~IRAANYA KASHYAP~

"Follow me," Alonzo says as soon as I reach the front door, his tone leaves no space for question. Without waiting for an answer he's already striding down the hallway, his steps echoing against the marble.

His flat, precise composure feels less like a person speaking and more like a command typed into code.

He turns left at the staircase and unlocks a door without turning to see if I'm following.

Of course I am. Half because I have no choice, half because there's is annoyingly magnetic about this house and this guy who is so cool-headed.

The room swallows me whole the second I step in. A library- massive one.

Off-white walls, mahogany floors, shelves that stretch high enough to need a sliding ladder. The faint scent of old paper and coffee lingers in the air.

"It's so beautiful," I whisper, mostly to myself, watching the sliding ladder on the far end of the book shelf and a small balcony in the centre end with a spiral staircase.

Alonzo crosses to the desk, placing a folder inside a drawer. "Tutoring sessions will be held here." He pulls out another document and sets it down. "You can study here or in your room. Whichever keeps you quiet."

Whichever keeps me quiet? You wish.

He slides a planner across the desk. "Go through this before tomorrow."

I flip through the planner filled with tasks, topics, mock test dates with every hour accounted for. Not a single breath of freedom.

You signed for it Iraanya.

"Do I need to do anything else today?"

He doesn't look up, scanning through his leather folder. "You're free until tomorrow's session. Your room is on the first floor, left hallway. Ask one of the staff to show you."

Translation: Get out.

The househelp leads me down the long hallway, our footsteps tapping in quiet rhythm. We stop at the far end of hallway of what I assume is going to be my room. I glance at the other doors as we pass, wondering who they belongs to.

It's scary to be alone on this floor.

"Does anyone else live on this floor ?" I ask Jane- the househelp, my voice bouncing lightly off the walls.

"No one except Mr. Accardi, two doors right from yours." She fumbles with the lock. "I guess, the other rooms are a theatre and an art studio."

"You guess?" I arch a brow. "Are you new here?"

She chuckles softly. "Oh no, dear. I've been working for Mr. Accardi's household since he was a kid. But he doesn't live here."

That makes me pause mid-step. "He doesn't?"

"It's his late father's house, my mum worked as maid for their family," she explains, setting my suitcase down. "He has house on other side of town. But a few days ago, he instructed me to work here for a while."

I blink. "Why?"

Jane smiles in that polite, practiced way that tells me she knows more than she'll ever say. "I wouldn't know, dear. He likes his space. Alone and undisturbed."

She finishes arranging my luggage and gives me a motherly nod. "You should freshen up and come down for dinner."

I thank her, but my mind lingers.

So... he doesn't live here but suddenly decides to move in right when I arrive?

For what? Tutoring?

Suspicious.

I glance around my new temporary room, cream walls, green floral paneling, moonlight pooling on the bed. It's cozy, peaceful even. Yet the quiet hums like something is waiting to happen.

~ALONZO ACCARDI~

The moment Shaurya's car disappears beyond the gate, I head straight for the library. Distance keeps things manageable. It keeps her from asking unnecessary questions I don't want to answer.

No questions. No unnecessary humanity.

The deal he's tangled in has already left enough fire behind it. One wrong move, one misplaced word, and the Russians will stop being patient.

And the heat of this fire can also burn his daughter.

And then there's her.

The girl who doesn't know the world she has stepped into and the reasons I can't let her walk back out.

As long as Shaurya Kashyap profits me, I will bare with this little trouble.

The silence doesn't last long.

Of course I have invited chaos, what did I expect?

There's a low hum from the T.V drifting through the hall. I close my file, irritation pulsing at my temples from the sound.

She's still awake.

I pause at the doorway. In the living room, she's curled in the corner of my sofa, an oversized shirt swallowing her frame, a tub of ice cream balanced on her knees. The television flickers over her face, softening the sharp edges of exhaustion in those ocean blue eyes.

I pause at the doorway before clearing my throat. "Why are you still awake?"

She startles, eyes wide, spoon halfway to her mouth. Then she exhales, lowering it with a sheepish smile. "I was craving something sweet," she admits, setting the tub down. "I hope you don't mind. I found it in your fridge."

As she speaks, melted cream slips from the spoon, landing on the cuff of her sleeve without her noticing the mess it is creating.

My jaw tightens.

The faint smear of white on blue fabric catches every ounce of my attention, crawling under my skin.

My mind maps the trajectory before I can stop it: shirt, sofa, cushion - contamination.

I inhale slowly through my nose and reach for a glass of water, grounding myself in motion. She wipes the cream lazily with her fingers, then licks them clean, smiling faintly.

"Feel free," I reply, though my tone comes out sharper than intended. I keep my gaze fixed on the counter. "There's an Indian chef here now. You can tell her what you like."

She nods in acknowledgement. The air thickens with my unspoken irritation, hers still light and unfazed.

"Goodnight, Mr. Accardi," she says finally. Finally.

She passes by me, the faint scent of vanilla and sugar and something uniquely trailing her.I can't place it, but I can't stop noticing it either.

I glance at the faint spot of melted cream on the sofa cushion.

It takes effort not to reach for the disinfectant.

