1- FINALLY RETURN.

Flashback.

The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the Valtor mansion.

Clara Solenne’s hand struck against the young girl’s cheek again and again, but Eira Valtor did not shed a single tear. Her face burned, her skin stung, yet her eyes remained cold—wild, rebellious, and venomous. Hatred blazed in her gaze like fire refusing to be extinguished.

A boy—no, almost a man, barely in his twenties—stood there, silent. Alaric Valtor. His jaw was clenched, his fists balled so tight his knuckles whitened, but he did not intervene. He didn’t move, didn’t stop Clara. He simply watched.

Because that same hatred that burned in Eira’s eyes was mirrored in his own.

And yet, her words cut deeper than any slap, deeper than any wound life had ever inflicted on him.

"If only you had died with your parents, then today my parents would have been mine. Not yours."

Those words had been knives, plunged straight into his chest. They haunted him. They poisoned him. He had carried them for years, carved into his very bones.

...----------------...

present day.

The Valtor Mansion hummed with restless anticipation. White lilies, once Eira Valtor’s favorite flower, filled the halls, perfuming the air with a sweetness almost sickening. The staff scurried about, polishing floors and adjusting drapes, as though they were preparing for royalty.

And in a way, they were.

The prodigal daughter—the so-called princess of the mansion—was returning after twelve long years.

From Italy to India.

From silence back to the family that had abandoned her.

Cecilia Valtor’s heart soared with excitement. The grandmother, silver-haired and gentle-eyed, was perhaps the only one who had truly loved the girl without condition. She smiled, her wrinkled hands trembling slightly as she arranged the lilies herself.

Joseph Valtor, Eira’s grandfather, stood tall but cold. His face, carved from stone, betrayed little. Perhaps he was happy; perhaps not. The man never wasted emotion on displays.

Clara and Nathaniel Valtor—Eira’s parents—felt nothing resembling joy. No warmth. No eagerness. Only tension. Because the Eira who was returning wasn’t the eleven-year-old they had sent away to boarding school. No, she was twenty-three now, a grown woman forged in anger, sharpened by hatred, and tempered by silence. They knew it. They feared it. Deep down, they understood—her return could shatter everything they had built.

And then there was him.

From the grand staircase, a man descended, phone pressed to his ear, words clipped and sharp. He wore power like a second skin—tailored suit, eyes like steel, expression carved in stone. His presence was enough to silence the air around him.

Alaric Valtor.

No longer the quiet student swallowed by grief. No longer the young man standing in the shadows.

Now, he was the fucking President of India.

The nation worshiped him. Feared him. Obeyed him.

To the world, he was untouchable. Unshakable. A man of iron, a leader forged in fire.

But to her? To Eira Valtor?

He was still the thief who had stolen everything—her parents, her home, her life.

And he knew she was coming. He knew she wasn’t returning as some fragile little girl. She wasn’t coming back to smile and play nice, to pretend at family dinners, to forgive and forget.

No.

She was coming back as a storm. A fucking hurricane dressed in silk.

And Alaric Valtor, the man who commanded nations with a single word, felt it in his bones: her arrival would rip apart the fragile balance of the Valtor Mansion.

Not just the mansion. The Valtor bloodline itself.

Because sometimes the most dangerous wars are not fought in parliaments or battlefields.

They are fought inside the same house.

Between the same blood.

Behind closed doors.

And this war was only just the beginning.

......................

Cecilia Valtor stood in the grand kitchen of the mansion, her silver hair tied back neatly, her sharp eyes flicking across the room as if she were commanding soldiers, not maids. Her voice cut through the air like a whip.

“Not too much sugar, damn it!” she snapped, her voice rising as she snatched the mixing spoon from a trembling maid’s hand. “Do you even know who the cake is for? My Firefly doesn't eat cloying, sickly shit like this. Fix it—or I’ll make sure you’re out by morning.”

Her Firefly.

That was what Cecilia used to call Eira when she was small, a name the little girl adored. A name that now echoed like a ghost in Cecilia’s mouth—sweet, fragile, deceptive.

The door creaked, and Clara Solenne Valtor stepped inside. Her perfectly manicured brows furrowed as she watched the scene unfold, her lips curving into a bitter line.

“Mom,” Clara said, voice dripping with disdain. “Why are you tearing into her like this? It’s just sugar. It’s not like Eira will suddenly gain ten pounds or drop dead from diabetes over a slice of cake.”

The venom in her tone was unmistakable. Not for the maid. Not for the cake. But for her daughter—Eira Valtor.

Cecilia’s head turned slowly, her expression softening into that syrupy smile she wore whenever she was about to gut someone with words. Her voice was calm, even sweet—but sharp enough to bleed.

“Clara, my dear daughter-in-law,” Cecilia began, each syllable laced with mockery, “if you can’t lift a single finger for your daughter’s return, then perhaps you should also refrain from passing judgments on those who actually give a damn.”

Clara stiffened, eyes widening for a second before narrowing again, but Cecilia wasn’t done.

