Author pov…

3rd Day – America – 8:00 AM

Zephyr was sprawled across his bed, muscles stiff and mind foggy from a restless night. Shayeli's relentless teasing and his own stubborn attempts at warnings had left him drained, his brain buzzing with frustration. The morning sun filtered through the curtains, but he barely noticed.

A soft knock on the door preceded a gentle, but firm voice.

"Sir... wake up, please. Your father is calling you downstairs. It seems urgent," the maid said, her tone polite but carrying that unmistakable weight that meant he wasn't getting out of this easily.

Zephyr groaned, burying his face in the pillow. "Ugh... what now?" he muttered, dragging himself upright. Sleep clung stubbornly, but he had no choice. With a heavy sigh, he stumbled toward the staircase, half-expecting the day to get worse.

The Slade estate was silent, weighed down by history and power. Inside the study, shelves of rare books lined the walls, the scent of old cigars and leather clinging to the air. Cassian Slade sat in his carved mahogany chair, posture regal despite the years etched into his frame. His hair, silver but still thick, was slicked back neatly. His tailored suit spoke of wealth and influence, but the aura around him—calm, controlled, heavy with unspoken authority—was unmistakably old mafia.

By the time he reached his father's study, he hadn't fully woken. That is, until a thick file hit him square in the face with a solid thwack.

"What the hell, Dad? What did I do now?" he exclaimed, rubbing his forehead as the sting jolted him fully awake.

Cassian Slade didn't flinch. Calm as always, he gestured toward the papers. "Read. All of it."

Zephyr blinked, his sleep-addled brain trying to process the contents. His eyes widened as he skimmed through the documents. One of Cassian's most profitable branches had been taken over—by Mr. X.

"What the... fuck!" he hissed, slamming the file onto the desk.

"I knew he was going to do something, but this, Dad?" Zephyr roared, slamming the file onto the desk. "One of our most profitable branches—taken, just like that!"

Cassian winced, covering his ear with a large, weathered hand. "Don't shout. It stings," he muttered irritably, massaging the side of his head.

Zephyr's mother's fire ran in his veins. Loud, bold, unafraid—the same traits that once made Cassian bend to her will. Cassian looked at his son and sighed, a shadow of that woman flickering in him.

"What did you do now to piss him off?" Cassian asked, tone edged with annoyance but laced with caution.

Zephyr spun around, indignant. "Dad, I didn't do anything! I just... I just went to her. As a friend. To warn her. If she ever finds out what he really is, at least she won't blame me for keeping quiet."

Cassian raised a brow, suspicion glinting in his aged eyes. "Oh? So Zayden does have a girlfriend, then?"

The name slipped out before either of them realized. The moment it left Cassian's lips, silence crashed over the room. Both men froze. Cassian's gaze dimmed, his entire face sagging with grief, while Zephyr clenched his jaw, staring at the floor. The weight of one name—Zayden—shattered the fragile balance of their conversation.

For a long, suffocating moment, neither could look at the other. One family, once bound together, broken in an instant that still echoed years later.

Finally, Zephyr's voice broke the silence, low and uneven. "It's Andrew," he said, almost spitting the name, refusing to meet Cassian's eyes. He turned on his heel and walked out, leaving the room colder than before.

Cassian sat frozen, his powerful demeanor cracked, shoulders heavy. Slowly, his gaze drifted to a framed photograph on the desk—a family picture from long ago. His hand trembled as he brushed the glass.

"Did you see?" Cassian whispered softly, as if speaking to the absent face. His lips curved into a faint, broken smile. "He's got a girl. Maybe... maybe he's happy now. After so many years, he's finally getting his share of happiness."

The old man leaned back, eyes glistening, the weight of his past pressing down harder than ever.

Italy – Veneto – 2:00 AM

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, Andrew sat alone in his study, one hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey, the other idly tossing his phone onto the polished wooden table. His mind wasn't on the drink or the quiet of the Venetian night—it was on America.

Shayeli. The reckless way she had thrown herself into danger, the way Zephyr had attempted to meddle, the audacity of their actions—it all ran circles in his head.

He leaned back in his chair, jaw tight, eyes narrowing. His revenge had already begun—one of Cassian's most profitable branches, the one that mattered most, had been shut down. Andrew didn't need to destroy Cassian entirely; this was punishment enough. Zephyr would learn control the hard way, without Andrew lifting a finger beyond observation.

As for Shayeli... she was under his silent protection, completely unaware that his men tracked her every move. Andrew smiled faintly, almost to himself, imagining her blissful ignorance. Yet the reckless act of the Ferrari incident burned in his mind. He wanted to fly to America, to see her, to take his share . Zephyr has been like Andrew enemy. Well they both can't stand each other.

