AT MIDNIGHT ON December 31st, it's a beautiful New Year's Eve. I'm driving down an almost empty road to the club to party. I was supposed to get there straight away to celebrate the best time with people I grew up with.

Those important people are my friends. My life is a blank canvas without them—colorless.

That's why tonight was supposed to be ours.

And it's going to be ours, but of course, nothing in my life runs smoothly. And no, not something as ordinary as running out of petrol or engine trouble. My problems are more... personalized.

Dad: Did you finish the work I gave you or not?

Forgetting his tasks is like that last stupid canvas pin I always miss until I remember it and it cuts my skin.

Oh, now you remember me, bitch? Fine, bleed.

I glance at my car's screen and reread the texts I got a few minutes ago.

Sai: Seju, we all hv just left fr the party. Did Nil send u the location?
Preet: hv u left yet?

I quickly send a voice note to my friends, but I haven't called Dad. I'd have to lie, and I hate lying. Instead, I text his business partner.

Me: Hey, I'm Mr Dhananjay Luthra's daughter. Dad gave me your number. I have something for you related to him. Let me know if you're at Love's Dawn right now, cuz I'm on my way.

My world narrows to the single demand in Dad's text. So, I'll finish his work first. Also praying this doesn't turn into one of those tortoise-and-hare situations. The road bends ahead of me, stars running wild on my right, as if racing with my speed.

And my red Ferrari? It cruises along the calm river, revealing glimpses of my busy city lit up for celebration. I veer as the road curves.

After letting my car crawl for a couple of minutes on the main road, I reach the T-junction. Right takes me toward the party at the beach, and straight would take me to the city.
I turn left.

The party can wait, but this thing for Dad can't.

The GPS is showing five minutes left, straight down the road to the property.

How do I remember the route? Well, a few months ago, I dropped Dad off outside the Love's dawn after his emotional blackmail about spending time with him and his "family," since I hadn't been around.

I could write a book about all our problems, about all our differences, and about his family. My stepmother and her two daughters from her first husband. I don't like them, not because they're my stepsisters, but because of the constant burning that comes with complicated relationships. Something I refuse to choose for myself. It's better to live alone than to kill yourself every day.

Just from thinking about it is so exhausting that I don't even realize I've already reached the exact location.

The property is called Love's Dawn Estate—its walls guard the hidden world inside from the rest of the city. They rise like gods, daring anyone to cross their line. Calling it a "hidden spot" or a "private place" would be insulting because it's a full-fledged territory that belongs to only him.

I park in the open lot. I don't need to know what's beyond the wall. Whoever built this place wants the world to keep its distance. And anyone who still dares must be prepared to be tamed.

And why not? Rich people like him want to possess everything in their way. Even the evergreens surrounding the estate whip restlessly in the wind as if they want to stop me.

The place is giving bad vibes. Ravishing, yes, but... bad.
The location is beautiful with its European lines and symmetry everywhere, hidden under unusual walls that cage the beauty within.

Seconds pass. A long side door at the corner opens. A man peeks out, then walks toward my car. Damn, an actual human finally shows up. Another minute and I would've turned back, skipped inviting Dad's friend, and told Dad to call him himself. Why should I care anyway?

I'm only here because of this stupid "invite in person" culture.

A suited man crouches until he's level with it. From the corner of my eye, I see one of his hands is resting on something under his coat while the other touches the earpiece tucked into his ear. He loosens his hold, as if someone on the other end made him do it.

"I'm here to see—" I start, unzipping the front pocket of my bag to pull out a party invitation card. I need to meet Mr. Tapish Adyanthaya."

That's quite a pause for a name. Saying his full name has made me think twice.

"Miss Sahej Luthra? Right."
"Hello, I am Sankalp Raj, head of security for this estate and bodyguard of Mr. Tapish Adyanthaya. I've been informed of your visit. I will escort you from here to his office."

Oh, see, I could tell this guy is into security.

