Forced Romance : The story of Claire and her billionaire boyfriend

The house was always quiet in the morning. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made me nervous. I knew what it meant. My dad had come home late again, drunk. And when he was drunk, silence usually followed the chaos from the night before.

I tiptoed down the narrow hallway, the floor creaking beneath my bare feet. I didn't want to wake him-not yet. The ticking clock on the kitchen wall reminded me that I was already late for work, but that was the least of my worries. My stomach clenched as I saw the empty bottle lying sideways on the kitchen counter, next to a shattered glass that hadn't been cleaned up.

"Great," I muttered, stepping over the broken shards. My father had probably thrown it. He was always throwing things when he was mad, and lately, he was mad about everything. Especially when there was no money for more beer.

I grabbed a broom from the closet, my hands moving on autopilot as I swept up the glass. This has become part of my morning routine. Cleaning up after him, making sure there were no signs of his drunken tantrums before anyone else could notice. No one could know. It was easier that way. People wouldn't understand.

Once the floor was clear, I grabbed a slice of bread from the counter. I wasn't hungry, but I knew I should eat something before heading out the door. The silence was suffocating now, heavy with the weight of everything unspoken between me and my father.

A groan came from down the hall. I froze, my heart pounding. He was awake.

I heard the sound of footsteps stumbling toward the kitchen. The same old routine. I glanced at the clock again-still time to escape before he started talking. Or yelling.

My father appeared in the doorway, disheveled, wearing the same clothes as last night. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale and unshaven. He looked at me, then at the mess I'd cleaned up, his mouth opening slightly as if he might say something. But instead, he just walked past me, reaching for another beer.

"I thought you usually worked in the morning" he mumbled while opening a can of beer.

I eyed the beer wearily but didn't respond. Instead, I went upstairs to get ready for work before I said or did anything that would cause one of his breakdowns.

After a quick shower, I grabbed my keys from the kitchen counter, my movements automatic, almost robotic. I left a few crumpled bills next to the empty cereal box, knowing full well what they'd be spent on. There was no food in the house, but I was sure he'd use it for more beer instead. I thought about the last time I tried to stand up to him, tried to stop his spiral of self-destruction. All I got for my effort was a black eye and a week of silence. I wasn't making that mistake again. Not today. Today, I just needed to get out before anything else went wrong.

"Claire," he called out, his voice rough and broken. I froze in place, my hand on the door handle, but I didn't turn around.

"I love you, you know that, right?" he slurred, the words barely making it through the fog of alcohol.

A lump formed in my throat as my chest tightened. I wished I could believe him. I wished the words didn't feel so hollow, but it was hard to trust them when they only surfaced after a dozen beers and too much regret. I stood there for a second, caught between the person I needed him to be and the reality of who he was. Without looking back, I forced a small nod, then stepped out into the cool air, letting the door close behind me. Not another word. Not today.