3- THEIR FIRST MEETING.

Why does life change in a second? I had learnt to breathe in this chaos of mine, to accept the loneliness, to carve out a place in the wreckage I called life. It wasn’t peace, but it was a rhythm—a cold, predictable rhythm. And then, out of nowhere, Grandfather decided to break it with one single phone call.

Go back to India.

Why the fuck now?

I wouldn’t. Not at any cost.

Time: 11 p.m.

I was finally asleep after a long day when my phone buzzed against the pillow. A call at this hour? With irritation pressing against my temples, I grabbed it. An unknown Indian number. For a moment, I almost rejected it—but something in me, some reckless instinct, forced me to answer.

The moment I heard the voice, my chest froze.

Mrs. Clara Solenne Valtor.

My mother. Or so she liked to call herself. The woman who birthed me, but never once embraced me as her daughter. The audacity.

"Eira?" Her tone was as cold and unyielding as steel. Even after all these years, she hasn’t changed.

"Well, look at that. What happened, Mrs. Clara? What disaster pushed you to dial my number?" I asked, every word dripping in taunt.

"I heard you’re coming back to India," she said. Straight to the point. Of course. She hadn’t called for me. She called for herself.

"I might. Why does it concern you?" My tone was sharp, mocking.

Her silence held venom. Then came her words, heavy with command. "We’re happy without you. We are in peace without your presence. So don’t come back. Tell your grandfather you refuse. Do. You. Understand?"

I laughed bitterly. "You know, Mrs. Clara, I was on the fence about returning. But now—now that you’ve personally begged me not to, I’ve decided I’ll definitely come. I’ll ruin that peace of yours so beautifully, you’ll wish you never dared open your mouth. And one more thing—" I paused, letting the venom coat my tongue. "I. Don’t. Follow. Anyone’s. Rules. Mrs. Clara. Solenne. Valtor."

"Eira, I’m your mother, and—"

"Don’t you dare." My voice dropped to a whisper sharp enough to cut glass. "You are not my mother. You lost that right the day you raised your hand against me and sold me to your silence. So keep your orders locked in your own cage. And I’ll see you Friday night."

I cut the call before she could spit more poison. My hand shook slightly, but I dropped the phone on the bed and let a cruel smile tug at my lips. She thought her words could chain me? She forgot who the fuck I am.

I am Eira Valtor. And now, I’ll come back—not to belong, not to beg—but to tear their peace into pieces they’ll never glue back together.

Two days later

My bags were packed. Medicines hidden. My sins zipped up neatly among silk clothes. I wasn’t happy to return—not because of them, but because of myself. Because I knew the fight wasn’t only with them. It was with the ghosts inside me, the ones I drugged into silence every night.

Valtor Mansion.

And here I was. Back again in the same gilded cage I had once called home. A prison built with luxury, dripping in marble and chandeliers. A cage all the same.

The car stopped, the gates opened, and I stepped out. The scent of lilies filled the air—my favorite once upon a time, though no one had bothered to ask if it still was. Typical.

At the entrance stood Cecilia Valtor, my grandmother. She looked radiant, hopeful, alive in a way I hadn’t seen in years. Behind her loomed the others, their faces stiff, their postures screaming discomfort. They looked as though they were attending a funeral. My funeral, perhaps. I almost laughed.

I walked straight to Cecilia-grandma. She didn’t hesitate. She pulled me into her arms, her grip tight, desperate, as though she were afraid I would disappear again. I returned the hug, but lightly, without the same warmth. My body knew how to resist softness.

"How are you, my child?" she whispered, her voice trembling with a love I had forgotten.

"As always," I replied, my words empty but sharp.

She smiled, her eyes glistening, and took my hand like she used to when I was little. She led me inside, seating me beside her on the grand velvet couch. Everyone else watched, but no one spoke. Their silence was suffocating and amusing all at once.