He retreats slightly, offering a businesslike handshake.

"No worries, and glad to meet you, Mr. Raj," I reply casually, shaking his hand.

He nods while I unlock the door to let him enter the car.

***

Minutes pass by. The high walls of the estate end once we have made it through the gate, and finally I'm inside the property, which I thought was going to be a tough job with all the scanning and stuff. The wheels are rolling us right towards a curve. Everything is going smoothly.

My car's moving down the driveway when Sankalp guides me to a road that leads to the official building.

The lovely lawn runs parallel to the driveway, separating the garden, with borders of lively green grass, ferns, and small wildflowers sporting purple and white flowers.

The earthy smells have distracted me, and in less than a minute, the place reveals itself. In the foreground stands a building surrounded by the sandy field that takes my breath away.

It's legitimately stunning.

An architect must've drawn this soon after landing from London, still high on those 19th-century vibes. Being an artist myself, I can't stop admiring the symmetrical interplay of iron, cast iron, and glass. A three-story building. A large gabled roofline with a central raised section.

A series of large, arched windows and doors looks crazier as we get closer.

Fucking stunning pieces of art.

This place is on the outskirts of Jashnpur. I don't know why the building, which could be used as a cultural center, is being used for work or loading. I get that thought out of my mind as my car drives over the sandy area that extends from the side of the building, with marks of it stretching along the structure. Some parts still under construction look haunting at night.

Sankalp suggests a spot right in front of the building entry.

I agree.

The guy seems way too professional with me, but I let him open my car door. He's given me some space to gather myself as I fix my hair and look at my face in the mirror before I step out.

Once I come out of the car, I glance at Sankalp and ask, "How come I've never seen this place before?"

"This is a decades-old factory."

Words escape me; I am amazed.

I start to actually notice what's around me as I go, something I picked up from being an artist. I observe everything. Every detail, every placement.

Across the hallway, it's empty, just patterned tiles spread across the floor. On the left, there's a pleasant corner with an old-school industrial bar against the wood. It was clear from the outside that the place had a high ceiling, black steel lining, and hanging lamps. Paired with warm wooden furniture — exactly how I'd pictured it before.

Bottles of red and white wine, all high-end and branded, stock the bar shelves. Traditional chairs and a minuscule table with some tissue paper nicely arranged. Figured people drink here.

It isn't enough; I am so curious.

Walking with Sankalp on the ground level, I look up at the building's open balconies, which are more like mezzanines and cover the total square, too much for my eyes to catch all at once.

Sankalp leads me through an open door behind a huge spiral staircase. While we walk down the glass-walled hallway, a phone rings, forcing my attention back to the man beside me.

He's attentive; answers the phone in a formal tone. "Yes, Boss."

"Okay, Boss." His baritone is urgent, as if he's receiving important instructions. "Yes, Boss, everything is under control."

"Done, Boss."

I try to eavesdrop on the man's conversation, but I can only catch snippets of what he is saying.

I find nothing.

Anyway, since the time I entered the labyrinth of corridors, my focus stays more on the interior than the people, though I catch sight of a few men in black work uniforms, different from Sankalp's. Their spines straighten as if pulled by some intangible force; they see Sankalp. Then they leave the space to exit.

But I'm not interested in knowing.

The entire building has the same look, and the men protecting it all seem like tiny ants.

The call ends. I ask, "Was it, Mr. Adyanthaya?"

Tapish Adyanthaya. He is Dad's friend, and to be honest, I don't know him, except for the fact that he is the adopted son—heir, I should add—of Dharamraj Talwar, the nation's multi-billionaire industrialist. Uncle Dharamraj is also my dad's closest friend since I was a kid.

Weird, right? Well, not the adopted part; that's fine. What's weird is the surname. Why is it different? What's the story behind that? I mean, I couldn't care less...

"Yes, also the boss said to show you his office, and he'll see you there."

"This way, miss." He gestures towards the stone archway to my left, the entrance to the inner corridor.