His eyes flicked to his phone. There she was—her wallpaper, a small, private joy, the knowledge that she was safe almost enough to calm him... almost. But soon, very soon, he would be back and take his share and tell her clearly to whom she should reach first.

[4th Day]

The guard stood rigidly at the main door of the warehouse-like building, rifle slung across his chest. This was the same guard at whom Andrew has doubt.The night air was damp, carrying the smell of wet soil and steel. His job was simple—watch, wait, and report—but his nerves were already on edge after the fire incident.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He stiffened, glancing around before pulling it out, shielding the screen with his hand. The glow of the message cut through the darkness:

"Run from the back door tonight. Andrew is trying to find out who is behind the fire. Escape before it's too late."

His grip on the phone faltered. For a second, he nearly dropped it. His throat tightened as if an invisible hand squeezed it. Sweat beaded at his hairline, trickling down the side of his face, even though the night air was cool.

He shifted uncomfortably, the strap of his rifle digging into his damp uniform. His hands trembled as he tried to steady the phone, quickly locking it and shoving it back into his pocket. But the message burned in his mind, word for word.

His chest rose and fell too fast. He adjusted his cap, hoping the men patrolling nearby wouldn't notice the sheen of sweat on his forehead or the way his eyes darted restlessly toward the jungle's edge. His tongue darted across dry lips.

For the first time, standing guard felt like a death sentence. Every creak of the door behind him, every crunch of boots on gravel, made him flinch. He wiped his palms against his trousers, trying to hide the tremor in his hands.

The guard forced himself to stand straighter, rifle tight against his body, but inside, his mind screamed only one thought:

Run. Before Andrew finds out.

The guard's nerves had been shredded since the message. Sweat clung to his back beneath the uniform, every second on duty stretching like hours. Finally, he muttered to the nearest man at the post:

"I'm going to the washroom. Be back in a minute."

Nobody questioned him—routine excuses never raised suspicion. He slipped inside the building, boots echoing softly on the concrete floor. But unlike outside, the inside was even more suffocating. Almost every hallway had a man posted. Eyes everywhere.

His pulse quickened. He couldn't just vanish. He needed a disguise.

That's when luck—or desperation—hit. A manager strolled past, flipping through some documents, too distracted to notice the guard's tense stare.

"Sir," the guard called, stepping closer. "There's a small issue in your section. I need you to take a look."

The manager frowned but nodded, walking ahead. The guard led him into an empty cabin, closed the door quietly behind them... and struck.

A swift blow to the back of the head. The manager crumpled without a sound. The guard's breaths came harsh and fast, but adrenaline steadied his hands as he stripped the man of his clothes, sliding into the crisp jacket and trousers. He pulled a black mask over his face, tucked the manager's ID into his pocket, and stepped out.

For a moment, his heart froze—but then, it worked. Men passed him in the hallway and nodded respectfully, mistaking him for their superior. He nodded back curtly, forcing himself to walk with authority, each step rehearsed.

He scanned the ID at a checkpoint—beep! The light flashed green. The door slid open. Relief surged through him. One building down. Another to go.

He kept moving, breath shallow beneath the mask. Finally, after weaving through corridors and stairwells, he reached the back door. Freedom. The jungle's dark silhouette waited beyond the metal barrier. His trembling hands reached for the latch—

A hand clamped onto his shoulder.

"We caught him," a voice growled.

The guard spun, shoving the man off with desperate strength. His disguise had cracked. Footsteps thundered down the corridor. Another man lunged. The guard swung wildly, fists connecting, then drove his knee into the man's gut. For a moment, he thought he'd broken through, survival pushing him forward.

But then—CRACK!

A sharp kick sent him sprawling face-first onto the cold concrete floor. Pain flared across his cheek as his vision blurred.

He groaned, forcing his eyes open. And there, in front of him, boots planted firmly, posture like a shadow carved from steel, stood none other than Andrew.

His presence was suffocating. Calm. Deadly. Absolute.

The guard's last memory before unconsciousness was the weight of that stare—cold, merciless, and all-knowing.

The world went black.

.

.

.

The guard jolted awake as cold water splashed across his face. His breath came ragged, chest heaving against the ropes tying him to the chair. The room was bare, walls of concrete stained with age, the air heavy with silence. Only a single bulb hung above, casting a harsh white circle of light on him. Everything else was drowned in shadow.

He blinked through the sting of water, and then he saw him.

Andrew.

Sitting directly across from him, leaned back in his chair like he owned the world. His legs crossed with calculated ease, one arm draped lazily on the armrest, the other holding a cigar between his fingers. The smoke curled upward, slow and mocking. His coat hung on the back of his chair, his shirt sleeves rolled just enough to show the veins on his forearms.

