"Papa, come on, we're getting late." I shout from the living room, tapping my foot impatiently on the ground.

He comes downstairs with a duffel bag that looks like he has filled it with bricks to throw at whoever pisses him off.

"What is this, Papa? You said you would drop me at his house and return to California," I ask, eying the oversized duffel.

"They are snacks for you," he answers casually.

"Snacks for the whole of New York?" I laugh, pointing at the thing that could break someone's foot.

"Don't be dramatic. These are your favorites. I asked the house help to prepare them for you. Enjoy them in your stay there and bonus if you don't like the food in his house, at least you'll have something to survive on."

He doesn't meet my eyes when he says it. His tone is playful, but his hands tighten around the straps nervously.

So I'm going to stay at my father's business associate and close friend's house in New York for three months. He is Alonzo Accardi- the youngest managing partner of the most successful law firm in New York City, probably the entire USA.

My father owns a tech company that provides advanced legal-tech software or cybersecurity services to Accardi Law Firm.

He's going to be my mentor for my Bar exam.

I hate failing. And lately, my mock scores have been disastrous. So, Papa asked Mr. Accardi if he could guide me for the exam. Guess what? He said yes. Private tutoring.

Which means I'm moving into Alonzo's house till exam day.

Although I've seen him at my birthday dinners, I barely remember much. We never introduced ourselves and to him those dinners were equal to a business meeting with my father.

"Then it justifies the weight of the duffel. Thank you, Pita Shree." I hug him tightly, suddenly feeling that lump of sadness rise in my throat of leaving home. He used to pack my bags the same way whenever I left for Yale after the holidays.

"Welcome, Putri." he kisses my forehead, his hand brushing gently through my hair. I know he feels the same heaviness too, we're just too stubborn to admit it. Although there's something different in his touch today- gentler, sadder.

"Don't call me that. My name is Iraanya Kashyap," I mumble, looking up from his chest.

"Don't call me that either. My name is Shaurya Kashyap. But, excuse me, don't call me Shaurya either. I am older than you." He teases, and we both end up laughing.

"Okay-okay Miss Iraanya Kashyap, Shall we go now? Your tutor is very strict and he might have sent the private jet already to ensure we reach on time," he chuckles and opens the door. "We wouldn't want to piss off your tutor on the first day, right?"

"But he won't start teaching me the second I enter his house, right?" I ask as we get into the car and the driver starts for the airport.

"Probably not. He would do some paperwork first but you never know. He's more unpredictable than he is punctual."

When we reach the airport, a private jet- real private jet gleams under floodlights, sent by none other than Alonzo Accardi. Gosh! This private jet screams power and temptation. I can live in this thing forever.

"Papa, your boyfriend really loves you. He sent his private jet for us." I tease, nudging him.

"Shut up, Iraanya." He fires back. "Go take your seat, I'll be there shortly."

I step inside. Black leather seats that recline into beds. A glass partition separating what looks like a study, a mahogany desk, two other chairs on the left corner by the windows facing each other and an aura of intimidating perfection. Everything is immaculate, scented faintly of leather and luxury.

Back at the seats, Papa is talking to a man, probably of his age, in Italian. Great. I should've never skipped those classes. Now I'll either nap or stare out the window pretending not to be bored.

"Bonjour." I greet the man sitting across from my father.

"That's french, Aanya." Papa interrupts me.

"I know. I figured he wouldn't understand Namaste, so I settled on Bonjour."

"Ciao, Iraanya. I am Carlo Amoretto, your father's friend. And I understand English as well." He smiles warmly.

"Ah, right." I mumble, heat crawling up my neck. Of course he speaks English. Brilliant start, Iraanya.

I shake his hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Amoretto." I force a smile that he returns kindly.

"Likewise." His grin reminds me of a movie character who dies early for being too nice. "Please call me Carlo."

They start speaking in Italian again, voices low and serious. Every now and then, I catch my father's frown, the clench of his jaw. I don't understand a word, but something about their conversation feels too intense.

"I'm going to take a nap, Papa." I mumble, sliding into the last seat. Clouds drift past and I drift with them.

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌸⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

I am stirred awake by my father, remembering vividly that we have reached the airport, like a drunkard I fell asleep on the way to Alonzo's house in the car too.

When I open my eyes, I think I'm dreaming.

No way this is where Alonzo lives.