Exiting the outer hallway, the temperature drops gradually as we step into a lobby that feels almost medieval. The grand space, made of black stone and rough limestone flooring, is cold.

A black spiral staircase looms over the circular foyer, going up to the floor but hiding a private doorway underneath. We enter the corridor that goes on, long, quiet, and lit with a warm, amber color.

I ignore the two guards standing by the private entry; they step aside as soon as Sankalp gestures for them to go. We walk past the first doors, not glancing at the rooms, and keep walking.

At the very end of it, we finally stop at the last door. The boss's cabin.

I strongly feel like this place is for the boss's visit, to monitor the work that is happening here; in between, to have a few drinks with his few men who work here, and then the boss leaves. And the next day, the cycle is supposed to repeat. What a boring life!

"Ma'am, would you care for something to drink? Water, tea, or anything special?"

"No, I am fine.'

"Sure, ma'am. Please be comfortable — the place is completely under surveillance, and you're our boss's friend's daughter, so your safety is our high concern."

The man gives me a respectful, quiet smile, still pressed against his lips as he, in just one sentence, tells me I'm safe. I already knew I was, but hearing it from him makes me feel at ease.

Inside the cabin, it hasn't even been that long since I've been sitting alone like this, in the chair against the desk, all alone, since Sankalp left. The rich, woodsy odor of the cabin is already overwhelming me.

It's not those smells that hit you, make you dizzy, or give you a migraine if you are new to the environment.

It actually calms your nerves with its sweet smell. My fingers continue to fidget with one another.

I really hate this. It's not that being alone bothers me, but listening to my heartbeat and breaths in a stranger's place makes me feel agitated.

So, I get up from my chair to see the office, as it's not boring even though the palette is dominated by shades of espresso.

Right in the center, this massive dark desk just owns the room.

The floor's rich wood, too, is half-hidden by a fancy beige-and-cream rug. I walk along the table, running my fingers over the surface and feeling it.

And then stand in the free space between the wall and behind the main desk. A dark brown leather chair, tall enough to reach my shoulder level, sits behind the desk. Too smug and too intimidating, especially compared to the other two identical client chairs where I sat a minute ago.

From here I peer at a wide archway to an adjoining room, and on the top, there are these soft, tan panels with two antelope heads mounted at a certain height.

Totally fake, has to be.

Antelopes are sacred in this city. Use of a real one will land you straight in jail.

To the left of the office are all windows stretching from floor to ceiling, letting the moonlight sneak in and mixing with the office lights, making everything look... expensive.

Everything here screams control.

Like the entire office is built around that damn desk — where he probably sits, running his empire.

His world here is all about old-money beauty twisted with power and calm tied to danger.

It isn't calm that I feel.

It's that active calmness that still hasn't left the room even if its owner already has. It's still being felt even now.

I haven't moved from one spot, absentmindedly running my fingers through the titles and grabbing a book.

Oh, it's Spanish literature!

I put it back on its shelf.

I wonder. I don't know what my dad's friend really looks like and have been unaware of his age either, but judging by the wide range of books, he seems interested in the arts too.

All my exploring hasn't gone to waste; my nerves are at rest, and I'm barely uneasy now, and it helped me to find out about the person before meeting him.

As there is an extra room and I still have time, I peer in. By the aesthetics, I'm a hundred percent sure the room is made for informal discussion, with a hall of fame wall within this room with a collection of multiple framed landscape paintings.

Then, looking at another painting on the wall, it flips my stomach.

Damn, one of the paintings is my art. I wasn't expecting this, not at all. I never thought my artwork would end up being in the most unexpected place.

I know Dad used to sell my paintings to his business partners under my artist name, but seeing them here with my own eyes? That's a whole different shock.

I grab my hair, twist the long locks into a bun, then let my hair fall again before tying a low ponytail. While I focus on my painting, nostalgia hits me.

