Sundays at my house have always been the same:

Ma yelling at the TV, Papa shaking his in the background, my little brother Raj whining about new cricket shoes  — and me pretending my real life is a fairytale that will bloom any day now.

I love it.

Even when it’s loud, messy, suffocating. It’s mine. It keeps me from floating too far into my foolish daydreams.

---

Today, Ma insists I eat proper breakfast.

She puts three aloo parathas on my plate, drowns them in butter, and yells at me when I try to push half to Papa.

“No, Ruhi! You’re too thin. Have you even eaten properly all week? That boss of yours makes you work like a naukrani!”

I chew slowly, eyes on the flickering TV.

She doesn’t know about Alessandro Romano’s stone face, or the way his voice slides under my skin like a slow poison.

Or the fact that sometimes I’m more scared of missing his voice than hearing it.

She’d probably whack me with her rolling pin if she knew.

---

After breakfast, I lock myself in my room.

A tower of unfolded clothes sits in the corner — ignored.

My laptop beeps with leftover office emails — ignored.

Instead, I drag out my old romance paperbacks and open one at random: Bound by the Villain’s Vow.

Don’t judge me, okay?

Some girls like soft love stories with candlelight and roses.

I like the ones where the villain grabs the girl’s jaw and says:

“Run as far as you want. If I find you, you’ll never leave my bed again.”

Ugh.

It’s unhealthy, I know.

But real life is so painfully boring sometimes.

---

I flip pages lazily, underlining lines I’ve read a hundred times.

Half my brain drifts to my reality: simple life, my father’s medical bills, my brother’s tuition fee that eats up half my salary.

And then — my mind does the worst thing it can do — it wanders back to him.

Alessandro Romano.

My boss.

The demon in a designer suit.

And the star villain in every stupid dream I don’t admit I have.

---

Would anyone ever want me like that?

Would anyone ever burn down cities just because I didn’t smile at them?

Or stare at me like they owned my breath?

Stupid. Dramatic. Wattpad nonsense.

But sometimes, my heart whispers:

Why not you, Ruhi? Why not once, for you too?

---

Raj bangs on my door, yelling, “Didi! Ma says buy eggs and onions! Grocery bag ready!”

I slam my book shut.

Reality always wins.

I slip into a loose tshirt and trousers tie my hair in a lazy bun, and grab the jute bag.

My mother tosses me her wallet, barking instructions like I’m a soldier going to war:

“Check the eggs properly, the last batch was all broken! And don’t buy that cheap oil — take the good one.

I roll my eyes. “Yes, General Ma’am.”

She whacks my head with a smile.

I love her so much it hurts.

---

Outside, the sun is soft, Delhi’s Sunday chaos humming around me.

I walk the half-kilometre stretch to the local market — the same potholes, same stray dogs, same shopkeepers yelling “Madam ji, fresh vegetables!”

I pick potatoes. Eggs. Soap. One packet of Maggi because who cares if Ma yells.

---

I tie the bag,  hum a song softly as I walk back home.

And I tell myself for the thousandth time:

This is real life. This is enough.

Love is bills and leftover dal.

Nobody’s going to break the world for me.

And maybe that’s okay.

∆∆∆

Sunday nights are sacred.

In my world, Sunday nights mean oiling Ma’s hair while she lectures me about marriage proposals.

They mean folding my brother’s uniform for Monday and ignoring Papa’s rant about politics on TV.

They mean peace, pajamas, and no boss.

So when my phone buzzes at 10:42 PM — his name— my heart flips into my throat.

No way.

No chance.

Aaj sunday hai na?

Is he really—?!

I answer on the third ring, whispering so Ma doesn’t hear:

“Hello… Sir?”

His voice hits my ear like a cold glass on my skin:

“Miss Kapoor.”

A pause — I swear I hear a faint rumble, like traffic.

“Where is the Cost Report file?”

I blink at the ceiling.

“Um. In my laptop bag, sir. Why?”

A tiny silence — then that lethal softness he uses when he’s secretly furious:

“I need it. Now.”

I sit up so fast my bedsheet knots around my legs.

“Sir! It’s Sunday night. I’ll bring it tomorrow, first thing—”

“No.”

One word. Deep. Final.

" But its sunday na sir. It's holiday"

“That’s why, Miss Kapoor — I’m coming to get it. Not asking you to come to me.”

My brain explodes.

My mouth stops working.

I squeak:

“You’re WHAT? Sir, you can’t— you’re coming here?! Aap— mera ghar— abhi?!”

I hear his exhale — like a predator bored of his prey’s squealing.

“Don’t make me repeat myself. Send your address properly. And Miss Kapoor…”

A pause. Heavy.

“Open the gate yourself. I don’t like waiting.”

He hangs up before I can protest.

---

I sit frozen, phone pressed to my cheek, heart doing somersaults.

Outside, the ceiling fan wobbles lazily, mocking my meltdown.

“Ruhi!”

Ma bangs on my door.

“Kisse baat kar rahi thi? Aur itni raat mein?!”

(Who were you talking to? And so late?!)

I crack open the door, voice so fake-sweet I want to slap myself:

“Ma… woh… office ka boss. Ek file chahiye urgently.”

Her eyes widen so much I fear they’ll pop out.

“File? Abhi?  Is he mad?!”

No comment, Ma.

Yes. He is.

Ten minutes later, the drawing room is spotless.

Papa sulks in his armchair: “Paagal log hain yeh bade log…”

Raj whispers, “Didi ka hero aane wala hai…”

I kick him under the table.

---

A soft honk.