Iron gates, the central courtyard, a vast expanse of cold, grey towers. Twin staircases wrapping around a marble fountain. It's straight out of a gothic fantasy.

But when I blink, it's still there, looming real.

The mansion rises like a castle, cobblestone pillars lining the driveway, pine trees guarding its perimeter. Men in black suits stand at the entrance like statues, still and expressionless. Only when one of them opens the massive oak door do I realize they are human.

Inside, it's... overwhelming. Gold pillars, black marble floor. Walls adorned with ancient paintings. The chandelier above swallows the centre of the ceiling.

It's strange to see wealth like this for a managing partner of a law firm. I mean he had to be something else too, for living in this majestic house.

I whisper in papa's ear, "For once, I thought we were at Hogwarts." He chuckles under his breath.

And then he appears. The King of castle himself, all in his glory.

He's taller than I remember. A white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins mapping the warm skin. Tattoos trace his left arm, vanishing into sin of the fabric.

Jet black curls slightly falling over his forehead. And those forest-green eyes catch mine, sharp, unreadable, pulling the air out of my lungs for reasons I can't explain.

God! He's deliciously put together.

He has a stern look on his face, watching me like I asked him to put his castle on my name. His stare sends a chill racing down my spine.

The body language screams power. I bet he carries the same energy in the courtroom too.

Commanding. Controlled. Cynical.

"Good evening, Mr. Accardi." I manage to greet him, hoping my voice doesn't betray my heartbeat.

He only nods and turns to my father.

"Paperwork first."

Typical. The better the jawline, the worse the social skills.

If looks could kill, he'd be lethal. Too bad manners never made the cut.

"Non essere scortese con mia figlia." Papa says, his tone edged.

( Don't be rude to my daughter.)

"Finiamola così." Alonzo's gaze flickers toward me, voice cool as glass.

(Let's get over it.)

They exchange a few more words in Italian. Papa sighs, looking more tired than before. His phone buzzes for the third time in fifteen minutes.

Tension lines on his forehead cracks. "Papa, Is everything alright?"

He seems more worn out after flight landing. "Someone messed up at work. I have to leave in half an hour." He says, rubbing his temple.

"Now?" I frown. "You just got here."

"Listen Iraanya, Alonzo doesn't do any private tutoring without paperwork. He's prepared the same for you. Sign these, Aanya." He pushes the documents and pen toward me.

"I'll do it later. My glasses are in my bags and I can't read it without them." My eyes are fine but I can't read these small letters without wearing glasses.

"It's fine,I read them already on the flight. Just formality papers. Alonzo is quite a high profile figure in New York, so he does all the things legally." Papa says, emphasising a little extra on last words to which my gaze flickers on the said man.

He is staring at me, leaning back on the couch, fingers rubbing his jaw.

I flip through the sheets anyway, pretending to read the tiny print. My eyes catch a line at the bottom of the last page written in bold letters:

'In agreement of mutual association and protective guardianship outlined in the previous clause.'

"What does that mean?" I ask, pointing at it, eyeing both the men.

The silence stretches. For a second, the air feels too heavy, like the room itself is holding its breath.

"Legal terms for formality." Alonzo answers, impatience threading between them. "You'll be under my mentorship and residence, it grants me responsibility while you are here." Something in his tone feels final. Not up for debate.

Still, something about the phrasing sticks. It sounds... binding. Too binding.

"Just sign, Aanya." Papa says, silencing the once again buzzing phone.

"Fine." I sign all three pages and hand them back. Papa glances through, nods, and slides them toward Mr. Accardi.

We both stand and then he hugs me tight, one of those bone crushing hugs that feel like home.

"Eat properly, study properly, sleep on time. Don't overwork yourself. Remember no matter how you do, I'll always be proud of you."

My ears flare hot, burning in embarrassment getting parented in front of my new mentor. I'm twenty-four, not four, but try telling that to my father.

I laugh awkwardly. "Why are you crying like a daily soap actress, like it's my vidai. Take care of yourself and don't be dramatic."

He chuckles, kissing my forehead. "I'll take my leave now."

With a final handshake with Alonzo, and he's gone. I watch the car drive away until the red taillights vanish into the dark.

Then I turn back.

Alonzo still stands there, silent, unreadable, assessing me. The mansion feels colder and the air heavier.

It feels like it is the beginning of something dangerous.

⋆⊱༻𖥸༺⊰⋆

Happy reading <3