Author's POV
The house was enormous.
Cold.
Expensive in a way that made her uncomfortable.
He led her to a sitting room.
Asked her to wait.
Disappeared through a door.
She sat on the edge of a couch that probably cost more than her parents' flat.
Stared at her hands.
Tried to breathe.
He returned minutes later.
Fresh shirt.
Hair slightly damp.
Blood gone.
He sat across from her.
"Ask."
She looked up.
"Who are you?"
"Ethan Moretti. My family owns... things. Businesses. Territories. The restaurant was attacked because of business."
"Business."
"Yes."
"What kind of business?"
He didn't answer.
The silence told her everything.
"You're a criminal."
"I'm many things."
"You lied to me."
"I protected you."
"You pretended to be a student."
"I am a student. That part was real."
"The rest?"
He leaned forward.
Elbows on knees.
Eyes fixed on hers.
"The rest is complicated."
She stood.
Suddenly.
Anger cutting through the fear.
"You watched me. Followed me. Made me think—" Her voice broke. "Made me think you were just some annoying guy who needed help with classes. And all this time—"
"All this time, I wanted you."
She stopped.
"What?"
"From the beginning. From the first moment I saw you. All of this—the classes, the coffee, the studying—it was to be near you. That part was always real."
She shook her head.
"No."
"Yes."
"You're saying—"
"I'm saying I love you."
The words landed like bullets.
She stumbled back.
Hit the edge of the couch.
Stared at him like he had grown another head.
"You don't know me."
"I know everything about you."
"That's not love. That's—" She couldn't find the word.
"It's whatever you want to call it. But it's real."
She pressed her hands to her face.
Tried to think.
Tried to breathe.
Tried to make any of this make sense.
---
When she looked up, he hadn't moved.
Still watching her.
Still waiting.
"Those people tonight. They wanted to kill you."
"Yes."
"They shot at us."
"Yes."
"And you—" She remembered the gun. The bodies on the floor. The way he moved. "You killed them."
His expression didn't change.
"I protected you."
"With guns. With violence. With—" She stopped. "I don't know who you are."
"You know who I am. You've always known."
"No."
"Meera." He stood. Approached slowly. Stopped close enough to touch but didn't. "I'm the man who brings you coffee. Who walks you to class. Who remembers how you take your food and what you miss about home. That part is real."
"While hiding who you really are."
"While protecting you from who I really am."
She looked at him.
At the face she had started to trust.
At the eyes she had started to look for.
At the man who had just killed people and now stood before her like nothing happened.
"I don't know if I can—"
"I know."
"I need to think."
"I know."
"I need to—"
"There's a room upstairs. You can stay there tonight. No one will bother you. Tomorrow, if you want to leave, I'll arrange it."
She stared at him.
"Why would you let me leave?"
"Because I want you to choose."
"Choose what?"
"Choose to stay."
She didn't answer.
Couldn't answer.
He pointed to the stairs.
"Second door on the left."
---
She walked past him.
Stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
Turned back.
"Ethan."
"Yes."
"I don't know what I feel right now."
"I know."
"But I'm not afraid of you."
Something flickered in his eyes.
"Maybe you should be."
"Maybe." She held his gaze. "But I'm not."
She climbed the stairs.
Didn't look back.
If she had, she would have seen him standing there.
Watching her.
Hands shaking.
Heart racing.
For the first time in centuries, truly afraid.
Not of the enemies who wanted him dead.
But of losing her.
---
She found the room.
Second door on the left.
But she didn't go in.
Instead, she wandered.
The hallway stretched forever.
Doors on both sides.
Art on the walls that looked older than countries.
She turned a corner.
Found herself in another corridor.
This one opened into a sitting area.
Then another.
Then a bathroom.
She stopped.
Stared.
The bathroom was bigger than her entire flat back home.
Marble floors.
A tub you could swim in.
Mirrors that covered entire walls.
She thought of Chennai.
Of the small bathroom she shared with her parents.
Of the geyser that only gave hot water for ten minutes.
Of the bucket baths she took every morning because that was normal.
This wasn't normal.
Nothing about this house was normal.
She kept walking.
Found the kitchen.
Restaurant quality.
Found the dining room.
Table that seated twenty.
Found the library.
More books than she had seen in her life.
The house went on forever.
Room after room.
Each more extravagant than the last.
By the time she found her way back to the bedroom he had pointed to, she was lost.
Not just in the house.
In everything.
---
She entered the bedroom.
And stopped again.
The bed was enormous.
Four posters.
Curtains.
Sheets that looked like silk.
Windows that stretched floor to ceiling.
A balcony beyond.
She walked to the window.
Pressed her hand against the glass.
The city sparkled below.
Lights stretching to the horizon.
Somewhere out there was her dorm.
Her small room.
Her simple life.
It felt like another world now.
A knock behind her.
She turned.
Ethan stood in the doorway.
A blanket in his hands.
A pillow under his arm.
"What are you doing?"
He walked past her.
Dropped the pillow on a couch near the window.
Lay the blanket over it.
"I'm staying here."
"What? No."
"You're in my house. Under my protection. You don't leave my sight until I'm sure you're safe."