My heart forgets its job.

---

I unlatch the gate.

And there he is.

Black shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair deliciously ruined by the wind — and those grey eyes scanning me like they own my bones.

My mother clutches her chest behind me and whispers loud enough for him to hear:

“Hey bhagwan… bilkul filmy hero…”

" Ye ankhein asli hai iski?

Even TV actors don’t have such grey eyes!

“Maa! Bas karo na!”

(Stop it, Ma!)

He arches an eyebrow. I want the ground to swallow me.

---

He walks in — all sharp edges and smooth control.

My mother fumbles her dupatta, but still folds her hands politely:

“Namaste, Sir…”

He dips his chin, voice silk over steel:

“Namaste.”

The accent twists it perfectly wrong — Namasste.

Ma’s eyes double in size.

Whispers to me under her breath:

“Ruhi! He’s not Indian, hai na?”

(Ruhi! He’s not Indian, right?)

I hiss back, dying inside:

“Maa! Bola tha na… Italian hai…”

(Maa! I told you… he’s Italian…)

Ma mumbles:

“Baap re… dekho unki aankhein… bilkul villain wali!”

(Oh God… look at his eyes… exactly like a villain’s!)

I hand him the file like it’s radioactive.

He leans closer than necessary — murmurs only for me:

“Good girl.”

" Beta come have a seat atleast " My mother said.

" No thank you so much mam, I have to go " Said he.

He turns, file in hand, cold mask back on:

“Lock the gate. Sleep on time, Miss Kapoor. Tomorrow will be long.”

He leaves — like he never cracked open my universe for five sinful minutes.

" Beta hot toh hai tera boss" said maa peeking outside.

I just groan and shove her inside.

My heart?

Still refuses to calm down.

This city disgusts me.

Noisy, crawling with worthless excuses for men who can’t keep a promise, can’t keep their hands clean, can’t keep their women safe.

Except you, Ruhi Kapoor.

You, with your too-big eyes and clumsy hands and stubborn mouth.

You’re not safe from me.

---

I could have sent an assistant for that file.

Or called her to the office at dawn.

Or waited.

Patience is a skill I mastered young — but tonight, I feel it rotting in my veins like poison.

I needed a reason.

Any excuse.

A glimpse.

So I dial her number, press the phone tight to my ear — like a boy with his first crush.

Pathetic.

She answers with that breathy squeak:

“Hello… Sir?”

Good.

Still awake.

Still mine to command.

---

I tell her I need the file.

She argues.

Her voice sharp but soft underneath — honey with thorns.

She calls me mad in her head.

She doesn’t know her voice gives her away.

I let her panic.

Then end it:

“I’m coming.”

Click.

I don’t wait for permission.

---

Driver tries to open my door for me — I wave him off like a fly.

I drive myself tonight.

I want to feel the city under my hands.

It’s not about the file.

Never was.

It’s the truth she must never learn.

If I don’t see her, the static in my head gets louder.

If I don’t hear her stutter, my nights taste like acid.

If I don’t remind her who she works for — who she belongs to — she might forget.

And I can’t allow that.

---

Her street is narrow, lined with painted gates and flowering pots.

So painfully ordinary.

And in the middle of it — her window, faint yellow glow, a shadow moving behind gauzy curtains.

My throat burns.

I grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles crack.

This is wrong.

This is dangerous.

This is mine.

She opens the gate herself.

Tiny. Barefoot on the cold floor.

Her eyes find mine — panic, respect, curiosity, all colliding in those dark lashes.

Behind her, a woman older than her — must be the mother — stands frozen, palms pressed together in greeting.

Namaste, she whispers.

I echo it back, tongue twisting around the foreign word.

Her mother gawks at me like I fell out of a film reel — I see her lips shape “villain hero…”

She’s not wrong.

Ruhi hisses something in Hindi to hush her.

I catch nothing.

I file it away. I want to learn every word she uses when she’s flustered.

She runs off to fetch the file.

I let my eyes roam.

One picture catches me — her, maybe eighteen, in a school uniform, laughing with ink on her cheek.

A tiny, blurry ghost of the woman she is now.

I want to crush the frame for letting another man see that softness before me.

---

She returns, file clutched like a shield.

Her hands tremble when I take it — but she lifts her chin, defiant as ever.

Perfect.

A lamb with teeth.

“Good girl.”

Two words. My leash on her throat.

I see her mother’s eyes go huge again — she thinks I’m flirting.

She’s not wrong, either.

In my head, I’m worse.

---

Her mother tries to play polite host — offers tea, dinner, more of her daughter’s air.

I decline.

Not because I don’t want it — but because if I sit on her sofa, in her world, I might never leave.

I look her in the eye — so close she can’t hide her thoughts.

Her pulse jumps.

My control cracks.

I want to drag my knuckles down her throat, watch that pulse thrum under my lips—

Instead, I say it plain:

“Lock the gate properly after me. And rest. I need you early.”

Need. Not want.

She doesn’t catch the slip.

Good. Let her stay blind for now.

---

I walk out.

Her scent clings to my jacket — chocolate shampoo or maybe something sweeter underneath.

I want to drown in it.

From the car, I watch her stand at the gate — barefoot, blinking at my taillights like she wants to call me back and slap me for existing in her simple life.

One day, she will beg me to stay.

One day, she’ll hate how much she loves me.

One day, I’ll break this city apart if it tries to steal her warmth from my frozen bones.

Tonight, I drive away.

But tomorrow, I’ll find another excuse.

And another.

Until her world forgets it was ever hers alone.