Forced love: A billionaire Mafia enemies to lovers story

Claire's POV:

The house was way too quiet. The kind of quiet that felt loud in my ears, buzzing under my skin like a warning. Dad was home. And he was drunk again.

I tiptoed down the hallway, knowing the exact spots to avoid so the floor wouldn't creak. I'd learned that over the years-the art of moving silently in my own house. The clock on the wall said I was already late for work, but who cared? I had bigger problems.

I spotted the empty bottle first. Lying on its side, like a clue that something had gone wrong. My stomach twisted as my eyes landed on the shattered glass next to it. Great. Another mess, another reminder of last night's chaos.

I bent down to pick up the larger shards, careful not to cut myself. Cleaning up after him had become part of my morning routine-like brushing my teeth or grabbing my backpack. Except, instead of toothpaste, I got broken glass and spilled beer.

My hands shook as I grabbed the broom. Each swipe of the bristles on the floor echoed in the silence, making the house feel even emptier. I hated this. The constant fear. The pretending. How I had to make sure no one knew the truth because people wouldn't get it. They'd never understand.

I could still remember when he wasn't like this-back when I was younger and he actually smiled. But those days felt like a different lifetime. Now it was just me and him, the drunk version, who never smiled, never laughed. Just yelled, broke things, and passed out.

A groan from down the hall made my heart leap to my throat. Crap. He was awake.

I glanced at the clock again. I still had time. If I moved fast enough, I could get out before-

"Claire."

Too late. I froze, the door handle cool in my grip. My pulse thudded in my ears, drowning out everything else. His voice was rough, the kind of rough that came from too many late nights and too many beers. I didn't turn around, hoping if I stayed still long enough, he'd just let me go.

"I love you, you know that, right?" His words were slurred, barely coherent.

I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the wave of emotions threatening to drown me. He always said this-only after a few too many beers, when he could barely stand. Like the words meant something when he was this far gone.

I should say something. I should turn around, face him, and tell him how much I needed him to actually mean it. Sober. But what was the point? We'd been through this too many times, and I was too tired to fight today.

My hand tightened on the door handle as I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Yeah," I muttered, not even sure if he could hear me.

For a second, I wondered if I should do more. Maybe say goodbye properly or look him in the eye and make sure he knew how much it hurt to hear those words like that. But then I remembered the last time I tried to talk to him-really talk to him. The black eye I had for a week. The silence that stretched on after, like the distance between us could never be fixed.

I couldn't do it again. Not today.

Before I left, I opened my purse and fished out a few crumpled bills. The same ones I'd been setting aside for groceries. I hesitated for a moment, staring at them in my hand, knowing full well what they'd be used for. There was no food in the house, but the money wouldn't go toward that. It never did.

I placed the bills next to the empty cereal box on the counter, a bitter taste rising in my throat. It felt like I was enabling him, feeding the cycle, but what choice did I have? He'd find a way to get his beer, with or without my help. At least this way, I wouldn't come home to more broken glass or worse.

I nodded, once, even though he couldn't see me. Then I stepped outside, letting the cool morning air wash over me. One more day, one more step away from the mess I couldn't clean up anymore.