03

His rules

Ira’s POV

He stood still for a long time. Just watching me.

The untouched tray sat on the polished table, and I stood frozen beside it—my hands clenched, my eyes on the floor, my breath caught somewhere between panic and confusion.

“You’re late,” he said again. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut. Like velvet-wrapped steel.

“I… I brought it as soon as they gave it to me,” I stammered.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he reached for the espresso, took one slow sip, then set it back down like it offended him.

“I don’t eat toast,” he said. “I don’t drink milk. And I don’t like being served by people who shake like wet leaves.”

I flinched. My fingers twitched at my sides. But I didn’t move. I didn’t know how.

He stepped closer.

Two strides.

Three.

Each step echoed in the stillness of the room until he was only inches from me. I could see the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint stubble on his skin, the way his hair curled slightly at the ends, still damp from a shower. The soft grey of his sweatpants and the cold finality in his eyes made him look both casual and dangerous.

He reached up.

I tensed.

And then—he gripped my chin.

His fingers were cool, firm, his thumb resting just beneath my lower lip, forcing my face upward until our eyes met.

I sucked in a breath.

“You’ve been in my house for a week,” he said, quietly. “And no one thought to tell you not to look like a scared little rabbit in front of the Capo?”

“I didn’t mean—”

He tilted my chin a little higher.

“You were brought here to clean, to obey, and to stay invisible. But instead… you’ve made yourself interesting.”

A beat.

“Do you know how dangerous that is, Ira?”

I swallowed. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Intentions don’t matter in this house.” His grip tightened—not painfully, but enough that I knew he was making a point. “Only consequences.”

My voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t understand what I did.”

He leaned in—close enough that his breath touched my cheek, warm and scented faintly of tobacco and coffee. His lips brushed the shell of my ear.

“You walked into my study,” he murmured. “Trembling. Innocent. Not begging. Not seducing. Just existing. And you made me notice.”

He pulled back, just enough for me to see his expression. Cold. Dangerous. Calculating.

“I don’t like noticing things I didn’t choose to want.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I whispered, helpless.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You dropped a tray,” he said, releasing my chin slowly. “And you shook like a leaf in front of men who kill with their bare hands. That should’ve been the end of it. But instead—”

He turned, walking to the drawer by the window and pulled something small out.

A shard of glass.

From that tray.

He walked back, slow and steady, and held it out to me in the flat of his palm.

“Here,” he said. “A souvenir.”

My hands trembled as I took it. The edges glittered dangerously in the light.

“Why are you giving me this?” I asked, barely able to speak.

He leaned in again.

And this time—he whispered against my lips.

“So you remember the moment you stopped belonging to yourself.”

My breath hitched. I stumbled back a step.

“I’m not yours,” I managed to say.

He smiled again—this time darker. Sharper.

“You’re in my house. Wearing a uniform I paid for. Serving food I don’t eat. Living in a room I let you sleep in. Tell me, Ira—what part of your life still belongs to you?”

My lips parted, but no words came out.

“And you know what’s worse?” he said, taking a step closer again. “I didn’t choose you. I don’t even want this.”

He reached out suddenly, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek with the back of his fingers, voice quiet and sharp.

“But now that I’ve seen you... I can’t unsee you.”

Silence stretched between us like a loaded gun.

“I don’t want to be seen,” I said.

He smirked, like that was the funniest lie he'd heard.

“Too late.”

Then he turned away. Just like that. As if I hadn’t just unraveled in front of him.

“You can go.”

I hesitated—because I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to walk the same way again.

But I forced my legs to move.

And as I reached the door, his

voice came one last time—low, final, and cruel.

“Next time, maid…”

“Don’t break what doesn’t belong to you.”

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Vanara Raina

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