4- GRANDPA'S ORDER.

Eira Valtor—the storm herself—walked into the lion’s den of the Valtors. Doesn’t it sound suspicious? Hell, maybe it does. But when her grandmother asked her to, suspicion was the last thing on her mind.

---

A little earlier…

Eira had only just managed to close her eyes, finally slipping into the rarest fucking gift life ever gave her—peaceful sleep. Nightmares had always clung to her like parasites, gnawing at her subconscious, refusing to leave. Every damn night they came, dragging her down into the same pit of torment she had been living in for years.

But today, she had barely slipped into that fragile quiet when Cecilia Valtor entered her room. The old woman moved with the kind of grace that only came with age, experience, and a heart that carried the weight of both grief and endless affection. She sat beside her granddaughter, her hand trembling slightly as it found its way into Eira’s tangled hair, stroking it gently, lovingly, as if afraid that even the faintest touch might shatter her into pieces. Her eyes softened as she admired the sleeping girl, but then her lips parted.

“Eira, child. Wake up,” Cecilia said.

If she had been more aware of her granddaughter’s fucked-up condition, she wouldn’t have dared. You don’t wake a beast in pain, you let it rest. But Cecilia’s heart couldn’t stand seeing her baby girl trapped in misery even in sleep.

Eira wasn’t a heavy sleeper—at least not in the normal sense. A single creak in the floor, a shift in air, the faintest sound, and she would wake with terror gripping her chest. But when the nightmares dragged her under, she was imprisoned. Nothing pulled her out unless the nightmare ended… or someone dared to call her name.

Her eyes snapped open, lashes fluttering, and the first sight she caught was her grandmother’s face. For a brief second, something warm, something fucking alien, settled in her chest. It felt good. Too good. Almost dangerous. But Eira had mastered the art of never showing shit she felt.

“Grandma, what are you doing here?” Her voice was flat, careful, almost distant.

“Just came here to wake you up and tell you to come for breakfast.” Cecilia’s lips curved in a smile, her hand patting Eira’s cheek like she used to when Eira was still a child.

“Grandma, I already told you last night that I’m not used to it. And nor—”

But Cecilia cut her off, her tone as soft as silk, soft enough to strangle resistance.

“Eira.”

That voice. Gentle, loving, fragile. The kind of voice people use for a wounded child. And wasn’t that what Eira was, at least for her grandmother? A child lost in the storm.

“It’s a request from your old grandma,” Cecilia continued. “I would love to have breakfast with you. And also because people should know of your presence. You don’t need to hide yourself from anyone. You’re my firefly.”

Her hand cupped Eira’s face, pulling her closer, and she pressed a kiss on her granddaughter’s forehead. For years, Eira had only known loneliness, sharp edges, and the bitterness of silence. Love was foreign. Affection was a fucking stranger. But right now, for the first time in forever, she felt it—a flicker of something warm. And it scared her shitless.

Because if love came, it could be taken away again.

Still, she nodded.

Cecilia began to stand, but her eyes flicked to the nightstand. Her body froze. There, laid carelessly yet betraying too much, were bottles of medicine. Not one or two. Fucking dozens.

Eira’s chest tightened, panic curling in her gut. She followed her grandmother’s gaze, and before Cecilia could reach for them, she swept the bottles into the drawer with one sharp move.

“What are these for? Eira. Are you sick?” Cecilia’s voice cracked with concern.

“No, Grandma. I’m not sick. It’s just… umm…” Her mind scrambled for a lifeline, for some half-believable bullshit that wouldn’t break Cecilia’s heart.

“Just what, Eira?”

Her throat tightened. She couldn’t tell her. Not now. Not ever. So she lied.

“Actually, I have a friend. She visits India for treatment. When she found out I was coming here, she asked me to bring her medicines from Italy since she ran out. So I bought them to send to her.”

The whole fucking story spilled out. A shaky lie. One Cecilia could have torn apart in seconds if she had looked closely enough. But the old woman only smiled, nodded, and left.

Eira let out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding. Relief came in waves, bitter and heavy. She had almost been caught. Too fucking close.

---

Present.

Valtor rules were strict. Cold. Absolute. One rule mattered more than most: everyone had to be fully ready before breakfast. No exceptions. No one broke it. Because if you weren’t ready, you weren’t eating.

