"The night smelled like expensive perfume and bad decisions." I thought

Crystal chandeliers glittered above me like frozen constellations, casting gold over silk-draped tables and crystal flutes. The ballroom—if you could even call it that—was a marriage between decadence and pretense. Velvet curtains, cascading lights, the faint hum of a DJ blending into the clinking of glasses. To my left, the bar gleamed invitingly; to my right, the buffet sprawled in opulent abundance. And ahead, a grand stage bore the oversized poster announcing the launch of Velaris Estates—the night's reason for all this glittering chaos.

I stood in the center of it all, fingers fidgeting with the hem of my clutch while my parents exchanged pleasantries with the man of the hour—Mr. Prem Verma. Dad's old school friend, now the proud founder of a "luxury real estate and resort chain," as the press called it. For now, it was confined to India, but Mr. Verma had grand plans—international expansion, global recognition, competing with Anviora Group.

I almost laughed. If only he knew how close he was to playing in the lion's den, the Rudra Roy.

My eyes wandered, searching for the familiar faces that made family gatherings slightly more tolerable. I spotted Samay first—my eldest brother. Thirty-six, six-foot-three, with hazel-green eyes that always seemed to hold a storm waiting to break. He had the kind of presence that drew attention without effort, the calm before a hurricane. His arm rested around Raina bhabhi's waist as they mingled effortlessly among polished smiles and hollow laughter—him every inch the composed charmer the world adored.

Rhea came next. Thirty, poised at five-foot-six, with a model's grace and a heart that could balance chaos with calm. She stood a few feet away, radiant as ever, laughter soft and unbothered, surrounded by her circle of friends. Everything about her was effortless—her beauty, her composure, her ability to belong anywhere.

And then there was Vihaan. Twenty-six, six-one, with boyish charm and a dangerously clever mind, he was rarely put to good use. I didn't have to look long—of course, he was near the DJ, dancing with a blonde whose laugh echoed over the music. He moved with that reckless ease that came from being the family's favorite disaster.

Meanwhile, I stood here—alone, in a room full of people—watching it all unfold like a spectator at my own life's masquerade.

Mr. Verma's voice pulled me out of my thoughts.
"Are you enjoying yourself, Mahira beta?"

I turned toward him, slipping on the kind of polite smile I'd perfected over the years. "Of course, Uncle. I'm actually quite impressed—with both the venture idea and the theme."

And I meant it, partly. The theme was European elegance—a monochrome blend of white and black that screamed sophistication and subtle ego all at once.

"I'm glad to hear that," he said, his lips curving into a pleased smile before turning to my parents.

Within minutes, he was leading our family toward the stage backdrop—a massive poster wall bearing the Velaris Estates logo in embossed gold. Cameras flashed in anticipation as we arranged ourselves for what he called a "friend-cum-family" photo.

Vihaan, of course, broke the silence with his usual theatrics.
"Ladies and gentlemen, smile!" he yelled, grinning like the world revolved around him.

I exhaled softly, my smile still fixed, picture-perfect. Some roles you didn't audition for—you just learned to play them well.

We were soon ushered to our designated table—one elegantly marked with a small white card that read "The Sens." Subtle, yet impossible to miss.

As the waiters began serving, my family slipped into familiar ease. Samay bhai leaned over to feed Raina bhabhi a bite of the starter she liked—his expression soft in a way I rarely saw anymore. A smile tugged at my lips before I caught myself. Across from them, Rhea di was already halfway through her creamy pink sauce pasta, her eyes lighting up in delight with every bite. Vihaan, unsurprisingly, went straight for the grilled meat—his forever favorite. And my parents, ever consistent, requested a proper Indian meal; rice, curry, and a dash of nostalgia on their plates.

I took the last chair, in the corner, half-shadowed by the flowers on the table. From my clutch, I slipped out a small glass bottle—my quiet rebellion in liquid form—and took a discreet sip.

A moment later, Mrs. Verma appeared, her smile as warm as the lights above us.
"I hope you all are enjoying the food," she said, her voice polite yet genuine.

My family, ever the charmers, immediately began complimenting the menu. I stayed quiet, tracing the rim of my glass.

Then her gaze shifted to me.
"Mahira beta, you haven't eaten anything. You should try something—there's plenty to choose from." I saw Vihaan glance at me

I returned her warmth with a small smile. "Thank you, Aunty. But it's alright—I just don't feel hungry."

Her brows furrowed slightly, kindness softening her tone. "Are you sure, beta? I can have someone bring you something special."

For a heartbeat, I didn't know what to say. It had been a long time since anyone had offered care without expecting something in return. The feeling sat strange in my chest—almost foreign.

"I'm sure, Aunty," I said softly. "Thank you, really."

