Owned By My Father's Enemy
Adaline Whitmore becomes the price for her father's betrayal when she is forced to live under the roof of the ruthless billionaire Ronan Frost, the man who lost everything because of her family.
But neither of them knows one truth. She is the same girl who once saved him years ago.
As everything begins to change and secrets come to light, the line between punishment and desire fades. Now Ronan must choose between his need for revenge and the woman quietly stealing his heart.
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Chapter 1
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.
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8.4
Twenty-four-year-old Rain Hart has fought to be seen all her life. Getting admitted into the prestigious Katherine Knight Fashion Academy with nothing but talent was a sign to her that things were finally falling into place in her life... until she encountered Adrian Knight, the billionaire CEO. She never planned to fall for the most dangerous man in it.
Adrian Knight is power, control, and temptation wrapped in a suit, and completely off-limits. He is everything Rain should avoid: married, connected to the Academy. But stolen glances turn into secret meetings, and before Rain can stop herself, she's trapped in an affair that could destroy them both.
Because Adrian doesn't belong to her. He belongs to a world built on dominance, legacy... and ruthless women who don't lose. When their secret explodes, it doesn't just trend...
It detonates. The headlines are merciless. The academy turns toxic. Jealous rivals circle like vultures. Then a blackmailer ends up dead. Adrian is arrested for murder. And Rain becomes the girl everyone loves to hate.
But the scandal isn't the most dangerous thing lurking in the shadows.
It's the truth.
A truth so devastating it shatters everything Rain thought she knew about love, loyalty... and herself.
Now pregnant, hunted by the press, betrayed by the powerful, and drowning in a world where trust is a weapon... Rain runs.
But in the Knight empire, power doesn't forgive. Jealousy doesn't forget. Survival comes at a price. And some secrets?
They should never be uncovered.
9.6
To escape my sister-in-law selling me off to a local thug, I married a complete stranger I met at City Hall.
My new husband, Drake, claimed to be a broke Uber driver who could barely make rent.
He even made me sign a brutal ten-page prenup just to ensure I wouldn't take his rusted, beat-up Ford sedan if we ever divorced.
I thought I was just sharing a decaying Brooklyn apartment with a struggling man at the bottom of the ladder.
But things quickly stopped making sense.
When that local thug cornered me at a restaurant, my "weak" husband didn't cower.
Instead, he dismantled three massive mobsters in ten seconds with the terrifying, fluid speed of an apex predator.
"I used to be a human punching bag in an underground boxing gym to pay off debts."
I believed his excuse, until his supposedly homeless grandfather showed up at our door in a moth-eaten sweater, begging to sleep on our lumpy sofa.
Before going to sleep, the old man casually pressed a heavy, intricately engraved pocket watch into my hand as a wedding gift.
He claimed it was a cheap flea market find that didn't even keep time.
But the sheer weight of the solid rose gold and the flawless mechanical gears inside screamed otherwise.
Why did a destitute driver have the aura of a man who controlled empires?
And what kind of homeless old man casually hands over a priceless, museum-grade antique?
I had no idea the "broke driver" sleeping on my floor was actually a ruthless billionaire CEO, and I had just walked straight into his trap.
8.6
As the eldest daughter of the Sharp family, I was treated worse than a stray dog, while my younger sister Seraphina was their precious princess.
When the family needed someone to marry a dying billionaire heir, they naturally chose me to take her place.
To force my consent, my brothers held a peanut butter sandwich to my face—knowing it was a lethal allergy—while dangling my EpiPen just out of reach.
On speakerphone, my own mother sighed in annoyance.
"Let her die. It might be for the best."
I choked out an agreement just as my throat closed up. But the forced engagement broke my sacred mystical vow, causing me to violently cough up my own lifeblood.
Seeing the blood, Seraphina dramatically fainted. My brothers instantly carried her to the hospital, stepping over my dying body and leaving me to bleed out on the cold marble floor.
I had to use a forbidden blood rune, draining my last ounce of strength, just to survive the night.
Even the mystical Order I served offered no comfort, calling only to demand I secure ten billion dollars for them or forfeit my soul for eternity.