But it wasn't his posture that made the guard's blood run cold—it was his eyes. Calm. Piercing. Deadly.

Two men stood like statues on either side of Andrew, shadows looming, ready to act at a single gesture.

Andrew exhaled a stream of smoke, his voice low and steady.
"Now," he said, tilting his head, "you're going to open your mouth. Because if you don't, I'll make you."

The guard's lips trembled, his throat dry. "P-please... I didn't mean—"

CRACK!

Andrew's fist connected with his jaw in a single, precise blow-not wild, not rushed, but controlled and brutal. The sound echoed in the dim room, louder than the guard's muffled groan as his head snapped to the side. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, the metallic tang filling the air.

Andrew didn't move from his seat. His body was relaxed, leaned back, but his eyes... they sliced through the man with lethal calm.

"Bark." The word slipped from his lips like venom-quiet, almost gentle, yet heavy enough to crush the air out of the room. It wasn't a command. It was a warning, a reminder of who held the leash.

The guard's body shook. Finally, words tumbled out of him.

"My wife... she—she's sick. Diagnosed. I need money... a lot of it. I couldn't... I couldn't afford the treatment. He came to me and offered money. I—I thought it was just to deliver something, to—"

Andrew leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees now, cigar back between his fingers. He didn't blink.
"Who gave you the order?"

"I don't know his name," the guard whispered, eyes darting helplessly. "He never said. He... he told me not to ask. Said I'd get paid, that's all. I swear I don't know the motive."

Andrew's gaze narrowed, dangerous calm spreading through the room. He took a slow drag of the cigar, exhaled the smoke toward the guard's face.
"You're telling me a man put fire in my empire, and you didn't think to ask why?"

The guard flinched. "I—he never—"

One of Andrew's men slammed a fist into the wall beside the guard's head, the sound cracking like thunder. The guard nearly jumped out of the chair, sweat dripping down his temples.

Andrew stayed seated, still calm, his voice chilling.
"Describe him."

The guard's voice cracked. "I... I only saw him once. His face—no, I couldn't see it. He kept it low. He's tall... dull skin, nothing special, like a normal man. But..." His eyes flickered, remembering. "He had this... unique way of smoking. He didn't drag it like most people. He'd sip it. Like drinking the cigar instead of smoking it. I—I never saw anyone do it that way before."

Andrew's jaw tightened, the smallest shift in his expression, but the guard noticed it. He shrank in fear, thinking he'd said something wrong.

Andrew crushed the cigar slowly in the ashtray, leaned back again, legs crossing once more, eyes locked on the guard with the weight of death itself.

"You just sold your soul for a pile of money," Andrew said quietly. "And you don't even know who bought it."

The guard swallowed hard, trembling, his entire body screaming regret.

The guard's breath came fast, ragged. He begged again, voice cracking. "P-please... I didn't mean—"

Andrew rose without hurry, the movement casual and final. He stepped around the table, the single bulb above throwing half his face into shadow. The men at his side shifted closer, obedient and silent.

Then Andrew placed the gun against the guard's lips—cold metal pressing into the wet heat of the man's mouth. The guard's eyes widened; he gagged, a raw sound that choked off.

"Open your fucking mouth," Andrew said, his voice low and smooth as oil. It wasn't a shout. It was the kind of command that let no room for choice. He rested the barrel there as if testing the man's spine.

The guard keened, words tumbling. "I—please—my wife—"

Andrew's hand tightened on the weapon. He leaned in close, so close the guard could smell the cigar smoke and the faint citrus of Andrew's aftershave. "Any last wish?" Andrew asked, almost bored. "No need. I don't have any time."

He positioned the muzzle as if to prove it—cold, absolute. The guard's eyes went white with terror; his throat worked. For a hairline second the world narrowed to the metal and the white of the guard's terrified eyes.

Then a phone rang, cutting through the room like a ridiculous, human interruption. Andrew's expression didn't change at first; the sound was an annoyance. He let the guard stare for a single, suspended beat—then pulled his hand back and flipped open his phone. The call ID flashed: Shayeli.

For a second, something like sunlight cracked across Andrew's face. He took the call. Her voice—frustrated, tiny and impatient—floated through the phone: "Andrew, where did you put your brown hoodie?"

And in that unreal moment, with the barrel still warm in his hand, he smiled. The weight of the gun, the threat, the kill he'd been about to make—everything slipped away for two ordinary, dangerous minutes.

Andrew's smile from Shayeli's call faded into nothingness. His expression reset into the mask that made grown men choke on their own fear. He lowered the gun, but his eyes never left the guard's face.

A simple tilt of his head.