Before she could reply, my mother's voice chimed in—light, but cutting in its own way.
"You know how girls are these days, Mrs. Verma—always on diets, keto, gluten-free, all that nonsense."

The smile I'd been wearing faltered. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Samay bhai's spoon pause midair, his gaze flickering toward me for a moment before he looked away.

I drew in a quiet breath, steadying the curve of my lips before facing Mrs. Verma again.

She nodded politely, clearly uncomfortable now. "Oh, I see... well, enjoy your dinner, all of you," she said, offering a final smile before walking away.

And just like that, the warmth she'd brought with her slipped away, leaving behind the faint hum of laughter, silverware, and unspoken things I'd long stopped expecting to hear.

"Have something, Mahira," Dad said, turning his head slightly toward me. His black-rimmed glasses caught the golden light, but his eyes—sharp and observant as always—stayed fixed on me.

"No, Dad. It's fine. I'm not hungry—I'll eat at home," I murmured, clutching my purse tighter than necessary.

He studied me for a moment, as if weighing whether to press the matter or let it go. Then, with a small nod, he turned back to his plate, the conversation dying before it could begin.

I tried to steady my breathing, focus on the meaningless chatter around the table, the soft hum of the music—until I felt it.

A sudden brush against my back. A hand.

I froze. My pulse stuttered. I turned sharply, breath catching in my throat.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to," a boy stammered, probably around Vihaan's age. He stood with a group of friends, clearly mortified. The touch had been accidental, a passing mistake in a crowded room.

"It's alright," I managed, forcing the words out evenly. He gave a small, awkward bow in apology before retreating, but my heart was already racing, my palms cold.

Not now, I told myself. Please, not now.

"Mahira? What happened—everything okay?" Rhea di's voice cut through the haze, curious.

"I just... need to use the restroom," I said quickly, standing before anyone could ask more.

And before they could stop me, I turned and walked away, heels clicking against marble, trying to outrun the rising panic that had already caught up to me.

The passage was empty, my stilettos echoing against marble walls like a heartbeat in the dark. I reached the restroom, pushed the door open, and slipped inside, letting it shut quietly behind me.

For a moment, I just stood there—hands gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles white, breaths uneven. I forced the clasp of my clutch open, fingers trembling, and pulled out a small bottle. One pill. A sip of water. A few seconds later, the tightness in my chest began to ease, the panic settling just enough for me to breathe again.

I looked up.
The mirror reflected a woman who, by all means, looked perfect—white and black dress untouched, hair still falling in soft curls to her waist, makeup intact. But the eyes—tired, haunted, unguarded. My reflection looked like me, and yet nothing like me at all.

I turned the tap on and washed my hands with more force than necessary, water splashing against porcelain. When I shut the tap with a sharp jerk, the sound echoed louder than it should have.

"Why did I even agree to come to this party?" I muttered to my reflection.
It stared back, silent.

Home would've been better. Quieter. Safer.
It had been years since I'd attended any event—especially after...
No. I wasn't going there. Not tonight.

Five years later, and I thought I was ready. Thought maybe it would feel different. But no—just another bad decision in a long list of them.

With a sigh, I pulled out my phone and typed a message:

Me: I'm feeling tired, so I'm going home :)

I glanced at my reflection one last time, schooling my features back into calm. The perfect mask slipped into place. Then I turned, pushed the door open, and walked out with steady steps—confidence painted over cracks.

Outside, the cool night air greeted me. I spotted the car easily, parked under a streetlight. Mr. Spencer—our driver, and technically my bodyguard—was already there. The moment he saw me, he straightened and opened the door.

I slid in without a word, and once he settled in the driver's seat, the car started. The hum of the engine filled the silence. Outside, the city lights blurred past, the world quieter than usual. I rolled the window down, letting the cold wind brush against my face.

"You left the party early, ma'am," Spencer said after a beat, his tone half-formal, half-teasing.

I caught his eyes in the rearview mirror and arched a brow.
He chuckled. "Alright, alright—sorry."

"So, Mahira," he said again, his voice lighter this time, "why'd you leave so early?"

I leaned back, shrugging. "I was feeling suffocated. And bored."

He nodded knowingly. "Did you eat?"

I shot him a dry look through the mirror. "What do you think?"

He smirked. "So... no."

"Correct. I'll eat something at home."

"Did you at least tell your parents you're leaving?" he asked, turning at the signal.

"Yeah. Texted Mom." I paused. "She left me on 'seen.'"

We both laughed softly. Somehow, it felt easier to breathe again.

Spencer had been around since I was ten. He was more than just family staff—more like a constant shadow who'd seen too much and said too little. Two years older than Samay bhai, thirty-eight now, though he looked far younger, as if in his twenties. Six-four, grey eyes, well-built from years of training. Tattoos hidden beneath his sleeves. The kind of man who looked like he'd stepped out of a novel—steady, quiet, and dangerously charismatic.