Abandoned by my blood family and my spiritual master, I was completely alone, left with nothing but a broken body and a ticking clock.
But they made one fatal mistake: they let me live.
I turned to the dying heir they forced me to marry, a man plagued by a dark curse only I could cure.
"I will be your wife, and I will save your life," I told him.
In exchange, I would use his unimaginable wealth and power to make everyone who threw me away pay the ultimate price.
7.9
In my past life, I was the naive surrogate who fell desperately in love with Karson King, an untouchable Wall Street billionaire.
I thought my blind devotion would earn me a place in his family. Instead, his cruel mother forced me to sign away my parental rights to my three-year-old daughter.
I was locked in a dark, freezing basement. I watched helplessly as his arrogant relatives tormented my child, pushing her down a flight of marble stairs and shattering her tiny arm.
When we finally died in a horrific car crash, my face covered in blood amidst the shattered glass, Karson didn't shed a single tear. To him, my death was just the convenient erasure of a cheap mistake.
I sacrificed my dignity for his approval, but they treated us worse than stray dogs. Why did my innocent daughter have to pay the ultimate price for their ruthless arrogance?
Opening my eyes again, the harsh glare of a massive crystal chandelier pierced my vision. I was back in the grand foyer of the King estate, exactly five years ago.
"Sign it. You are nothing but a gold digger."
My soon-to-be mother-in-law slammed the thick legal contract onto the marble table, demanding I give up my daughter.
This time, the paralyzing fear evaporated, replaced by absolute, icy clarity.
I didn't cower. I picked up the pen, looked right at the billionaire who despised me, and prepared to manipulate his entire empire.
8.7
I died in the terrifying plunge of Flight 815. But when I opened my eyes, I was lying in a luxurious bathtub, completely unharmed.
The door opened, and my husband Jordi walked in—looking fifteen years older, his eyes glacial. He pinned me to the wall, his thumb pressing against my windpipe, demanding to know who hired me to play his dead wife.
I managed to prove I was the real Isadora, biologically still twenty-eight years old. But my nightmare had just begun.
My twenty-three-year-old son Hector looked at my unaged face with pure hatred.
"Get this cheap replica out of my father's house, or I'll have him declared incompetent!"
My twenty-year-old daughter Blossom, now a spoiled stranger treating Jordi like a personal ATM, screamed at me over the phone.
Even Jordi's ambitious female colleague showed up at our estate, treating me like a temporary toy she could easily replace.
In the space of a single breath, I had lost fifteen years. My children had grown up without me, learning to hate instead of grieve. Now, they looked at their real mother as if I were a monster trying to steal my own inheritance.
But I didn't return from the dead just to be pushed out.
I put on my old green silk dress, stepped in front of the female executive, and smiled.
If they want to treat me like a threat, I'll fight them all to get my family back.
7.1
I sat in the emergency room corridor, pressing a soaked bandage against my heavily bleeding arm. I had texted my husband of three years, billionaire Efford Thornton, begging him to come.
He did come, but he walked right past me as if I were a piece of furniture. When the doctor finally brought the last bag of O-negative blood in the city to save my life, Efford's assistant intercepted it.
Efford coldly ordered the blood to be sent to the VIP wing for Aletha Chase.
"Mrs. Chase is pregnant with the Thornton heir," he declared flatly. "The priority is non-negotiable."
As I watched my life-saving blood being carried away, he handed me a divorce agreement and an NDA. If I dared to expose his affair, he would immediately cut off the funding for my grandmother's dementia care, leaving her to rot in a public ward. He then turned his back, leaving me to bleed out in the hallway.
For three years, I had given up my career and my identity to be his perfect, compliant wife. I couldn't understand how the man who once looked at me like I was his whole world could now literally watch me die just to protect his mistress.
But he forgot one thing. The submissive wife he married was just a ghost. I wiped the blood from my hands, dug out the leather half-mask I had hidden away years ago, and made a call.
It was time for the legendary runway model "Phoenix" to rise from the ashes and burn his empire to the ground.