That was all it took. His men understood. One of them stepped forward, silent, efficient, and took the pistol from Andrew's hand. The guard started shaking his head violently, chair scraping against the floor as he tried to push back. His pleas spilled out—"No! Please, I told you everything, I swear! Please, sir!"

Andrew didn't look at him again. He turned his back, slipped on his coat with precise movements, and walked toward the door. The muffled bang that followed didn't break his stride. His men had taken the lead. The matter was closed.

Outside, the night in Veneto was heavy with silence, broken only by the low hum of crickets. Andrew stepped into the cool air, pulling out a second phone—the one no one knew he had. He unlocked it with a flick, eyes narrowing as he checked the time. 1:00 a.m. in Italy. Which meant in America, it was just turning 6:00 a.m.

"Relax, shy lady," he muttered under his breath, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth, "why so tense this early?"

He tapped into the private CCTV feed he had running in Shayeli's apartment—his insurance, his obsession, his tether. The screen lit up with the grainy but clear view of her.

Shayeli stood on a stool in her bedroom, messy hair spilling down as she stretched on tiptoe, trying to dig into the top shelf of his cupboard. She was muttering under her breath, frustrated, every move exaggerated by her irritation. The hoodie. His hoodie.

Andrew leaned against his car, cigar dangling loosely between his fingers as the smoke curled upward, his gaze glued to the screen. The contrast was brutal—minutes ago he had commanded death with a flick of his hand, and now he was watching her search for something as ordinary as a piece of clothing.

For two breaths, the infamous Mr. X was no mafia king, no predator lurking in shadows. He was just a man, watching the woman who unknowingly held his entire sanity in her small, stubborn hands.

Andrew's lips curved faintly. "There it is... left corner, top shelf," he murmured softly into the phone.

On the screen, Shayeli finally spotted the sleeve of his brown hoodie. Her eyes lit up with triumph as she tiptoed higher on the stool, fingers stretching toward it.

She hummed, distracted, reaching with all her focus on the prize. But just as her hand closed around the fabric, the stool wobbled under her feet. Her body tilted—one wrong step and she'd crash to the floor.

Andrew shot upright, every muscle locking. "Careful, shy lady! What the hell are you doing?" His voice came sharp, panicked, cutting through the speaker.

On screen, Shayeli wobbled on the stool, hoodie finally in her hand. She clutched it tight and exhaled, managing to grab the cupboard handle and steady herself. She clutched the hoodie to her chest, muttering under her breath, "Bach gayi."

Shayeli froze, blinking. "Wait... one minute." She tilted her head, suspicion flickering in her eyes. "How do you know I was about to fall?"

Andrew's jaw tightened. For a second, the silence between Italy and America felt heavier than the ocean. He ground the cigar between his fingers, then forced his voice into lazy calm. "Your tone. You sounded panicked when you said that. I could tell."

She narrowed her eyes at the hoodie in her arms, not fully convinced but lacking any proof. With a small sigh, she slid down from the stool and changed the subject. "Fine. tell me—when are you coming back?"

Andrew smirked faintly, watching the live feed of her pouting lips and messy hair. His voice dipped lower, teasing, laced with a promise only she would understand."Why? Didn't know you were so eager to finish what we started, shy lady."

Her sharp inhale on the line was all he needed to hear. Andrew chuckled, flicking ash to the ground, a dangerous king momentarily softened by a woman standing on a stool half a world away.

She didn't said something, just muttering in her breath shamless!! Making him chuckle.

Shayeli tugged the hoodie tighter around herself, trying to hide inside it not realizing the camera caught every movement of her.

Andrew's lips curved into a wicked smile."Careful, shy lady. Keep touching my hoodie like that and I'll start thinking you're rehearsing."

Her eyes shot open. "Rehearsing—what?!"

Andrew let his head fall back against the car, cigar dangling between his fingers, his voice dropping to a velvet murmur. "For when I come back and pin you against that cupboard instead."

She nearly choked, her cheeks blazing. "A-Andrew!"

He chuckled, deep and low, enjoying every second of her fluster. "You asked when I'm coming back, sweetheart. So I'll tell you. The moment I step through that door..." His voice hardened, deliberate, "...I won't stop at just a hoodie. I'll take all of you."

Shayeli's breath caught. She sat on the stool frozen, the hoodie still in her grip, torn between throwing the phone away and pressing it closer.

Andrew exhaled smoke, slow and satisfied, eyes on her through the live feed. "So go ahead. Keep missing me. Keep getting restless. Because when I return—" his smile sharpened into something sinful, "—I'll make sure you don't get a chance to breathe."

On the other end of the line, Shayeli shot up from the stool, nearly tripping again. Her face was on fire, words tumbling out too fast. "Y-you're disgusting! Always talking nonsense! I was just—just asking a normal question!"