How young I was when I got the idea for this painting! Oh, my little self.

Since I was a kiddo, I have loved painting, and I wanted to make it my career as soon as I graduated.

I frown. I don't want to remember my old self.

My past. Just this part of me was memorable.

Midway, a weird feeling prickles my exposed neck. It happens when I strongly sense I'm being watched. Urgent enough to make me stop and turn.

And I'm so accurate.

A man stands at the door, tall, six-two, possibly more, a classic mesomorph, clad in blue trousers and a dark blue shirt. The few buttons of his shirts are open. If power were in love with balance, it would be muscular but not excessive.

His intense stare latches onto mine, while all I can focus on is the magnetic face. Having a sexy beard on that pretty face can make any beard-loving woman go wet.

What the fuck am I even thinking?

I find myself unable to tear my gaze away.

Also, I'm battling to find the words I should say; I'm entirely zoned out as to why I've come here in the first place. He walks toward me, and every word inside me gets locked away.

Wait, he's really coming this way. When did I lose control like this? I don't react to men, never like this. But something's different tonight. Every nerve in my body feels awake, trembling, alive.

Damn it, girl, I never liked this kind of guy. What is happening? Okay, it's only because I didn't expect a dad's friend to be this good-looking.

And yes, for a few seconds, he has the skills that have already weakened my knees because that body deserves at least some part of my adoration.

But that's all he gets.

He's not the kind that could make my lust overclock the time I've allowed myself for him.

He crosses his office to walk into the extra room and stand right before me; our eyes lock, but mine betray me. Black tattoos are all over his neck, like they're choking him, and more tattoos spill down his arms.

It's a big red flag for me; inky men often come off as arrogant and aggressive. Well, I know I shouldn't judge every guy just because I have a really horrible experience that claws at my neck every time I think about it.

I will, no matter what, protect myself.

My steps fall back the second he bends down. I don't even stop to think why. But he does too; he picks something up from near my feet. Now he's standing right in front of me. His gaze drifts over my hair before meeting my eyes.

"Miss... Luthra," his voice rumbles low but confident; it's more of a controlled voice, leaving a vibration behind.

"Yes," I reply simply, even though the things I'm feeling betray me, trying not to react much or reveal my thoughts.

"Your hair tie," he says, his voice piercing the ether.

My gaze slips from his eyes to his hand—he's holding my hair tie. Damn. When did I drop it? And where the hell was my attention? That I didn't hear his footsteps coming in the first place—maybe I was too lost to care about the most important person this office belongs to.

"Thanks."

The silence in the room is so thick. I can actually feel my voice.

Shit.

He retreats a little. "You're here?"

"Yeah, to give you an invitation," I reply, forcing a smile that I hope hides my self-consciousness.

He raises an eyebrow, unsure. "In this hour?" He turns his face towards the window, and it's given me some real fucking seconds where I can calm my breathing.

Moving to his massive leather chair, he gestures toward the ones opposite it. "Please take a seat." Yet again, his voice still doesn't leave the flat slope, as if he lacks emotion or has a limited wavelength. I cautiously take a step towards the chair.

While I take mine, he leaves his jacket on the chair of the extra room.

"Are you okay?" he asks once I'm seated, looking directly into my eyes, and I divert my gaze to the bag.

"Here is your invitation," I say, avoiding his question.

I place the invitation on his desk. Not for a second do I look into his eyes after seeing those tattoos.

He lets his back lean on the chair while his eyes are focusing on and studying the card. I draw myself to the window.

The night is as inky as the visible tattoos on his body; he looks dangerous in a hot body.

"Miss Sahej." His voice cuts through my thoughts.

I fully rotate my attention back to the man in front of me. I know I can't avoid him now; I have to look into those rare black eyes.

At these hours, it looks even darker.

Yet my courage leads me to look into his eyes, which are already fixed on me.

"Yes?"

"You seem lost."

I pause, contemplating. I gather my calm self and reply, "Oh, sorry. I was just... You were saying something?"