"That's ridiculous."
"That's how it works."
She crossed her arms.
The familiar pose.
Defensive.
Stubborn.
"I'm not sleeping in the same room as you."
"It's just a room."
"It's your bedroom."
"How do you know that?"
She faltered.
"I don't. But—"
"It's a guest room. One of many. I've never slept in this bed."
She didn't believe him.
Couldn't tell if that mattered.
"You can't stay here."
"I can and I will."
"Ethan."
"Meera."
They stared at each other.
Neither backing down.
---
She broke first.
Looked away.
Rubbed her arms.
"This is insane."
"Probably."
"All of this. Tonight. The restaurant. The guns. Your house. You."
"I know."
She looked at him.
Really looked.
At the face she thought she knew.
At the stranger wearing it.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why me?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Just watched her.
His eyes moving over her face like he was memorizing it.
Like she might disappear if he looked away.
"I saw you once."
"When?"
"Months ago. Across the street from an Indian grocery mart. You were carrying a bag of rice. Too heavy for you. You almost dropped it. And then you laughed."
She remembered.
That day.
The rice that kept slipping.
The frustration.
The absurdity of it all.
The laugh that escaped anyway.
"You saw that?"
"I saw everything."
"That's—"
"Strange. I know."
"It's more than strange."
"It's the truth."
She shook her head.
"One laugh. One moment. And you decided to—what? Follow me? Enroll in my college? Pretend to need my help?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I needed to know you."
"You could have just talked to me."
"And you would have talked to a stranger who approached you on the street?"
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
He was right.
She wouldn't have.
---
She sat on the edge of the bed.
Suddenly tired.
So tired.
"This is a game to you."
"No."
"Lying. Pretending. Playing a role. That's a game."
"It was survival."
"Same thing."
He moved closer.
Slow.
Careful.
Stopped a few feet away.
"It stopped being a game the moment I really knew you."
"When was that?"
"I don't know. Somewhere between your arguments and your stubbornness and the way you eat idiyappam like it's the last meal you'll ever have."
She almost smiled.
Almost.
"You're mocking me."
"I'm worshipping you."
Her head snapped up.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"That's—you can't just say things like that."
"I can. I do. I will."
She stood.
Paced.
Anger building again.
"You don't even know me. Not really. You know what you've watched. What you've observed. That's not the same as knowing someone."
"Then tell me."
"What?"
"Tell me what I don't know."
She stopped.
Faced him.
"You want to know something real? Fine. I'm boring. I'm plain. I'm a brown girl from Chennai who spends her life studying because that's all she's good at. I'm not beautiful. I'm not interesting. I'm not anything special. So why—why would someone like you—" She gestured at him, at the house, at everything. "Why would anyone like you be interested in someone like me?"
He moved.
Fast.
Suddenly.
One moment he was feet away.
The next he was right there.
His hand caught her wrist.
Not hard.
But firm.
Unforgiving.
He pulled her close.
Close enough that she could feel the heat of him.
Close enough that his breath stirred her hair.
"Don't."
His voice was low.
Controlled.
But something underneath it.
Something dark.
Something dangerous.
"Don't what?"
"Don't speak about my future wife that way."
She froze.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Your—I'm not—"
"Not yet."
His other hand came up.
Cupped her jaw.
Gentle.
So gentle.
Fingers along her cheek.
Thumb near her lip.
She couldn't breathe.
Couldn't move.
Couldn't think.
His face was inches from hers.
His eyes dark.
Burning.
She saw the want there.
The hunger.
The restraint.
He wanted more.
She could feel it in the tension of his body.
In the way his jaw was tight.
In the control he was fighting to maintain.
He could take.
He could push.
He could demand.
But he didn't.
Instead, he leaned forward.
Pressed his lips to her temple.
Soft.
Reverent.
Like she was sacred.
Like she was breakable.
Like she was everything.
---
He stayed there for a moment.
Breath warm against her skin.
Then he stepped back.
Let her go.
The absence of him was immediate.
Cold.
She swayed slightly.
Caught herself.
Stared at him.
His chest was rising and falling faster than before.
His hands were clenched at his sides.
He was fighting something.
She could see it.
"I should—" His voice was rough. He cleared his throat. "I should let you sleep."
She nodded.
Didn't trust her voice.
He moved towards the couch.
The blanket.
The pillow.
"Ethan."
He stopped.
Didn't turn.
"You really won't leave?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because if someone comes for you tonight, they go through me first."
She believed him.
Completely.
Terrifyingly.
She climbed onto the bed.
Pulled the silk sheets around her.
Watched him settle on the couch.
Too big for it.
Too dangerous for it.
Too everything.
He lay on his back.
One arm behind his head.
Staring at the ceiling.
The lamp on the nightstand cast soft light across the room.
She should have been afraid.
Should have been planning escape.
Should have been calling for help.
Instead, she watched the rise and fall of his chest.
The way his profile looked in the dim light.
The man who killed for her.
The man who loved her.
The man who called her his future wife.
She didn't know what to do with any of it.
Didn't know what she felt.
Didn't know what came next.
But one thing was certain.
Nothing would ever be simple again.