Andrew hummed low, clearly entertained. "Normal? Shy lady, nothing about us is normal. Not the way you say my name, not the way you hold that hoodie like it's my skin."

Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. She looked down at herself—hugging the hoodie tighter, burying her chin into it despite her protests. Her lips trembled as if she wanted to argue but her body betrayed her.

"See?" Andrew's voice slid into her silence, soft and dangerous. "Even when you're denying me, you're clinging to me."

She turned her back to the cupboard camera without realizing it, stomping to the bed and throwing herself down, her voice muffled. "I hate you."

Andrew smirked, his gaze still fixed on the feed, watching her curl into the hoodie like a child with a comfort blanket. He whispered into the phone, so low it brushed her ears like a caress. "No, shy lady. You crave me."

Her breath hitched audibly. And though she muttered a weak, "Shut up," she still clutched the hoodie tighter, her heartbeat echoing in her chest.

Andrew flicked his cigar aside, his eyes glinting in the darkness of Italy. A king half a world away, yet utterly in control of the one woman who didn't even realize how much power she had over him.

She see the time on her phone and it didn't match Andrew's usual schedule.

"Wait a minute," she muttered, counting on her fingers. "Italy... six hours ahead of me... so if it's 1:00 a.m. there... that means..." She paused, lips pressing together. "...he's awake now? At one in the morning?"

Andrew's voice came through the speaker, calm and teasing as ever. "Mmm. That's right, shy lady. You're counting very well."

Shayeli huffed, glaring at the phone. "Counting isn't the point! What are you even doing awake at this hour? Do you not sleep? You know I sleep at this time!"

Andrew chuckled softly, the low sound vibrating through the line. "And here I thought you'd be pleased to know I was thinking of you."

"Pleased?" she snapped, half-laughing, half-exasperated. "I'm scolding you, Andrew! You're supposed to sleep at this hour! What kind of reckless man stays awake while everyone else sleeps?"

He let the pause stretch, enjoying her voice, the way it flustered her without even seeing her. "The kind of man who has a reason to stay awake," he murmured, voice dipping low, teasing. "And the kind of man whose shy lady would scold him for it, making it totally worth it."

Shayeli's cheeks warmed instantly, and she crossed her arms, trying to sound stern. "You're impossible. You know that? Absolutely impossible."

Andrew smirked on the other end. "Mm."

Shayeli rolled her eyes, half-annoyed."You really enjoy tormenting me, don't you?"

"Every second of it," Andrew replied, voice silky and teasing, like a promise and a warning all at once.

Shayeli finally huffed into the phone, voice low and firm from their back-and-forth. "I'm hanging up. Go... go sleep. Don't you dare head out again. Take care of yourself."

Andrew's voice came through, calm and controlled, every word sharp and deliberate. "Sleep is for later. Right now, there are things to handle."

She groaned, exasperated. "You're impossible. One day, you'll pay for all this recklessness."

"Mm." His tone was dry, teasing just enough to make her blood pressure spike, but not a trace of softness. "And what about you? Off to your café now, I presume?"

She stiffened, realizing he had tracked her already. "Yes. And no, you're not following me in your Mr. X business suit."

He didn't laugh. "Relax, shy lady. I know where you are, and that's enough." His voice held that low, dangerous edge she'd learned never to ignore. "Just... don't do anything that'll make me regret keeping an eye on you."

"Andrew!" she hissed. "I can handle myself."

"Sure," he said, voice flat but heavy, every syllable a warning. "Just remember—carelessness has consequences."

She hung up, muttering under her breath as she grabbed her bag. Outside, the morning sun in America cast long shadows over the quiet street.

Shayeli's fingers tightened around the strap of her bag as she walked toward the café. Andrew's words—"carelessness has consequences"—echoed in her mind.

Her pulse quickened. Did he... know about the Ferrari? The thought made her stomach twist. She had been reckless, racing Zephyr, and now, across continents, that low, dangerous tone felt like it had traveled straight into her chest.

She paused on the sidewalk, glancing around as if the shadows themselves might be watching her. Her heart thumped in a rapid rhythm, each beat screaming warning. He knows. He must know.

Her voice caught slightly when she muttered under her breath, "Shit... what if he does?"

She tried to shake the thought, but every time she pictured his calculating eyes, the calm, lethal control he radiated, it made her small and exposed. She quickened her pace, hood pulled slightly forward, scanning the street nervously.

[5th Day – Andrew's Study, 🇮🇹]

Andrew sat at his massive mahogany desk in the dimly lit study, the weight of the night still heavy on his shoulders. Papers were spread around, some marked with red ink, some digital tabs open on his encrypted system. His sharp eyes scanned through reports, CCTV footage, and intercepted messages. Something didn't add up.