And yes, once upon a time, I'd had the world's most embarrassing teenage crush on him. He'd almost choked on air when I confessed it at fifteen. Can't blame him—it's not easy to process when your boss's daughter, fifteen years younger, calls you her first love.

I folded my arms and closed my eyes, sinking into the seat, when his voice broke the silence again.

"By the way," he said, glancing at me through the mirror, "anyone catch your eye at the party?"

A teasing smile tugged at my lips. Mischief sparked. I leaned forward, sliding into the space between the front seats, resting my hands on the headrests. "Why? Jealous, Mr. Spencer?"

He nearly flinched, eyes darting to me before returning to the road. "I was just asking," he said, a laugh escaping.

"Really, Mr. Spencer?" I teased, leaning closer.

He shook his head, amused. "Jesus, one day, you're going to get me fired, princesa."

I laughed softly, leaning back into my seat. "Not my problem, you're irresistible, Mr. Spencer."

He chuckled, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. "You shouldn't flirt with me."

"And you shouldn't call me princesa," I countered with a grin. "But here we are. And that's called healthy flirting."

"Alright," he said, smirking now, "but you like it when I call you princesa, don't you?"

My cheeks warmed despite myself. "Yeah," I admitted quietly, turning to the window, a small smile tugging at my lips. "I do."

"I have an intrusive thought," I said suddenly, my tone serious enough to make him glance at me through the mirror.

He sighed, already wary. "No, don't. It's scary when you start a sentence like that."

"Mr. Jasper Vincent Spencer," I said, deliberately slow, watching his expression shift.

He groaned. "It's even scarier when you use my full name."

I narrowed my eyes at his reflection. "Relax. It's not that bad."

He didn't look convinced. "Every time you say that, I end up regretting something."

I glared at him through the mirror, lips twitching. He raised one hand in mock surrender, a grin tugging at his mouth. "Alright, alright. My bad, princesa."

I tilted my head, pretending to think for a second, then said it before my mind could censor me.
"How many women have you kissed?"

The car jerked—just slightly—but enough for me to grab the edge of my seat.

He slammed the brake, the tires screeching softly against the road before the car rolled to a stop at the side.

"Excuse me?" he asked, turning toward me, voice somewhere between disbelief and horror.

I blinked innocently. "What? It was an intrusive thought. You said don't share it, and I did anyway. You should be proud of my honesty."

He ran a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath that sounded dangerously close to a prayer. Then, slowly, he looked at me again—half amused, half exasperated.

"Mahira," he said, voice low, "one day, you're going to kill me. Not emotionally—literally."

I grinned. "So you have kissed a lot of women."

He gave me a long look. "I'm not answering that."

"Which means yes."

He shook his head, chuckling under his breath as he started the car again. "You're impossible."

"I know," I said lightly, leaning back with a smug smile. "But at least I make life interesting, Mr. Spencer."

"Too interesting," he muttered, but there was laughter in his tone now.

Outside, the city lights flickered past again. Inside, the silence that followed wasn't awkward—it was warm, electric, filled with everything unsaid.

He didn't speak for a while after that, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. The laughter that had filled the car a moment ago faded into a silence that felt... heavier.

Streetlights slid across his face, flickering gold over the edge of his jaw, his grip tightening slightly on the steering wheel.

"So?" I prompted, unable to help myself. "You're really not going to tell me?"

He exhaled slowly, the sound closer to a sigh than breath. "You wouldn't want the answer, princesa."

"That's exactly what someone with a scandalous past says," I countered, watching his reflection in the mirror.

He smiled faintly but didn't look at me. "Maybe. Or maybe I just don't talk about ghosts when they're still alive."

The words hit differently. My smirk faded. "That sounds... dark."

He shrugged, eyes still on the road. "Life gets dark sometimes."

I tilted my head, studying him. For a man who laughed easily, who called me princesa with a grin that could melt walls, his voice suddenly sounded like it had been through storms I'd never seen.

I didn't push further. Instead, I turned toward the window, the city rushing past in blurs of silver and shadow. The hum of the engine filled the silence between us — steady, safe, grounding.

After a moment, his voice came again, softer this time.
"For the record," he said, glancing at me briefly, "I've only ever kissed someone when I meant it."

That was it. No teasing, no grin. Just a quiet truth.

I felt my heartbeat stumble, warmth creeping up my neck before I could look away.

"So, you do mean it when you flirt with me?" I managed, trying to bring back the lightness, though my voice didn't sound as steady as I'd hoped.

This time, he did smile — a small, knowing curve that didn't reach his eyes. " Princesa."

I turned back to the window, hiding my own smile in the dark.

The car rolled through the wrought-iron gates, the headlights washing over marble and manicured gardens as we passed beneath the porte cochère. The mansion stood tall and silent against the night sky, every window dark, the air still.