She stared at me, studying my face. I raised a brow. "What? Why are you staring at me like that?" My tone was flat, not cruel, but stripped of all emotion.

"Nothing," she whispered. Her lips curved into a small smile. "I’m just… looking at the girl who was once a child. My Firefly. Now she’s grown into a woman. A dangerous, beautiful woman." She cupped my face, pressed a kiss to my forehead. Her tenderness made something crack inside me. My eyes burned. I wanted to cry. But Eira Valtor doesn’t cry. Not anymore.

I forced myself to stand. "I need to freshen up."

She nodded gently. "The maid will show you your room. I decorated it myself. I hope you’ll like it." She patted my hair. "I’ll call you for dinner."

Dinner. With them. The thought was repulsive.

"I’ll eat in my room. I’m not used to dining with people anymore," I said sharply, turning to leave.

Before I could take a step, Grandfather’s voice cut through the room. Cold. Commanding. "You’ll join us for dinner. Together."

I froze. Then turned back, flashing a sweet, poisonous smile.

"My dear Grandfather," I said slowly, "you don’t need to pretend to be caring with me. Don’t you know? For twelve years, I’ve eaten alone, lived alone. And besides"—I let my eyes slide deliberately to Mrs. Clara and Teresa Solenne—"if I sit at this table, I fear some people might not be able to swallow their food."

The silence was delicious.

I turned, following the maid to my room, my heels clicking against the marble, each step a promise.

Eira Valtor was back. And I wasn’t here to be part of their family. I was here to break it.

Killing people mercilessly is a peculiar kind of hobby. There is an art to it — to make destruction look elegant, to make endings tidy and inevitable. I prefer it that way: efficient, beautiful, and utterly final.

“Sir, we buried him and destroyed the evidence. You can be assured.” One of my men reported in my office, voice even, as if announcing the weather.

“Good,” I said. “Handle the rest. I’m leaving.” He nodded and I walked out.

In the car, the city blurred into streaks of light. Another day had been closed — another problem erased. Yet the thought that slid into my head with the landing report made the muscle at my jaw twitch: Miss Eira Valtor has landed safely. She is at the Valtor Mansion. How did I know? Because I am President, because she is family — my cousin — and because nothing that concerns the Valtor blood ever escapes my notice. I hated admitting it, but responsibility clung like a second skin. Even for the ones I loathed.

The mansion was alive with quiet voices when I arrived. The Solennes were present: Elias and Teresa. They mattered to me as much as any part of the family did. I had always taken them in with a filial affection the years had not eroded. As for Teresa-grandma — Eira had never liked her. I had noticed that once, before I learned how to swallow the turmoil family always brings.

I sat on the couch amid the murmured conversations and offered the usual greeting. Teresa-grandma returned a cordial smile; Eilas-grandfather nodded; Clara-aunt and Nathaniel-uncle made the obligatory inquiries about the day. Cecilia — my grandmother — looked radiant, almost childish in her joy. It would have been easy to feel warmth at that sight if I had not trained myself into colder steel long ago.

Dinner leaned toward the banal until Teresa-grandma — with that soft, poisonous politeness she wore like perfume — suggested, “Sister, put extra dessert in her plate. Her tongue is bitter; perhaps it could be sweetened.”

Cecilia-grandma’s smile answered like a blade hidden in silk. “You eat so many sweets yourself, Teresa. Have you found sweetness yet?” Her tone was syrupy, sardonic, and the room folded into silence at that small verbal slaughter. Teresa-grandma reddened, mortified, and I almost chuckled; family sparring was a kind of entertainment.

Yes, the world might call me a monster—call me selfish and ruthless. They watch my speeches and my Entscheidungen, and they applaud. To the public I am their President, their protector. But within these walls I am rigor incarnate too: protective over my own, severe with anyone who looks like a fracture in our armor. That is who I am.

Midnight.

Later, when night had stretched its fingers across the sky, sleep evaded me. I took the stairs up to the terrace, a bottle in hand, and found an unexpected silhouette hunched on the far sofa.

