The golden light of early morning slipped through the sheer curtains, pooling gently across the bed.
Arina's eyes fluttered open at precisely seven o'clock. The space beside her was cool, untouched, as if Reyansh had been gone for hours. She was not surprised. He was not the type to linger in bed. His days were built on precision—an invisible clock ticking behind his every move.
She sat up slowly, letting her bare feet touch the cool marble floor. For a moment, she simply sat there, breathing in the faint, unfamiliar scent of his cologne that clung to the sheets. It was grounding and unsettling all at once.
Her morning routine was simple, deliberate—habit wrapped in quiet grace. She brushed her hair until it flowed like a black river down her back, then chose the saree she had already decided on last night: a soft yellow silk that caught the light with every movement. It wasn't the color of caution, but of quiet confidence, and perhaps a little defiance.
Kiara—Arina—had never been one for heavy makeup. Her beauty did not need paint to be seen. A sweep of rose lipstick was all she allowed herself, the color warm against her natural complexion. She fastened her earrings, then reached for the thin gold bangles she had chosen. As they slid over her wrists with a faint chime, the door opened behind her.
Reyansh stepped in, his shirt clinging lightly to his frame, hair damp at the edges from sweat. The faint sheen on his skin told her he'd been exercising. Even in something as ordinary as this, there was precision in him—calculated movements, measured breaths. She wondered if there was anything about him that wasn't deliberate.
She offered him a soft smile, her voice light.
"Good morning."
He only hummed in response, his gaze unreadable, before walking past her into the bathroom. No other words. No lingering glance.
It should have stung. It didn't.
Because Arina knew better—Reyansh's silence was not emptiness; it was a choice. One she intended to unravel.
When she descended to the dining room, the breakfast was already prepared. Anita and Seema, the two maids, were arranging the table with the quiet efficiency of people who had learned to move without being noticed. Plates of steaming parathas, bowls of fresh fruit, and glasses of juice lined the polished wood.
"You can go," Arina said softly.
Both women looked up, startled.
"But, ma'am—" Anita began.
"I'll serve him myself," Arina interrupted gently but firmly. "And in the evenings, after six, you can all leave. I prefer not to have strangers near me after that."
They hesitated, then nodded. Anita's expression held a flicker of curiosity before she dipped her head and began clearing away the last of the utensils. Arina knew this habit of hers—wanting to do things herself—was unusual here. She didn't care. There was something intimate in serving him with her own hands. Something she wasn't ready to surrender to anyone else.
By the time Reyansh entered, fresh from his shower and dressed for the day, the table was set. She poured tea into his cup without waiting to be asked, the steam curling between them like a silent offering.
"I'll be going to my home after breakfast," she said simply as she placed a plate in front of him.
His eyes lifted to hers, sharp but calm. "Alright."
He didn't ask why. He didn't ask when she'd return. That, too, was Reyansh—he never questioned what he believed he could control in his own time.
They ate in relative silence, save for the occasional clink of cutlery. She studied him between bites—the measured way he held his fork, the faint line of concentration in his brow even when doing something as simple as eating. He was a man who seemed to be working, always, even in stillness.
When the meal was done, she rose from her chair. "I'll leave now."
She walked toward the waiting car, her saree brushing against her ankles. She didn't know what compelled her—perhaps the soft warmth of the morning, perhaps the stubborn thrum of her own heart—but just as she stepped past him in the hallway, she turned.
Her arms went around him in one swift, unplanned motion.
It wasn't a tentative touch. It wasn't a polite embrace. It was deliberate, though it lasted only seconds. Her cheek pressed lightly to his chest, and she felt the solid beat of his heart beneath the fabric. He did not stiffen, but she felt the pause in his breath.
She didn't look up at him when she pulled away, just stepped back with the smallest of smiles.
"I'll see you tonight."
He said nothing. His gaze, however, followed her as she walked to the car. It was a gaze that lingered—dark, sharp, and heavy enough to make her feel it between her shoulder blades long after she'd turned away.
As the driver pulled away, she caught one last glimpse of him in the rearview mirror. Still standing there. Still watching.
And she knew, with the certainty of someone who had read his story long before she'd stepped into it, that he wasn't letting her go anywhere without thinking of when—and how—she would come back.
---
"In his world of clockwork precision, I became the one variable he couldn't control."