~IRAANYA KASHYAP~

I woke up early in the morning. Not because I'm a morning person, because sleep doesn't come.

The bed is soft, the blanket smells like lavender, but my mind doesn't obey comfort. Mine spins in the loop of overthinking, rewinding and analysing.

Sleep doesn't come to the chaos either, even if it is put on a blanket of coziness.

Mumma's voice still echoes faintly in my head like it's last night: "Tell him... tell him I forgive him."

Papa's 'Sign these, Aanya.' request.

Just paperwork. Legal formality. Then why does it keep coming in my head?

Restless, I grab my camera and head outside. The morning air is cool and refreshing against my skin.

Photography always helps me breathe, it's control, in a world where too many things aren't.

Capturing the beauty in my lens, Caging pictures in frames.

I start clicking the stone arches, the tall pines lining the gate. The mansion looks hauntingly beautiful through the lens, like it hides more stories than people.

That's when I spot Carlo in the driveway, kissing a woman who looks straight out of a classic Bollywood movie, beautiful and graceful.

I cough loudly to bring them out of their moment. Carlo jerks up, then looks at me and grins like a shy boy caught stealing.

"Hey, Iraanya. You are up this early?" Carlo walks towards me with a beauty beside him.

"Uh- yeah. Early to bed, early to rise." I shrug, embarrassed and awkward for reasons I don't know.

It's honestly weird, living in someone else's house. It feels like meddling in someone else's air, someone else's routine and space.

Doing perfectly normal things and then judging myself later for doing them is absolutely my style of overthinking.

Like, trying to capture the perfect angle for a photo without anyone noticing. I didn't ask permission. Should I have? Probably. Am I panicking about it now? Definitely.

And then there was the ice-cream. I mean, who doesn't sneak ice-cream once in a while? Except I just opened their fridge, grabbed a tub, and now my brain is screaming about boundaries, property, decency... everything.

It's not that anyone says anything. But everything feels like invasion and foreign to adjust.

I look between both of them, judging myself if I invaded their private time. Carlo seems to catch my confusing look, when he speaks up, gesturing to the woman beside him.

"This is my wife. Alonzo hired her as chef to make you feel at home." My chest warms a little of him being unexpectedly thoughtful of my eating preferences.

"Hello, Ma'am." I bring my hand towards her but she catches me off guard by pulling me into a hug.

"Hush, Don't call me ma'am. I am Meenakshi. You are like my daughter, probably a little older than her," She speaks after pulling away from the hug.

Her voice is kind, warm. Something inside me softens. I'd forgotten what being fussed over felt like.

"So, you already know I am here to cook you tasty food. Tell me bacha, what would you like to eat." Hearing bacha after so long feels weird. Mumma used to call me that. It feels odd yet warm.

"Upma will do. Cook anything, I eat almost everything, just avoid non-vegetarian on T days," I tell her, still feeling squishy and warm from the hug.

"Let me guess, That almost has exception of tinda, lauki, karela. Right?" She teases and we both laugh at her accurate guess.

Carlo steps in wrapping an arm around her waist. "Are you ladies done? I want to spend some time with my wife before Alonzo starts firing me with his daily schedule."

Oh! To grow older with love. My heart aches a little watching them, this could have been my parents if Mumma survived that day.

"Are you his employee or Secretary?" I ask him.

"I am his... Secretary and handle other businesses too."

"Other businesses?"

"Philanthropy and real estate business," he looks away quickly. Nervousness shifts on Carlo's shoulder before both of them bid me bye and turn inside the house.

As they walk off, my camera hangs heavy around my neck. I turn and look up and my breath catches.

Alonzo is standing on the balcony above, watching me with a cold expression, hands in his pockets of grey sweatpants, half sleeve black t-shirt showing more of his tattoos.

Does it even smile? Something about it sends a shiver down my spine. I raise the camera and click before I can second-guess it. The photo slides out a few seconds later, him framed in cold morning light, eyes full of secrets.

Hot.

Later, at breakfast, the silence stretches like elastic.

Meenakshi serves me upma and tea, patting my head affectionately before leaving.

Across from me, Alonzo sits at the head of the table, scrolling through his phone, sipping black coffee like the act of existing bores him.

Silence.

To cut this silence, I greet Alonzo. "Morning, Mr. Accardi," I say, forcing brightness into my voice.

He glances up briefly, eyes flicking over me, takes in my appearance before he nods once and return to his phone.

Did he even notice that I have been sitting here for the past ten minutes?

That's it?

A nod.

"Wow, Such warmth. I might melt from your overflowing hospitality," I mutter under my breath, hoping he catches it.

I sigh and poke at my food, the silence pressing down like thick fog.

Silence always makes a room feel emptier, even with a room full of people will make me homesick.

And it is a kind of awkward silence I am not at all used to. On the contrary I hate silence.

At home, Papa and I would've been arguing about politics or movie endings by now. Here, the air feels too unfriendly.

Maybe that's what unnerves me the most about this place, everyone acts like they're performing normal.

And somewhere deep inside, I can't shake the feeling that I've walked into a play I was never given the script for.

And for the first time in my life I ate my breakfast in silence and guess what, it surely doesn't feel amazing.

Happy reading <3