Why would someone order the guard to set fire to the warehouse? he thought, narrowing his eyes. The intent was clear—intimidation, chaos, or theft—but nothing seemed missing. Every record, every asset, every crate was untouched. Whoever did this had a purpose... but for what?

His phone buzzed suddenly. He picked it up—James.

"Andrew, someone tried to sneak into the warehouse," James's voice was tense but controlled. "We traced it. They somehow got the location of Vector. He's still there, but..."

Andrew's hand tightened on the phone. "But what?"

"They didn't get him... yet. They were moving carefully, trying not to alert anyone."

A slow, calculating smile curved Andrew's lips. Of course. The fire wasn't meant to steal or destroy—it was meant to flush someone out, force a reaction, make the guard act. It was all a setup. Whoever instructed the guard never expected Andrew to be this precise. If I were there... this would never happen.

Click. Everything fell into place. The pieces of the puzzle lined up like dominoes. The fire was a distraction, a feint, giving the real player a window to find Vector's location. Andrew's eyes flicked across the map on his screen, the patterns of movement clear. Whoever had attempted this was bold—and reckless enough to think they could beat him.

"James," Andrew said, voice low and commanding. "Shift Vector immediately. Bring him to my mansion basement. Do it quietly—no one can know. And double the security. I want perimeter lockdown, every exit monitored, no exceptions. Understand?"

"Yes, sir. Already moving the team," James replied.

Andrew hung up and leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. So, they succeeded in finding him. But they will regret it.He opened the encrypted channel, giving direct instructions to his most trusted men. Each step was precise—transfer, concealment, monitoring. Every route double-checked, every security breach anticipated.

This wasn't just a reaction. This was Andrew's chessboard, and every move he made put him several steps ahead. Whoever dared to play this game had underestimated him.

By the time the sun began to rise over the Venetian skyline, Vector was already on his way to the mansion, hidden in plain sight. Guards were stationed at every corner, eyes sharp, weapons ready. And Andrew—leaning over the study desk once more—already knew the next moves of anyone foolish enough to challenge him.

The fire had been a test. They had failed.

Day 06

"Ahh, what the hell?" I groaned loud enough for the whole café to hear, earning a few side-eyes from the early morning crowd. I slammed my coffee mug down harder than necessary. Jack and I had just finished an episode on my iPad, and the female lead... urgh. She still chose the main lead. Despite him betraying her. Not cheating—but still, lies, rivalry, heartbreak. And yet she couldn't stop loving him.

"What a tragic story," I muttered, glaring at the screen as if it owed me answers.

Jack sat across from me, perfectly calm, a pastry in one hand and his phone in the other. He glanced at me once, then went back to eating, sliding me a pissed-off look like I was disturbing his peace.

"What?" I demanded, waving a hand. "Don't you find this foolish? How can she still love him despite their relationship hanging by one weak thread?"

He set his pastry down, wiped his fingers with deliberate calm, and then asked, "Have you ever been in real love?"

I froze. "Huh?"

Did this man just—?

Leaning back in my chair, I crossed my arms, completely offended. "What kind of question is that? And I've already told you the answer before!"

Jack shook his head, muttering something under his breath that sounded dangerously like my mom's scolding tone.

"Hey!" I shot him a glare. "Don't give me that look."

Finally, he tilted his face up, eyes locking with mine, annoyingly calm. "It's called true love."

My jaw dropped. That calm, smug expression made me want to throw the entire sugar jar at his head.

Iske true love ki aisi ki taisi.

I huffed, fully knowing I was never going to understand Jack's philosophical nonsense about love. Picking up my mug, I stood and went to hand it to a staff member.

As I turned, my eyes drifted to the window-side seat, and a flicker of memory hit me—the girls. Emma, Olivia, Isabel... they'd stopped coming to the café lately. Maybe they'd found some new place. Emma especially stayed on my mind. She'd been one or two months pregnant when she'd first told me about it, glowing with the kind of happiness that's contagious. I'd really thought we were going to share a bond. But here we are, just faces passing by.

Anyway. I had Andrew. Or more precisely... Rew. I don't even know why that name slips out of me. When I should be saying Andrew, I say Rew. And when it's a tender moment and I want to say Rew, I end up saying Andrew. It's ridiculous.

God, I miss him. A lot more than I ever admit out loud.

I never thought the man I'd fall for would be this handsome, this... impossible. Sometimes, when my mind wanders, I imagine if by some insane chance we end up together, married. In my entire family of daughters, if someone has a husband worth staring at twice, it'd be me. I blush just thinking about it. And then I scold myself—shut up, Shayeli. God always has other plans.

.

.

.

It was night when I finally left the café, the cool air brushing my cheeks as I walked toward the red light crossing. I paused, waiting for green.

