Falling for my enemy's heart

Chapter 1. The Contract That Broke My Heart. The first time Daniel Carter broke my heart, I was seven years old and he stole my ice cream at the county fair. The second time, I was seventeen, and he told the entire school that I wrote love poems about him in my diary — poems that he had stolen from my bag and read out loud at the lunch table. The third time... well. The third time hasn't happened yet. But it will. Because tomorrow morning at 9 a.m., I am walking into Carter & Sons Publishing to sign a contract — with him . "Amara, please tell me you're joking." My best friend Lola stared at me across our tiny kitchen table, her spoon frozen halfway to her mouth. Breakfast was supposed to be a celebration. Pastries, coffee, the works. Instead, I had just detonated a bomb in the middle of it. "I'm not joking," I said, pushing the offer letter across the table. "Three-book deal. Full editorial support. A cover feature in their summer catalog. Lola, do you know what this means? My grandmother's dream — my dream — is finally—" "Amara." Lola's voice dropped, the way it does when she's about to say something she knows will hurt. "Daniel Carter is the editorial director of Carter & Sons now. His father retired in June. It's his company." I stopped breathing. No. No, that was impossible. Daniel was in London. Daniel was supposed to be in London for another two years — building his career, ruining someone else's life on another continent. "You're thinking of the wrong Carter," I said weakly. "I'm thinking of the man who posted a photo last week standing in front of a Carter & Sons office with the caption 'Back where I belong.' The same man whose family owns the biggest romance publishing house in the country. The same man who—" "Stole my ice cream when I was seven," I whispered. "—told everyone you loved him when you were seventeen," Lola finished gently. I sank back in my chair. Three years of rejection letters. Three years of "we love your voice but it's not the right fit." And now, the one publisher willing to take a chance on me... belonged to the boy who had spent his entire childhood making my life miserable. The boy I had — until this very moment — convinced myself I had completely forgotten. "Then I turn it down," I said. "Simple." Lola raised one eyebrow. "With that advance? Amara, that advance would pay off your grandmother's medical bills. All of them." My grandmother. Mama Rose, who raised me on secondhand romances and bedtime stories, who was currently lying in a hospital bed across town while bills stacked up on my kitchen counter like a second, crueler wall. My grandmother, who once told me: "The best love stories, my darling, are the ones that start with two people who can't stand each other. That's how you know it's real. Hate is just love that got lost on the way." I stared at the offer letter. At the signature line, waiting for my name. And then my phone buzzed. An email. Unknown number. The preview text showed only one line: "Miss Bennett — congratulations on the offer. See you tomorrow at 9. Try not to be late this time. You were late to our wedding when we were eight. — D.C." I stared at the screen, my heart hammering so loud I was sure Lola could hear it. We had never been married. We had never even been friends . So why did my hands shake as I typed my reply? And why — God help me — was I already smiling? Tomorrow at 9 a.m., Amara Bennett walks into Carter & Sons Publishing to sign the deal of her life. She doesn't know it yet, but Daniel Carter didn't just accept her manuscript. He requested it. Three years ago. He's been waiting for her. 🌹 End of Chapter One chapter 2. The Man Behind the Desk I arrived at Carter & Sons at 8:47 a.m. — thirteen minutes early, because I would rather die than give Daniel Carter the satisfaction of calling me late twice in one lifetime. The building was exactly what I expected: tall, glass, expensive. The kind of place that smelled like old money and fresh ambition. The receptionist smiled at me with perfectly polished teeth. "Miss Bennett? Mr. Carter is expecting you. Twenty-first floor." Mr. Carter. The title slid down my spine like ice water. The boy who used frogs to terrorize me at recess now had a title. The elevator doors opened, and I stepped out onto the twenty-first floor into an office so large it could have housed my entire apartment building. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Books everywhere — real ones, not decorative props. And at the far end, behind a desk of dark wood, stood a man with his back to me, looking out over the city. He didn't turn around. "You're thirteen minutes early," he said. "I'm impressed. You were never on time for anything." "I've changed." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "People do that, you know. In twelve years." He turned around. And here's the thing no one warns you about: the boys who broke your heart at seventeen have a cruel habit of growing into men who could break it again without even trying. Daniel Carter was tall. Taller than I remembered. His dark hair was shorter now, neat, professional — but his eyes were the same. Green. Sharp. The kind of eyes that had always looked at me like he could see straight through every lie I told. Including the biggest one: that I had ever stopped thinking about him. "Amara Bennett," he said, and my name in his mouth sounded like a sentence he had been waiting twelve years to say. "Sit down." "Good to see you too, Daniel." "Mr. Carter," he corrected, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. "In this building, we keep things professional." Professional. He wanted professional . I sat, crossed my legs, and lifted my chin. "Fine. Mr. Carter. Let's talk about my book." For the next forty minutes, he did something that stunned me: he took my manuscript apart. Not cruelly — precisely. He asked about my protagonist's motivation in chapter nine. He quoted lines from my book — lines from my book — and asked why I chose those words and not others. He understood my story better than I did, better than my own editor-brain did, and somewhere around minute twenty-five, I forgot to hate him. Which was dangerous. "There's a problem, though," he said finally, leaning back in his chair. "There always is with you, isn't there?" His mouth twitched — almost a smile. Almost. "Your book ends on a cliffhanger. Book one o