His Enemy’s Daughter

Amelia stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the skyline of Manhattan stretched before her like a glittering dream. But she wasn't really looking.

Her thoughts were tangled. Messy. Dangerous.

Ever since that conversation she'd overheard, nothing felt stable anymore. Not the job. Not her surroundings. Certainly not her boss.

And yet… here she was.

Still standing in his office, long after their supposed meeting had ended. He hadn't asked her to leave. She hadn't made herself.

She could feel him watching her.

Liam Blackthorne didn't do anything by accident. Every movement, every pause, every word—carefully measured. Deliberate. Controlled.

But when his gaze lingered on her like it was doing now, she couldn't help wondering if some things were… unscripted.

"You don't like being watched," he said suddenly.

Amelia turned slowly. He stood behind his desk, hands in his pockets, jacket unbuttoned. The top button of his shirt was undone, exposing just enough to make her heart skip. Just enough to make her thoughts misfire.

She swallowed. "I'm used to it."

His brow lifted, almost amused. "From whom?"

She didn't answer. Because the truth was—she wasn't used to anything like this.

Not like the way he watched her.

"Why am I really here, Mr. Blackthorne?" she asked, her voice low. Steadier than she felt.

His smile was slow. Dangerous. "You're here because you intrigue me."

Her breath caught.

She hated how her pulse reacted. Hated the warm flush rising to her cheeks. He was her boss. A man clearly playing some larger, darker game. And yet his words settled under her skin like a whisper she didn't want to forget.

"You don't know me," she said, forcing a dry smile.

"I disagree."

He came closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough to steal the air between them.

"I know you were valedictorian in college. That you finished your MBA a year early. That you're calm under pressure, but you tap your thumb twice when you're nervous."

She blinked.

How the hell did he—

"I know you drink your coffee black," he continued, stepping even closer, "but sweeten your tea. You hesitate before every 'yes,' but you never apologize for a 'no.'"

Amelia's breath turned shallow.

His voice dropped.

"And I know you don't trust me. Yet."

"Yet?" she echoed, her voice barely audible.

He smiled again. This time, it was something darker. A challenge.

A promise.

Then he turned away, just like that. Dismissive. Like she hadn't just forgotten how to breathe.

"You'll find a new set of folders on your desk by morning," he said, already walking back to his desk. "And you'll be reporting directly to me from now on. I assume you won't object?"

Amelia forced her heart to calm. "No."

He glanced at her over his shoulder. "Good. I like employees who aren't afraid of risk."

She left before he could say more—before she could fall deeper into whatever spell he was casting.

But once outside his office, she didn't return to her desk right away. She stepped into the ladies' room and locked herself in a stall.

Her hands were shaking.

God, what was happening to her?

She didn't want to be drawn to him. He was manipulative. Calculated. And there was something twisted hiding behind that sculpted exterior.

And still…

Still, she couldn't stop thinking about the way he looked at her. As if she were the only thing in the room worth noticing. As if he saw through her and liked what he saw.

It had been so long since anyone looked at her like that.

Too long.

That night, Amelia couldn't sleep.

She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of her tiny apartment, her thoughts running in maddening circles.

She should be angry. Suspicious. Frightened, even.

Instead, her body burned with something she didn't understand.

Curiosity.

Longing.

It wasn't just attraction. It wasn't just his face—or that voice, or the way he always seemed to know what she was about to say.

It was him.

There was a gravity to Liam Blackthorne.

And she was getting pulled in.

She turned to her side, clutching the pillow tighter.

What if this was part of it?

What if that gaze, that interest, the strange chemistry pulsing between them—what if it was all part of his manipulation?

He'd said she intrigued him.

But maybe he just liked watching her fall.

The next morning, she arrived early.

Earlier than anyone else.

She needed time to clear her head. To put walls back up where they'd started to crack.

But when she reached her desk, she found a box waiting for her.

Her name was printed in silver on the lid.

Inside, there was a sleek new laptop. Company-issued. Along with a black folder embossed with the Blackthorne crest. Inside the folder: detailed files, acquisition reports, and handwritten notes—his notes—in the margins.

There was also a sealed envelope.

She hesitated.

Then opened it.

Inside, a single line in Liam's tight, elegant handwriting:

"For those who aren't afraid of risk. —L"

Her stomach flipped.

Why was this man in her head?

Why did this feel like the beginning of something she couldn't control?

The days that followed blurred.

Amelia worked directly with Liam now—on meetings, briefings, late-night reviews of confidential data. Sometimes she was the only one in the room with him.

And each time, the tension between them grew.

Unspoken.

Unresolved.

But undeniable.

Sometimes, she caught him watching her. Not in that cold, analytical way. In a way that made her wonder what he was thinking. What he wanted.

Sometimes, she found herself watching him too.

The way his sleeves rolled up when he worked late. The sharp lines of his jaw when he was angry. The flash of something wounded in his eyes when no one else was around.

He was magnetic.

He was dangerous.

And she was falling anyway.

One evening, just after eight, she passed his office on her way out.

The light was still on.

She paused.

Then knocked lightly.

"Come in," came the familiar voice.

She stepped inside.

Liam sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled, tie loosened. He looked tired. But there was still that same fire behind his eyes.

"Forgot your coat?" he asked.

"No," she said. "I just… wanted to thank you."

He tilted his head.

"For what?"

"For trusting me."

A pause.

His eyes darkened.

"I don't trust easily, Amelia."

She smiled softly. "Neither do I."

He stood, came around the desk again.

Closer.

Her pulse quickened.

The space between them thinned—seconds from vanishing.

"Then maybe," he said, his voice a low murmur, "we understand each other better than I thought."

She couldn't move. Couldn't speak.

And when his fingers brushed lightly against hers—barely touching—she didn't pull away.

Didn't want to.

Something passed between them in that instant.

Something electric.

Something neither of them dared name yet.