And then my heart nearly ached.

I glanced at the place across the street — the spot where he always stood. Leaning against his Ferrari like he owned the world. Black tuxedo, always. Even in the daylight, he somehow made the street look like a runway.

Andrew Smith.

He had that kind of presence that didn't need an introduction. Broad shoulders filling out the suit, hands tucked casually into his pockets like he had nothing to prove. Sea-green eyes — sharp, glinting, always watching. Like the ocean before a storm; calm on the surface, but you knew it could swallow you whole.

There was an ease about him when he stood there, but also a warning. The kind of warning that made grown men step back without him saying a word. His hair, slightly tousled, always brushed back with his fingers like he was too impatient to bother with anything else. A watch glinting on his wrist, his jaw cut sharp enough to draw blood.

Even from across the street, even when he wasn't there, I could see him. The space felt heavier because of it — like his shadow stayed behind, leaning on that car until he came back.

My stomach dropped. Please God, save me this time. What if he already knew what happened to his car? What if he asked? He wouldn't take money from me for the repair... would he? No. He's a multibillionaire. He wouldn't.

The light turned green. I hurried across, slipping away before my panic could show.

Since that incident, I hadn't touched his car. I couldn't take the risk.

Sometime later, I reached my apartment. No, not my home. My home was in Italy. This was just a stop. At least Pumpkin was here, my furry ball of comfort.

I pressed the bell of my neighbor's door—the sweet lady who'd been watching Pumpkin for me. The door opened, and Pumpkin shot out like a tiny missile, jumping into my arms.

"Aww, you missed me?" I whispered, burying my face into his fur.

My neighbor leaned against her doorframe, watching us with curious eyes.

Pumpkin licked my cheek, and I giggled, but my neighbor's words cut through like a knife.

"Your boyfriend's not here? I mean... I haven't seen him for a few days. Did you guys break up?" she asked casually, like she wasn't just poking at my heart.

I blinked at her, then scoffed, hugging Pumpkin tighter against me. "Break up? Us?" I tilted my chin up, my voice sharp, almost possessive. "We're never breaking up. Not now, not ever."

She blinked, taken aback by my sudden fire.

I wasn't done. I narrowed my eyes a little, leaning closer as if she'd just accused me of something ridiculous. "Do you seriously think a man like him would leave me? Or I'd ever leave him? Huh. Think again."

Pumpkin barked as if backing me up, and I stroked his fur, forcing a smug smile onto my face.

The neighbor gave an awkward laugh, holding her hands up. "Okay, okay! Just asking."

"Don't ask again," I muttered, turning on my heel and heading to my apartment, clutching Pumpkin like a queen marching off with her crown.

Inside, though, my cheeks burned. Maybe I'd acted a little... over the top. But who cares? Andrew was mine. Only mine.

I shut my apartment door with my foot, Pumpkin still wriggling in my arms. My heart was still drumming from that little exchange with the neighbor. Break up? Hah. As if.

I plopped Pumpkin down on the couch and took a deep breath. "Huh, dayan kahi ki," I muttered under my breath, rolling my eyes at the nerve of some people.

Then my eyes fell on the doorframe. The flowers. I'd forgotten them today because of that stupid conversation. I opened the door again—and there it was. A fresh bouquet, delicate and perfect, like always.

I picked it up slowly, the smell of fresh petals making my chest ache. Ahh, what have I done that God gave me this man?

I closed the main door and plucked one flower from the bunch, tucking it behind my ear the way he always does for me. "Don't worry," I whispered, smiling at my own reflection in the mirror. "If he's not here, I'll do it myself."

The rest of the bouquet went into the vase. I set Pumpkin's food down, then grabbed an instant noodle cup and a beer. My "fancy" dinner.

I didn't call him much. Not because I didn't want to, but because of the time difference. What if he was sleeping? He's the CEO of one of the biggest companies, his schedule's already tight. Tomorrow, I'd call him about the hoodie—my little excuse. Because honestly? My day didn't feel complete until I heard his voice.

Sometimes, I imagined holding him and whispering, don't go... But he has his business, his world. He can't skip it. So I let him.

I rested my head on the table, eyes closed, fingers tracing circles on the wood. God, I miss him. Give him back to me.

I got up when the ache became too heavy. I needed his presence, even if only through his scent. I went to the bedroom, finished my dinner quickly, and pulled out his hoodie. After my shower, I slipped it on, letting the fabric swallow me.

His cologne hit me instantly—sharp and warm, like a memory.

It felt good. But not enough. Not nearly enough.

"Maybe I'm going mad for him," I murmured, curling my fingers into the soft hoodie. "And I'm not even controlling myself anymore. Don't know why."