When the car stopped at the entrance, Spencer stepped out first and came around to my side. He opened the door and held out a hand. I placed mine in his, the warmth grounding me for a moment.

"Thank you," I murmured as I stepped out. He nodded, closing the door behind me.

"Eat something before you sleep," he said, lightly patting my head. The gesture was half-scolding, half-affectionate.

"I will," I replied, nodding like a child caught doing something wrong. I turned toward the steps, ready to head inside—then paused. Something tugged at me, a quiet impulse I couldn't ignore.

"Mr. Spencer," I called softly.

He turned from the car door. "Yes?"

Before I could second-guess myself, I walked back to him. He looked puzzled—right up until I wrapped my arms around him.

He froze, clearly startled, then chuckled under his breath. He was so much taller that even in my four-inch heels, my head barely reached his shoulder. Carefully, almost hesitantly, his hand came to rest on my back.

"I'm hugging you as a friend," I said quickly, muffled against his chest.

"I figured," he replied, voice low, amused.

I stepped back slightly but didn't let go yet. "I know you've been through... things," I said quietly. "Bad ones, maybe. But don't let those memories steal what's still left—the present, or the future. You're a good person, Spencer. Don't forget to be good to yourself, too."

He blinked, caught off guard. "Why are you saying this?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "I just felt like I needed to."

For a moment, silence stretched between us—comfortable, unspoken. Then he leaned forward and gently tapped my cheek, a soft smile curving his lips.

"Little Miss is all grown up," he said.

I flicked my hair dramatically. "Of course I am."

He laughed, shaking his head. "Thank you, Mahira. And may all the things you just said to me—you remember them for yourself too."

I nodded, unsure if I could really mean it if I said yes

We stood there for a heartbeat longer before I took a step back. "Goodnight, Mr. Spencer."

"Have a good night, princesa," he replied, giving a small wave as I turned away.

I walked up the steps and pushed open the main doors. The mansion was dark and silent, the kind of quiet that felt almost heavy. A glance at the clock near the staircase—12:20 a.m. The staff would have gone home.

"Great," I muttered. "Guess I'm cooking for myself again."

Pouting at my fate, I took the stairs two at a time and walked down the long passage to my room. The moment I twisted the doorknob and stepped inside, the familiar scent of my space wrapped around me.

Home.

Without bothering to turn on the lights, I slipped off my heels and fell face-first onto the bed, the exhaustion of the night finally catching up.

For the first time in a long while, my heart didn't feel entirely heavy. Just... quiet.

When I woke after a good ten-minute nap, the house was silent — too silent.
I splashed cold water on my face, the chill stinging my skin awake. My reflection in the mirror looked as if it hadn't slept in years. With a sigh, I twisted my hair into a messy bun, not bothering to fix it properly. I could deal with it and my dress later.

Grabbing my phone and sliding it into my pocket, I stepped out of my room. The moment I opened the door, a rush of cool air brushed past me — sharp, unfamiliar. A strange prickle ran up my spine.

Ignore it, Mahira. You're just tired.

I made my way downstairs, the faint creak of the old staircase echoing in the quiet. The kitchen was dark until I flicked on the lights, the fluorescent glow too bright against the stillness.

Opening the fridge, I scanned for something quick. My eyes landed on a bowl of leftover rice. Perfect, I thought. Fried rice would do. Comfort food at midnight.

But as I set the bowl on the counter, the feeling came again — that eerie awareness, the instinctive chill that whispers you're not alone.

I froze.
The air shifted. A sound — faint, too faint — from the hallway behind me.

I turned slowly, my heartbeat echoing in my ears.
"Who's there?" My voice came out sharper than I expected. "Mom? Dad?" Silence. "Mr. Spencer?"

Nothing.

I forced out a shaky breath and laughed under it, trying to convince myself. You're overthinking, Mahira. It's just the wind.

Still, something made me walk toward the living room. The space was cloaked in darkness, the shadows stretching long across the marble floor. I reached for the light switch — and froze again.

The window on the right side of the passage stood slightly open.
I hadn't opened it.
And it hadn't been open when I came home.

The air around me turned colder.

Every muscle in my body tensed. I reached into my pocket, clutching my phone tight. I could feel my pulse throbbing beneath my skin.

Then — movement. A shadow flickered behind me.

Before I could turn, something pressed against my mouth — a piece of cloth, thick and chemical-scented. I tried to twist away, to scream, but the sound came out muffled.

The scent filled my lungs. Dizzy. My vision blurred. My body felt heavy, slipping away from me.

Through the haze, I saw them — two figures, both masked, both staring down at me as my knees buckled and the floor rushed up to meet me.

My fingers twitched once — I think I tried to call Spencer and mom-dad — before everything went dark.

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