“And let’s be honest,” Cecilia continued, voice like poisoned honey, “Eira would hate it if she thought you’d done anything for her. She doesn’t need your half-hearted gestures. She’s suffered enough at your hands already. So kindly, for once in your goddamn life, stay out of my way.”

The words landed like slaps. Clara’s face went pale, her composure cracking for a heartbeat before she swallowed hard, fixing her mask back into place. Her lips pressed together as she forced a thin smile, then she turned sharply on her heel and stalked out of the kitchen, heels clicking against marble like gun shots.

Cecilia exhaled slowly, her gaze sliding back to the chocolate batter. She didn’t miss the maid’s frightened expression, nor did she care.

Because tonight wasn’t about the cake.

Or the maids.

Or Clara’s endless incompetence.

Tonight was about her butterfly.

Eira Valtor.

After twelve years away—after exile, silence, and shadows—her granddaughter was finally coming back.

The flight would land late, around eight or nine at night. Darkness would cloak her arrival, as if even the skies understood the storm that was about to descend on the Valtor Mansion.

Cecilia had made sure the Solenne family had been invited, too. Her sister, Clara’s mother, Eira’s maternal grandmother.

......................

The clock struck 8:30 p.m., yet for Cecilia Valtor, every passing minute dragged like an excruciating hour. Her eyes kept darting toward the phone on the mahogany side table, as if sheer willpower could make it ring. She wanted—no, needed—to hear her granddaughter’s voice, that curt confirmation that she had landed safely and was on her way. The silence gnawed at her, pressing weight on her chest she would never admit to anyone.

Joseph Valtor—her husband, the formidable patriarch—had already deployed a special car to fetch the girl, shadowed by an entourage of black SUVs packed with bodyguards. The Valtors were not some pedestrian, suburban family. They were powerful, carved into the veins of this nation. Their name wasn’t spoken lightly—it carried blood, legacy and danger. And now, with Alaric Valtor sitting on the presidential throne, every single move of theirs was a national matter, every member’s safety guarded as if they were crowned royalty.

The Solennes were present too, lounging in their controlled silence. Elias Solenne wore a smile that couldn’t quite hide the storm in his eyes, his joy at his granddaughter’s return genuine, if bittersweet. Teresa Solenne, however, was the embodiment of frost, her expression as unreadable as her daughter Clara’s. They weren’t smiling, nor were they mourning. Their faces told a story of restraint, calculation—the kind of emotionless calm that was far more terrifying than open hostility.

The air shifted, heavy and electric, when the cars finally rolled past the Valtor mansion’s wrought-iron gates. First came the SUVs, sleek and ominous, engines growling low like beasts prowling for prey. Then the midnight-black Rolls Royce glided in, regal and untouchable, carrying the one they were all waiting for. Behind it, more guards. The convoy screamed of power, of importance, of danger. Anyone watching would know—a fucking princess had just arrived.

Inside, Cecilia stood tall at the entrance of the grand living room, her figure a shadow of her younger self—sharp eyes, spine straight, her aura still deadly despite the years. Behind her, the rest of the family waited, breathing in the same tense air.

And then—Eira Valtor stepped out.

No longer the child they remembered, but a woman. A dangerous one.

She carried herself with the same arrogant poise her grandmother once did, her chin tilted ever so slightly upward as if the world was beneath her. The same razor-edged grace, the same fire blazing in her eyes. Cecilia felt an odd twist in her chest, as though she were staring at her own reflection from decades ago. The resemblance was uncanny, unsettling. Not just the face, not just the features—it was the aura. That vicious charm, that merciless elegance, the unspoken promise of destruction.

And it hit Cecilia—Eira hadn’t simply grown up. She had become a storm, a weapon, a younger, sharper version of herself.

Eira walked straight up to her grandmother, heels clicking against marble like gunshots. The two women, mirrors of different eras, stood face-to-face.

Cecilia broke first, pulling her granddaughter into a tight embrace, her iron façade cracking just a fraction. Eira returned the hug, but it was different—cold, restrained, controlled. A hug not of affection, but of formality. A reminder: I’m here, but I haven’t forgiven you, old woman.

Cecilia released her with a small smile, though her eyes narrowed slightly, reading the tension in the girl’s body.

“How are you, my child?” she asked, voice calm, but sharp like steel dipped in honey.

Eira’s lips curled into the faintest smirk. Her reply sliced through the silence, arrogant and venom-laced.

“As always.”

The words hung heavy in the air, dangerous, almost blasphemous in their audacity. And yet, her voice carried no tremor, no hesitation—only arrogance, only fire.

The Valtor bloodline was not made of saints. They were storms in human skin. And now, their newest storm has arrived.

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ ...

Hey guys, How are you doing?

I hope you liked chapter 1 of this story.

I want you guys to support me as much as you can and as I'm a new author so if I make a mistake so ignore it.

Like, vote and don't forget to comment your thoughts.

Bye.

~Eshie🦋

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