All Chapters of The Man I Swore to Hate: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

He didn’t respond immediately, and for a moment, I thought I had struck a nerve. But then he smirked, a slow, knowing smile that made my stomach twist. "You’ve always been stubborn, Carmen," he said, his tone almost amused. "But I’m not going anywhere this time. So if you want to boss me around, go ahead. I’ll play along—for now."His words caught me off guard, and I felt a flicker of unease. Was he really going to let me have my way? Or was this just another one of his games? I couldn’t tell, and that uncertainty only made me more determined to push him to his limits."Fine," I said, lifting my chin defiantly. "If you’re so eager to prove yourself, then start by making yourself useful. I want a hot bath drawn, fresh towels laid out, and my favorite tea waiting for me when I’m done. And don’t even think about cutting corners—I’ll know if you do."He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by my demands, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he gave me a mock salute and turned to leave the room. "Yo

He turned toward the door, pausing just long enough to deliver his parting shot. "The car leaves at dawn. Be ready." I waited until his footsteps faded down the hall before sagging against the desk. Outside, the first raindrops began to fall, their rhythmic patter against the windows the only sound in the suddenly too-quiet room. I looked down at my still-tingling wrist, then at the security feeds showing the estate's perimeter. By the time the rain turned from a steady rhythm to a violent drumbeat, I’d sent the message. Encrypted. Untraceable. Final. I leaned back in my chair, the keys still warm beneath my fingers, as if they retained some echo of the decision I’d just made. The words were gone now, swallowed by the network, racing toward someone who knew exactly what to do with them. If the response came—and it *would*—everything would shift. I rose and crossed to the window. The downpour had turned the world into a blur, shadows and lights bleeding into each other. The estate

I wanted to slap him, curse him, scream—but all I could do was clutch the towel tighter around my body and pretend I didn’t feel the way his arms steadied me.He guided me on the long couch in the sitting room, then left without a word. The sound of his footsteps faded down the hall. I sat, dripping saltwater and shame onto the velvet cushion, staring blankly at the flickering shadows on the walls.Then the footsteps returned. He held out a steaming cup of ginger tea. I didn’t thank him. I took it anyway.“Get the line open to my father,” I muttered.I stiffened. “Now? You need to warm up first.”“I wanted this,” I said, expression hard. “And you told me we’d call him.”I hated how my heart jumped at the thought. For all my complaints, for all the ways I raged at being trapped on this island... I hadn’t spoken to my father in weeks. Months, maybe. Not since he’d hidden me away like some dirty family secret.Perion placed the satellite phone in front of me. “It’s secure. He’s expecting

The walls in this house have never felt so narrow. Not even when I was a teenager sneaking in after midnight, smelling like liquor and cigarette smoke I didn’t even enjoy. Not even then.Now, the silence wraps around me like a noose. I sit on the edge of the piano bench in the salon, legs crossed, back straight—because posture is power in this house, and I need every ounce I can fake.I hear him before I see him. Deliberate steps. Heavy. Not rushed. My father never rushes. He enters the room like a storm pretending to be a man.“Do you realize what you’ve done?” His voice cuts through the air like a blade. No greeting. No pretense.I raise an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance. “Which part? The fight? Or the fact that the video went viral in less than an hour?”He slams the folder he’s holding onto the piano beside me. Clips. Stills. Screenshots. My face, mid-swing. Blood on my knuckles. One of the girls from the lounge slumped over a broken chair.“You made a spectacle of yourself,” he gr

Ava’s cousin worked part-time at the Mastrandrea family ranch—one of those sprawling countryside estates where the air smelled of money and horse sweat. According to her, Romero and a few friends had driven up that morning. Monica was with them, obviously. So we dressed the part. Riding boots, tight jodhpurs, linen shirts. Even Belle wore pearls like we were here to sip tea instead of stalk someone else's Saturday plans.“There they are,” Ava whispered, nudging me with her elbow as we crouched behind a hedge overlooking the white-fenced paddocks.Romero looked every bit the aristocratic equestrian: black pants, navy riding shirt, gloves tucked into his waistband, hair slightly wind-tousled. He was adjusting a saddle while Monica, God help us all, giggled beside him, struggling to mount her horse like she’d never seen one before.“What a bitch,” Belle muttered. “Someone get her a fainting couch.”I stood. “I’m riding.”They stared at me. Moments later, I was striding toward the stable