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,