But Eira? She didn’t give a fuck about their rules. Especially not when the rules carried the Valtor name.

She stepped out of her room with messy hair, still in her nightclothes. At least she had brushed her teeth and splashed some water on her face. Small victories.

Without hesitation, she pulled out a chair and sat beside her grandmother. Her face remained blank, her lips unsmiling. Smiles weren’t her thing—not anymore.

Joseph Valtor’s eyes flicked toward her. His jaw tightened, rage simmering because his precious fucking rule had been broken. But for some strange reason, he didn’t say a word. Shocking. The silence carried more weight than anger.

Clara Solenne Valtor shot her and looked sharp enough to cut. Then she rolled her eyes, dismissing her with silent judgment. In Clara’s eyes, Eira was nothing but a spoiled brat. A stain on the family’s image.

Nathaniel Valtor gave her a quick glance and nothing more. He didn’t care enough. Not yet.

Cecilia Valtor, though, sat proud and unbothered. To her, Eira wasn’t some disgrace at the table. She was her child. Her firefly. And no rule, no broken expectation, could change that.

But then there was him.

Alaric Valtor.

The President of fucking India. The man who could bring nations to their knees with a single order. Sitting on his usual chair, cold, calculated, and unreadable. But his eyes—those traitorous fucking eyes—kept betraying him. They kept flicking toward Eira. Minute after minute.

No one else noticed. No one else ever would. Because Alaric Valtor had mastered the art of being unseen even when his gaze lingered. He was the kind of man who could devour you alive in plain sight, and the world wouldn’t even notice until he wanted them to.

But would his game work on Eira?

Not a fucking chance.

Woah. I broke the sacred Valtor rule, and still, Grandpa didn’t rip me apart. Did the sun rise from the wrong fucking direction today, or did the universe glitch for a second? Either way, it’s amusing. His silence is almost entertaining.

Not that I felt happiness, sitting at the same goddamn breakfast table with the Valtors. Happiness doesn’t exist here. The only sliver of warmth pressing against my ice-cold chest came from the woman seated beside me—Grandma. Her presence was the only shield I had. I was still angry at her, though. Not the bone-deep hatred I carried for the rest of them—just a crackling little flame of anger. Because unlike the others, she never crushed me. She just… wasn’t there. And that absence had left scars.

But here he was. That fucking Alaric Valtor. Eyes cutting into me every damn minute, like his gaze was some kind of weapon he sharpened against my skin.

Why the hell was he staring? Was he planning to eat me alive instead of his breakfast? Jesus, Eira. You sound dirty. Yuck.

“Eira, what would you like to drink? There’s tea and coffee.” Grandma’s soft voice broke my train of thought.

“Tea.” I replied flatly.

“Oh, yes. You still don’t drink coffee,” she said knowingly, with a small smile curling her lips. She remembered—how I hated the bitter smell, how it made me nauseous, how I claimed I was allergic.

“Yeah, some habits never change.” My voice was quiet, but the words weren’t about coffee. Not really.

“Do you want some pancakes?” she asked, placing them gently on my plate as I sipped my tea.

“Who made them?” My fork hovered mid-air.

She hesitated. For a second, I thought she’d keep her mouth shut. But just as I was about to take a bite, she dropped it casually.

“Clara.”

My hand froze. I set the fork down and shoved the plate aside, not harshly, just firmly. “I don’t like pancakes.”

Mrs. Clara’s eyes burned into me, sharp, judgmental. I met them with a roll of my own, slow and deliberate.

“When can I go to college?” I asked, shifting my attention to Grandpa.

“Your admission has already been completed, and the other arrangements too. You can join from Monday,” he said, as if every word was a decree carved into stone.

“I’ll join today. I don’t want to waste time.”

“You should rest or enjoy yourself today and tomorrow.” His voice carried that commanding calm only the powerful could afford.

“I feel suffocated here. And I’m not here to ‘enjoy’ anything. I came back to complete the studies I was forced to abandon. Because of you.”

A ripple of silence spread across the table. The shock was almost laughable. Maybe no one had ever dared speak to the great Joseph Valtor like that. He was the king, wasn’t he? And kings weren’t used to being called out by girls they thought were pawns. But me? To me, they were all the same—enemies.

