Owned By My Father's Enemy

Ronan's residence sat high above the city, a structure built from wealth, silence and control. The night clung to the glass walls like a shadow, while the interior glowed faintly under warm recessed lighting that did nothing to soften the coldness of the space.

The living room stretched wide with polished black marble floors that reflected every light like water. A crystal chandelier hung above like frozen fire, scattering fragmented light across the room. The furniture was expensive but uninviting, dark leather sofas, steel framed tables, abstract paintings that spoke more of power than emotion. There were no family photos anywhere. No warmth. No life. Only precision. Only dominance.

Ronan stood near the glass wall that overlooked the city skyline. A glass of whiskey rested loosely in his hand while his other hand remained tucked inside his pocket. His expression was unreadable, carved from something colder than anger.

Behind him stood a man, the investigator, shifting uncomfortably as though the air itself pressed against him.

Ronan did not turn.

"Talk," he said.

The investigator straightened immediately.

"Sir, about Nicholas Whitmore."

Ronan's fingers paused slightly around his glass but he still did not look back.

"He is dead," the investigator said carefully.

Ronan turned slowly at that, his eyes narrowing.

"Dead?"

"Yes, sir. But it was not made public, hence nobody knew".

Ronan set his glass down with slow precision.

"Explain."

The investigator swallowed before continuing.

"His death was hidden. No public announcement, no obituary. Even the burial was done in secrecy. Only a very small circle knew."

Silence settled heavily in the room. Ronan stared at him for a long moment before speaking.

"So the man who destroyed my family dies and the world pretends he never existed."

The investigator hesitated. "Yes, sir."

Ronan's jaw tightened.

"That does not sound like death. That sounds like someone cleaning up a mess."

The investigator nodded quickly. "There is more. No one knows how he actually died. The hospital record was sealed almost immediately after the report."

Ronan exhaled slowly, his gaze turning distant for a moment as something sharp flickered through his expression.

"If someone got to him before I did," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else, "then I want to know who."

He turned away from the glass wall and walked a few steps forward, the weight of his thoughts filling the space.

"And the family?" he asked.

The investigator opened the file in his hands.

"His wife is alive. She currently lives in the Whitmore villa. He also has two daughters. One is his biological daughter and the other is from his wife's previous relationship."

Ronan's hand slowly curled into a fist.

"They still live comfortably," he said in a low voice.

"Yes, sir."

A dangerous silence followed. Ronan reached for his phone without looking at the man.

"Inform the men," he said calmly. "We move tomorrow morning."

"Yes, sir."

The investigator left quickly, almost relieved to escape the pressure in the room. When the door closed, Ronan remained still. His eyes darkened as he stared into nothing.

"Nicholas Whitmore," he said under his breath.

"You do not get to die and escape what you did."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE WHITMORE'S VILLA

Morning arrived at the Whitmore villa with a false sense of normalcy. The house was large and elegant, but it no longer felt like a home. It felt like a place that had forgotten how to breathe.

Adaline Whitmore stood in the dining area arranging plates on the table. Not because she wanted to, but because it was expected of her. The maids no longer treated her like family. After her father's death, she had become something between a burden and a servant.

Behind her, footsteps echoed down the stairs.

Mrs Whitmore entered first, followed by Elsie.

Elsie sat down immediately and glanced at the breakfast with irritation.

Adaline placed a cup of coffee in front of her carefully. Elsie took a sip and immediately spat it out.

"What is this?" Elsie shouted, slamming the cup down. "Are you trying to kill me?"

Adaline blinked in confusion.

"I made it exactly how you like it," she said softly.

Elsie stood up, grabbed the cup and poured the remaining coffee over Adaline.

"Make another one," she said coldly. "If you don't want to go hungry today."

Adaline lowered her head quickly, her hands trembling.

"Yes," she whispered.

She turned toward the kitchen but stopped when the front doors suddenly burst open. A loud crash echoed through the villa. Everyone froze. Men entered. Armed. Dressed in black tactical gear.

The servants immediately bowed their heads in fear. The atmosphere changed instantly from tension to terror. Elsie stepped back toward her mother.

"What is happening?" she whispered.

Mrs Whitmore did not answer. Then Ronan walked in. Everything about him silenced the room without effort.Tall. Controlled. Dangerous.

He did not rush. He did not look around in surprise. He walked in like someone who already owned the place.

Adaline froze the moment she saw him. Something inside her tightened. When his eyes swept across the room, they stopped briefly on her. Adaline quickly lowered her head. Ronan moved forward and sat at the head of the dining table as though it belonged to him. He looked at Mrs Whitmore.

"Do you know me?" he asked.

Mrs Whitmore frowned.

"No. I do not."

Ronan gave a short, cold laugh.

"I know your husband is dead," he said.

The words landed heavily. Mrs Whitmore stiffened.

"Yes," she replied carefully.

"Whatever problems you had with him, has died with him," she added quickly.

Ronan tilted his head slightly.

"That is not how it works."

His voice hardened.

"Who killed him?"

Mrs Whitmore shook her head.

"I don't know."

Her voice rose slightly in panic.

"We only received a call from the hospital. He was dead. That was all."

She hesitated before continuing.

"We kept it quiet. It would have destroyed the company image. The stock value would have fallen."

Ronan listened without emotion. When she finished, he spoke again.

"I do not care how he died," he said.

His voice dropped lower.

"I only care that he did."

A pause.

"Who killed him?"

"I told you, I don't know," she insisted.

Elsie suddenly spoke.

"Why don't you take your revenge elsewhere? We did nothing to you."

Ronan looked at her sharply and Elsie shivered immediately, hiding behind her mother in fear.

Mrs Whitmore knew she had to do something as Ronan's attention is on her daughter. Then she pointed at Adaline.

"She is his daughter. Take her. She carries his blood. You can do whatever you want to do with her".

Adaline froze. Slowly, she turned her head toward her stepmother in disbelief.

"Now you remember I am his daughter?" she whispered, her voice shaking.

Ronan glanced at her. His daughter. She carries the true blood of him. Killing her would feel right, it would make everything better. He has been plotting for his revenge after that night and he would make sure he pays, starting from his own flesh and blood.

He then walked toward her slowly. Each step felt heavier than the last. Adaline tried to move back but could not. Her feet was stuck, her legs felt weak, like she could fall any moment from now. When he reached her, he lifted her chin. She flinched immediately.

"Please," she whispered, tears forming in her eyes. "I did nothing wrong."

Ronan studied her for a moment.Then he released her chin, making Adaline to fall down in fear. He stepped back.

Mrs Whitmore watched him carefully, her fear growing. She wanted to know what he was thinking, what he would do next but no one could predict his moves. Ronan turned slightly towards Mrs whitmore.

"I will give you twenty four hours," he said.

A pause.

"Use it well."

Mrs Whitmore nodded quickly.

"Yes. Yes, I will make sure she does not leave this house."

Ronan looked at her once more. Cold and final.

"This is only the beginning," he said.

Then he turned and walked out without looking back. The men followed him immediately. The doors shut. Silence swallowed the room.

Adaline stood frozen in the middle of it all.

Twenty four hours. The words echoed in her mind repeatedly.

What happens after twenty four hours?

Her body trembled slightly.

Was he going to kill her?

Or something worse?.

Her chest tightened.

Because no one knows what Ronan Frost has in mind.