Eira.

She lay in a manner that looked almost obscene: legs thrown over the couch’s arm, head half-tilted toward the floor, limbs loose as if she’d been flung there by indifference. The sight struck sharper than I expected. At first I registered an annoyance. At this hour? In this house? In such clothes. God — her indecency. Tiny shorts riding obscene heights, a night top with a strap fallen from one shoulder; dim light carving shadows across skin. For a breath I was an animal observing prey, and then the absurd thought stung me — Am I looking? No. I have a taste. I merely acknowledge danger.

She felt me before I spoke. I settled on the opposite couch, the bottle thudding lightly onto the table, the glass already set. She met my gaze with steady insolence, the easy arrogance of someone who has been flung into cruelty and learned to wear it like armor.

“Are you thinking of eating me?” I asked, uncapping the bottle with the languid courtesy of a predator offering poison.

“Kind of,” she answered without moving, then finally sat up in a pose that might have been deliberate if it weren’t so lazily indifferent.

“Want some?” I offered, pouring amber liquid into a glass. The gesture was an olive branch dipped in lead.

“No. I don’t trust you. What if you’ve already poisoned it?” Her voice was sharp. Predictable. I couldn’t help the small, genuine amusement that warmed in my chest.

“I don’t rely on cheap tricks.” I slid the glass toward her. “First meeting after so many years. Not the worst reunion.”

Dammit. Why did that make me smile? Why did her presence ripple something under the armor? I told myself not to care. I told myself she was merely a nuisance to be prodded and watched. Still, some foolish, ungovernable things inside me enjoyed the prospect of unsettled waters. It would be fun — delicious, even — to watch her burn.

"Cheap people do cheap tricks. Like you". She said.

She rose, about to leave. I caught her wrist with a hand I meant to be businesslike — firm, admonishing. “Wear something decent,” I snapped. “This is India, and this is a Valtor house, not your private Italy where you can parade yourself.”

She looked at me without flinching, and for a sliver of time I believed she’d walk away. Instead, in one defiant, furious motion she grabbed my collar. My shirt slipped under her fingers. She planted a leg between my knees as I sat; the motion brushed a place on me it should not have. Her breath ghosted near my ear as she hissed, “Don’t you dare order me. Stay within your limits. I don’t follow anyone’s rules — especially not Valtor’s.”

She wrenched free and stalked off.

Christ. Her leg had grazed me. My body responded with a shock of raw, unbidden arousal. For a second I hated the traitor within. For a second I admitted a new truth: this was not merely an annoyance. This was curiosity wrapped in something far more dangerous.

Eira Valtor. My obsession, my sin, my enemy.

A smirk edged onto my face of its own volition. A tigress on the hunt — excellent. I would watch her and provoke her and see how ferocious she could be. It would be ferociously entertaining.

—

Time: 8:45 a.m., Saturday.

Morning. The house is still clung to the lethargy of sleep. I moved quickly, purposeful steps — a meeting loomed and I had to be immaculately prepared. Then I saw her on the stairwell, hair a storm, nightwear a scandal. She was coming down for breakfast — still in that ridiculous excuse for sleepwear. How would Grandfather react? Valtor rules were strict: appear decent or face excusal from the table. My pulse flickered with a private glee at the potential of that confrontation.

Her silhouette was too dangerous even dressed like this. My eyes betrayed me before I managed to reprimand: she had an ass worth noticing — worth punishing, worth owning. I mentally smacked myself. Get out of your fantasies, a voice in me said.

Fuck off, the other voice answered.

There it was — the small, dangerous truth: one encounter had stalked me into obsession. Perhaps it could happen. Perhaps with a woman like her, it would.

And with that thought anchored in my bones, the morning buzzed into motion. The Valtor mansion would soon discover one immutable thing: Eira Valtor had arrived — and nothing within this house would remain unchanged.

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