I supposed to tell my mom?” she asked. A short, humorless laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “I sneaked out. I didn’t tell anyone I was coming here.”

But instead of showing any sympathy or pity Damien just shrugged.

It was a small gesture, barely there, but it carried an unmistakable message of disinterest.

“That’s not my problem,” he said simply. “Figure it out any way you can because all I know is that you’re not leaving,”he said.

And the casual way he said it struck harder than any raised voice ever could.

Elara stared at him, her eyes searching for something she could argue with. Anger. Guilt. Even irritation would have been easier to fight. But his face remained composed, almost indifferent, as though the decision had been made long before she ever walked through the door.

“You’re serious,” she said quietly.

“Yes,” he replied, and the tone he said it with showed that the word was final.

And something inside her gave way like a rope finally loosening after being pulled too tight for too long. Her shoulders dropped, just slightly, and she lifted one hand to her temple, rubbing slow circles as if she could physically ease the pressure building behind her eyes.

She exhaled through her nose.

“You know what?” she said, her voice stripped of sharpness now, worn down by exhaustion. “I think this is it. I think I’m tired.” Her hand fell back to her side. “We should just stop this here.”

“Oh?” he said, his tone sharpening by a degree. “So you’re opting out now?” He asked as Elara lifted her gaze at him.

“Because if that’s what you’re doing,” he continued calmly, his voice almost conversational, “then we cancel the deal.” He paused deliberately, letting the next words settle. “And your father goes right back into my father’s hands.”

And immediately the room seemed to contract.

And the air felt thicker,and harder to move through as Elara’s hands came together instinctively in front of her, fingers lacing tightly, knuckles whitening as she squeezed them together.

She drew in a slow, controlled breath, holding it for a second longer than necessary before releasing it.

Her heart was pounding, but she refused to let it show.

For a long moment, she said nothing.

Then, quietly, she voiced out a silent “Fine,” that came with the voice of she had been defeated.

Damien’s brows lifted slightly, almost imperceptibly, but Elara caught it. His lips quivered upward, not into a full smile, but into something close enough to mockery that it made her stomach drop.

It was the kind of expression that said he already knew the answer, that he had anticipated her reaction long before she ever reached it herself.

For a split second, Elara felt as though the floor beneath her feet might actually give way. As though the polished surface of the room might crack open and swallow her whole, saving her from having to stand there under his gaze, from having to respond, from having to admit—if only to herself—that she had no leverage left.

She swallowed hard.

The motion felt thick, difficult, like pushing something solid down her throat. Pride burned at the back of her tongue, bitter and sharp, but she forced it down anyway. She had learned, over the past weeks, that pride was a luxury she could no longer afford.

“I need some time,” she said at last.

Her voice surprised her by how steady it sounded. It did not shake. It did not crack. If anything, it came out flatter than she felt, stripped of emotion by sheer exhaustion.

“I need to talk to my mom.”

Damien did not answer her right away.

Instead, he made a small, careless motion with his hand, waving it once through the air as if brushing away an insect. His body language shifted almost immediately, his attention already drifting elsewhere, the conversation filed away as something resolved.

“You have all the time you want,” he said, already disengaging.

That was it. No reassurance. No acknowledgment of what this cost her. Just permission, granted as though it were generosity rather than control.

Elara did not respond.

She turned away from him without another word, the movement slow and deliberate, as though she were afraid that any sudden motion might crack the fragile restraint holding her together. Her fingers slipped into the pocket of her jacket, closing around her phone.