“Eira, mind your language. Is this how you talk to your grandfather?” Mr. Nathaniel finally opened his mouth. Sweet son, wasn’t he? Pathetic.

“Really? I shouldn’t talk like this to my grandfather?” My voice was calm, sharp like ice. “What can I do, when he fucking deserves it. Just like all of you do.”

“You’re really a mannerless girl". Mr. Nathaniel spat.

“Thanks for the compliment.” I sipped my tea, unbothered.

“See, Papa, I told you not to call her back. Now see how she’s talking to her elders,” Mrs. Clara sneered.

“Yes, Mrs. Clara. I told him the same. Not to call me. But here I am. Sitting at your precious family breakfast.” My voice dripped sarcasm.

“You are a mannerless girl. Nobody taught you manners, did they? That’s why you’re like this.” Mrs. Clara’s voice rose, anger spilling over fast. Woah. Triggered already? Impressive.

“Right. Because I was alone. No one was there for me. Unlike your Alaric, who had everyone the moment he opened his eyes. So yes, I’m like this. Maybe you forgot. Getting old does that to people. I understand.” I smiled at her, a mocking, sarcastic understanding etched into my face.

“ENOUGH.”

Grandpa’s roar shook the table. An angry old man finally snapped. Cute.

“Eira, you want to go to college? Fine. Go and get ready. Alaric will drop you. And no arguments.”

Fucking hell. Why him? Why this bastard?

I opened my mouth to protest, but Grandma’s hand slid under the table and wrapped around mine. A silent plea. Calm down. Let it go. Do as he says.

Her warmth was the only thing that held me back.

Without another word, I stood, my chair scraping against the marble, and walked away to get ready.

I waited outside the mansion, coat collar up against the chill, leaning on the hood of my car like a man who never truly belonged in stillness. Grandfather had ordered me to drop her to college—his phrasing left no room for argument—and tasked me with ensuring no one harassed or provoked her on the way. Protection, in his voice, masqueraded as command; I accepted it because orders were efficient. Besides, I wanted to see the way she moved in daylight, to catalog the threat she posed.

She emerged like a storm in motion, skirts absent and attitude present. I’d told her to wear something decent; she’d tested me instead. Of course, she had. That was Eira—too proud for courtesy, too hungry for chaos.

Her outfit.

She climbed into the backseat, planting herself as if I were a chauffeur, not the man who could revoke entire lives with a signature.

“Come out and sit in the passenger seat,” I said, voice flat, controlling. There was no plea in it. There wasn’t room for negotiation.

“You’re nothing to me and I don’t sit in the passenger seat with strangers,” she spat without looking up, fingers flying across her phone screen. Audacity? Hell. She had the nerve of a woman who’d been starved of consequence.

I repeated myself, sharper. “I’m telling you, Eira Valtor. Get out and sit in the passenger seat.”

“No,” she said, as if the words were armor. “I said no and it’s a no.”

I came around the car, and then the reason dissolved into muscle. I opened the rear door and grabbed her hand. She didn’t scream—didn’t even flinch—but I felt her resistance, cool and immovable. I dragged her out, and with a shove that was businesslike and final, pushed her into the passenger seat, the door slamming behind her with the satisfying finality of a gavel.

She sat there, chest heaving the faintest fraction, eyes fixed on me like she could kill me in a heartbeat. Good. Let her look. Let her hate. It made the game worth playing.

I slid behind the wheel, the engine throbbed beneath my palms, and we pulled away. She hadn’t bothered with a seatbelt. Of course she hadn’t. Rules existed to be ignored—when convenient. But not in my car. Not today.

“Wear your seatbelt,” I said, simple instructions that doubled as a test.

Silence. She didn’t move.

“My patience has limits, Eira,” I said, sharper now. “Put the seatbelt on.”

She leaned forward then, suddenly close enough that my skin prickled. What the fuck was she doing? Her breath ghosted my ear and for one ridiculous second my mind betrayed me. Then she screamed—shouted—so loud it ricocheted in the small space.

“FUCK OFF, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!” she barked, then fell back into the seat like nothing had happened, like she had simply pressed a button and reset herself.

She was a walking, breathing provocation. A living, snarling dare. My blood steadied into a slow, even throttle. I closed my jaw. I would handle her. Later. Personally.

God willing, I’d enjoy every minute of it.

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