But my words come out unsteady.

I blink a few times.

His expression softens slightly, but he nods, seemingly unsatisfied.

"It's your dad's birthday." He looks at the card and then me.

"Yes," I smile, but he doesn't show any expression.

"You could have sent someone for the invitation. You shouldn't have come here."

Given his words and his eyes, if I'm not overanalyzing his lack of expression, I've just noticed his voice texture has slightly changed. It is like he is disappointed.

"Yeah, I'm sure Dad must've already invited you over the phone, but your invitation card...I remember it at the last minute. So, I thought I'd drop by and invite you personally."

"I see,"

"And how did you get the location?"

"Uh, I remember."

Oh, no, I don't want to go there, giving him every fucking detail, like how my dad wants every single one. I'm done with informing him about my whereabouts every damn single time.

"You remember a godown?" He corrects me; by this time, his voice is solemn and dark with distrust.

"What? A godown?" It doesn't seem like a property for a godown. My nerves are getting tighter; I smell fear.

Am I in trouble?

Am I not supposed to be here? Of course not, Sahej; relax. I tell myself.

And the man's skeptical gaze stays questioning my judgment. Maybe I should have been more cautious and done my research properly.

"Hmm, is there any problem?" I ask and start linking my fingers together.

"No!" he answers cryptically, pausing briefly as if he were contemplating something before continuing. "And thank you for the invitation, and I'll definitely come."

"Do you want water, coffee or any other drink?" He pulls the drawer open and puts the card inside.

"No, thank you."

With my bag in hand, I'm already prepared to leave, but his phone stops me.

"Mr. Luthra," he says, my dad's name. His head moves slightly at the call, but his eyes—his unreadable eyes—stay locked on mine.

Then he hands the phone to me. "Your dad wants to speak with you."

I nod less for him, more for the confrontation waiting for me on the other end. I take the phone carefully, making sure our fingers don't touch. My throat dries before I can even speak. Fixing my eyes on the floor, I sigh, "Yes, Dad."

I'm so tired and sick of it.

"Sahej," his voice booms through the line, firm and disappointed.

Well, my dad feels the same for me.

"How many times have I told you not to party out so late at night? And what are you even doing in that area?"

"Dad..." I excuse myself softly, turning away.

If I don't, I look like a daddy's princess, which I'm not. And I don't even want to be. He's got two daughters, for the princess treatment.

I walk toward the window.

It feels safer to talk from a distance. For a strange reason, the man sitting behind that desk looks like someone who could read me—like he could trace every secret written behind my eyes.

"Dad, I just came to drop off the invitation cards. I told you I wanted to invite my friends. I have no idea how I forget it last minute," I say, my gaze drifting to the glass pane.

I've repeated the same old phrase I used on that man in a hot business suit a moment ago.

Outside, the night presses in thick and silent. A lone streetlight flickers, and beneath it, a man is doing his work, but I shift slightly, stepping out of sight.

The last thing I want is to be seen standing in their boss's office at this hour.

"You said you'd meet your friends in the daytime," my father reminds me sternly.

"I know; the plan got canceled."

By now I'm whispering, "Dad, for God's sake, stop interrogating me about every little thing. You can just ask if I'm fine—and I'll say yes. Anyway... I'm going to the party location."

A pause. Then, in a clipped tone: "You are not."

"It's New Year's night."

"Give the phone to Mr. Adyanthaya."

I turn and walk toward the table, phone in hand, carrying it to Mr. Adyanthaya. I keep my gaze fixed anywhere but not on his because my eyes feel silent, hollow, and heavy, as if they've forgotten how to feel.

Why does Dad always have to control everything around me?

I know I shouldn't have come to a stranger's workplace at this hour. It's reckless, foolish even. But I did it for him. For Dad.

I'd heard plenty about Tapish Adyanthaya, and when I saw his invitation card, Dad himself wanted me to give it. I thought, maybe if I gave it personally to his friend, Dad would be pleased.

