Owned By My Father's Enemy

CHAPTER SIX

Camilla stormed into Ronan's office, slamming the door behind her with a force that made the polished wood shiver. Papers fluttered, but she ignored them. Her eyes blazed, scanning the room until they landed on him.

Ronan didn't move. He remained seated behind his massive mahogany desk, fingers steepled, eyes calm and unreadable. The air around him seemed to absorb her anger rather than react to it.

"Explain!" she demanded, her voice sharp, almost trembling with rage. "How could you bring her into your wing? How could you allow that filthy girl....."

He raised a hand, stopping her mid-rant. His tone was smooth, quiet, but every word carried the weight of command.

"She is there because I allowed it," he said, voice controlled, almost casual. "Her presence is not for your approval."

Camilla's jaw tightened. "Not for my approval?" she spat. "Do you realize how audacious this is? She doesn't even belong in the private wing, why there, of all places in your mansion? Why now?"

Ronan leaned back slightly, observing her like one might study a storm contained within a glass. "You're upset," he noted, almost curiously. "Good. I like my people to care about their positions. It shows loyalty. But you forget yourself, Camilla. Your fury is yours to manage. My decisions are not negotiable."

Her hands trembled, but she gritted her teeth, forcing herself to take a step back. She could almost feel the power in the room pressing down on her, heavier than any anger. To lash out here, in front of him, would put her firmly in the wrong.

"And yet," she said, forcing her voice to remain steady, "you've brought her close. Closer than I've ever been. She, she is nothing. She's......"

"Silence," Ronan interrupted, the single word cold, absolute. She froze immediately, feeling the command sink into her chest like ice. "Do not speak unless I ask you to. You may stay, or you may leave. Your choice."

Camilla's hands dropped to her sides. The fire in her chest still burned, but it was tempered now by fear. She took a slow, shuddering breath, realizing she could not afford to challenge him, not yet. Not in this office. Not in any room he occupied.

With a stiff nod, she turned sharply and stormed from the office, her heels echoing against the floor. Her fury had not diminished, it had only sharpened, burning hotter, waiting for the right moment. But she would bide her time. She would wait. And when the opportunity came, she would ensure that the newest slave would never feel safe in his wing or near him.

For now, Camilla retreated into the hall, plotting silently, her rage a coiled force ready to strike, but controlled, measured, and patient.

After Camilla walked out, the office fell silent.

Ronan remained where he was for a moment, jaw tight, fingers still resting on the edge of his desk. He disliked being questioned. Disliked it intensely. And Camilla of all people should have known better.

She would remember this mistake.

He stood and crossed the room, stopping by the tall windows that overlooked the compound. From here, everything looked orderly. Controlled. Exactly as it should be.

Keeping the girl there was not a whim. It was intentional.

Adaline was a reminder. A living, breathing one. Her presence in his private wing was meant to keep the past close, to keep his anger sharp, his purpose intact. Revenge required fuel, and he refused to let his rage dull with time.

Yet the thought irritated him.

Why hadn't he gone home last night?

The question surfaced uninvited, and his expression darkened. He dismissed it immediately. Work had kept him away. Meetings, documents, decisions that could not wait.

That was all.

And yet

Unwanted images followed.

Her eyes.

Calm, despite fear. Too steady. Too aware. There had been something in them when he'd first seen her, something that had unsettled him for a fraction of a second, a brief shift in his chest he had no patience for.

Ronan straightened, irritation flaring.

Ridiculous.

He remembered her as she had appeared that first night, small, fragile, standing as though one wrong move might send her to the ground. She had looked breakable. Like pressure alone could undo her.

And it meant nothing.

None of it mattered.

Her fear, her eyes, her presence, none of it was his concern beyond what she represented. She was here to serve a purpose, nothing more.

Ronan turned away from the window, his face hardening once again.

He would not allow distraction.

Revenge did not require mercy. And he had not brought her into his house to question himself.

Ronan returned to the mansion as evening settled in.The front door closed behind him with a decisive this as he stepped into the house, shrugging off his coat and setting his bag down without a word. The house adjusted to his presence instantly, the lights shifting, servants retreating, silence falling into his place. He moved straight to his study. The door opened. Closed then opened again. Mrs Margareta entered inside, heads bowed and gently waiting for instructions.

"Call her", Ronan said, his voice calm but absolute. "Then retire for the night".

Mrs Margareta inclined her head. She did not ask questions.

"Yes sir".

He turned back to removing his clothes, while the door closed behind him.

Moments later, footsteps hurried down the corridor.

Adaline Came rushing out of her room, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She barely registered the child beneath her feet as she moved,her hands lifting instinctively to gather her hair. She tied it into a ponytail halfway down the hall, fingers fumbling, breath uneven. She stopped herself just before the study door, forcing her breathing to steady

She straightened her dress, lowered her gaze and knocked softly.

"Enter", Ronan said.

She stepped inside. He stood with his back to her, loose I his cuffs, unhurried, in control. The silence stretched, deliberate, punishing.

Adaline waited where she stood, hands clasped in front of her, eyes fixed on the floor. Her pulse thundered in her eyes.

Ronan turned slowly. His gaze found her immediately, taking in the rushed ponytail.

"Raise your head," Ronan said.

She obeyed.

Their eyes met, again. The third time.

Something passed through her instantly. A visible shiver. She looked away, breath hitching, and Ronan felt his jaw tighten. He stepped closer.

She retreated instinctively. One step. Then another.

Until her back met the wall.

There was nowhere left to go.

Ronan closed the remaining distance in silence, his presence pressing into her space, suffocating. He reached out and caught her chin, his grip firm, unyielding, forcing her face upward.

"Look at me," he demanded.

Her fear was immediate. Raw. It poured off her in waves, her body stiff, her breath shallow, eyes wide with terror so intense it nearly broke her composure. He saw it, saw how close she was to losing control completely.

Good.

Rage burned hot in his chest, sharp and familiar. This, this fear was what he'd brought her here for. A reminder. A mirror of the past. A weapon against his own weakness.

He released her abruptly, stepping back as if she were nothing more than air.

"Go," he said coldly. "Make coffee."

She didn't hesitate. Didn't speak. She turned and fled, obedience driving her faster than fear.

Ronan watched her go, his expression dark, his chest tight with fury he refused to name.

She was doing exactly what she was meant to do.