I jumped onto the bed, curling up with Pumpkin. He hopped up beside me, pressing against my side. I switched off the light, tugged the hoodie tighter, and whispered, "Good night."

For a moment, it almost felt like Andrew was right there.but he is not.

[7th day.]

The night had grown still, only the faint hum of engines and the quiet shuffling of Syndicate men filling the private runway. Italy had served its purpose. Every lead was followed, every suspicious movement accounted for. The fire, the sneak attempts, the trail leading to Vector—all questions answered. There was nothing left to do here.

He adjusted his tuxedo, the tailored fabric stiff and sharp across his shoulders, a symbol of the control he wielded everywhere he went. His men flanked him like living walls of steel, eyes scanning the dark edges of the airstrip for anything out of place.

Andrew's boots clicked against the tarmac as he approached his private jet, the polished exterior reflecting the dim runway lights. The engines thrummed like a living beast, waiting to carry him home.

"Security's tight, sir. No anomalies detected," James's voice came through his earpiece.

"Good," Andrew said, voice low and deliberate. "Keep it that way until I land."

He climbed the steps, the doors sealing behind him with a hiss. Inside, the cabin was quiet, a controlled luxury designed for one man's command. He moved past the polished seats and dimmed lights, making his way to the private room at the rear.

The door closed behind him with a soft click, shutting out everything but the faint hum of the engines. He finally allowed himself a moment to sink into the chair, the room perfectly arranged—leather, steel, dark wood. A small desk with encrypted screens showed the final updates from his operations in Italy.

Andrew's fingers drummed lightly against the armrest. Italy had yielded answers. The fire, the intruder attempts—it had all been a calculated move by someone bold enough to think they could outmaneuver him. A test.

He leaned back, crossing his legs, and allowed the rareest of emotions to brush at him: a fleeting calm. For now, everything was under control. His mind, though, was already half a world away—Shayeli, the purple Ferrari, her soft voice echoing in his memory.

.

.

.

The cabin was quiet, the hum of the jet the only sound. Andrew stripped off his tuxedo and stepped into the small, private shower. Hot water pounded down, washing away the tension of the past days, the calculated chaos of Italy, the intruders, the fire.

Minutes later, he emerged, only in black joggers, the fabric hugging him just right. He ran a hand through his damp hair, muscles relaxed yet tense with lingering energy. He moved to the bed, laying back with one hand behind his head, allowing himself the rare luxury of exhaustion.

Sleep had eluded him for the past seven days. Now, before going back to his shy lady, he would rest properly—catch enough for the night so he could look at her without a yawn, without distraction.

He reached for his phone, unlocking it. One photo. Just one. The one he secretly captured at the flower shop, her too busy to notice as she clicked the picture of flowers. He hadn't taken another since; he hadn't allowed himself. But now he will as much as he can.

He zoomed in, studying her delicate features, tracing the curve of her smile, the tilt of her head. Seven days. He had stared at this photo every day. Every day it gave him peace he didn't know he needed.

Setting the phone aside, he reached for his suitcase. Fingers paused over a soft fabric. Her dupatta. The one he had taken when they first met. Before Shayeli, this is the only solace he had with himself for getting sleep.it carried her essence, her scent, her presence. He couldn't control himself. He rolled it lightly in his hand, inhaling deeply."mine"he whisper.

He laid back down, stomach pressing against the bed, the dupatta clutched against him. The jet hummed around him, carrying him across oceans, but in that small private room, Andrew finally allowed himself the closeness he craved—her with him, even if only in memory, even if only in scent.

Before letting himself fully drift into sleep, Andrew's fingers lingered on his phone one last time. He pulled up the live feed from her apartment—quiet, dimly lit, the soft rise and fall of her chest visible even through the camera.

She was fast asleep. Blanket tucked around her, hoodie slightly oversized, hair loose and tousled over her pillow. Peaceful. Vulnerable.

A small, rare smile tugged at his lips. I am coming back he thought again, letting the warmth of that thought settle over him.He let himself linger there, tracing the curve of her shoulder, the gentle tilt of her head. A faint smile tugged at his lips. Safe. Mine.

Minutes passed. His fingers loosened around the dupatta, his body finally relaxing against the mattress. The hum of the jet blended with the soft light from the screen.

The screen stayed lit, casting a faint glow across the cabin, as Andrew's eyes grew heavy. He let himself drift, the last image burned into his mind—the soft, perfect curve of his shy lady, asleep, completely unaware.

And then, finally, he gave in to the exhaustion, sinking into a deep, uninterrupted sleep, the live feed still glowing softly in the dark room and let the engines carry him away. Italy was behind him, the next chapter waiting in America.

To be continued...
Do tell me how was the ch??