Maybe he'd loosen his grip, even just a little.

He does not want to celebrate his birthday at home with me. He wants a grand party, something loud and glittering. And I don't say a word. I just did what he wanted for his birthday, like always. But sometimes I wonder—will there ever be a day when the distance between us fades? It grew only after Mom died. And after his second marriage... it became a gap I can no longer see past.

Tapish brings the phone close to his ear and murmurs a soft "Excuse me."

By this time my face is down, low enough to hide my numb eyes, and I nod at him.

A few seconds pass, and he listens for a moment to whatever my father is saying. Then, without a word, he rises—tall, composed—and gestures politely for a moment of privacy before walking toward the door.

From where I stand, I watch the way his body shifts, one hand tucked casually into his pocket, the other holding the phone. His stance says business, not small talk. They're discussing something serious. He glances over his shoulder once—just a fleeting look—then turns back and continues the conversation in a clipped, professional tone.

I can tell it's all formal, detached... like every conversation Dad ever has.

I try to ignore the familiar sting—the suffocating sense of control that always finds me. Instead, I do what I always do when the walls start closing in. Distract myself before I start crying. Because crying, especially in front of this stranger who looks almost my age, is not an option.

So, I move. Slowly. Toward the wall. My fingers brush against the frames hanging there, tracing the outlines of the paintings, pretending to study them while all I'm really doing... is holding myself together.

But another painting beside this one catches my attention, a picture of a woman sucking a red cherry and wearing dark red lipstick, with juice dripping down her chin. The painting screams sensuality, not something you'd hang in a professional space.

The image itself isn't objectionable, but hanging it in an office space is rather icky. The woman in the painting was meant to evoke sensuality and charm, not to be displayed in a professional setting. It's hard for me to believe that my dad befriended him if that were the case.

There is an abstract painting of several women laboring. One of them is depicted feeding a child, while another carries a bucket of cement on her head. The painting features at least four women, each symbolizing a different aspect of the working world. Another painting captures a dark theme: a house ablaze in flames after a fire incident.

I'm lost in the strokes of the painting when his voice cuts through the silence. "So, what's the story behind this one?"

I turn slightly, eyes still on the canvas. "The kind you can't really put into words," I say softly.

"Oh—sorry," I murmur, almost flustered. "It's emotional; that's why."

I move closer, gaze shifting to another painting. "And what about this one?"

A bitter smile touches my lips. "That one's... an ex-breakup gift. My girlfriend gave it to me—right before she left."

"Oh," I whisper, guilt catching in my throat. "I shouldn't have asked."

He shrugs lightly. "It's fine. Just the past."

His scent has already blended into mine—I don't even realize how close we are standing until now. For a minute, I'm mesmerized... maybe not by the paintings anymore, but just by how he watches the woman in the painting every day.

I wonder why.
Do people still miss their exes after a breakup? Because I don't. I hate every single memory.

I try to shake it off, clearing my throat. "I should leave. Good night, Mr. Adyanthaya."

I excuse myself and return to the chair, grabbing the long coat hanging over it. I can feel the illicitly magnetic-inked man watching me. I can feel his eyes watching me the second I move.

His footsteps come before he says anything, his voice calm and gestures chivalrous. "Please allow me. I heard you had trouble getting here."

I move subtly when his hand comes near, awaiting my approval. It's surprisingly effortless, almost organic, and I allow it to happen. I've let no one do that before. He takes the coat and helps me slip into it. Not once do his fingers touch me, yet I feel every move. He's gentle. He makes it look easy, and he's incredibly precise in everything he does.

"Yeah, just a little but worth it," he murmurs, as if to himself.

I pull my hair out from under the collar and tie it loosely with a band. When I glance up, Tapish has already stepped back... only to return with his own jacket.

"Let me drop you," he says simply.

. . . . ╰──╮𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪╭──╯ . . . .

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