The morning sun spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Isha's suite, painting the marble floor in golden hues. She stood in front of the mirror, smoothing out the soft lavender kurta she'd chosen from the wardrobe Harsh had mysteriously filled overnight. Her fingers trembled slightly as she tied her hair into a loose braid. The memory of yesterday—the towel slipping, Harsh's stunned gaze, her heart pounding like a drum—still burned her cheeks. How was she supposed to face him now? And why, despite the embarrassment, did her stomach flutter at the thought of seeing him again?
She took a deep breath and headed downstairs to the kitchen, determined to tackle her "job" as Harsh's cook. The staff had already set out ingredients for breakfast, and Meera, the kind-hearted housekeeper, was waiting with a warm smile. "Ready to make those sandwiches, Isha?" she asked, her voice like a soothing balm.
Isha nodded, forcing a smile. "Let's hope I don't burn the kitchen down."
Meera chuckled, guiding her through the steps of grilling chicken and layering it with fresh lettuce and a tangy sauce. Isha's hands moved mechanically, but her mind was elsewhere—on Harsh. One minute, he was storming into her engagement like a knight, declaring her "his" with fire in his eyes. The next, he was cold, tossing out orders like she was just a hired hand. *Cook for me. Three meals a day.* His words from the jet echoed in her head, sharp and dismissive. Yet, the way he'd caught her when she fainted, the way he'd filled her wardrobe with clothes chosen just for her… it was almost tender. What was his deal?
As she sliced tomatoes, Meera glanced at her. "You're quiet today, beta. Everything okay?"
Isha hesitated, then blurted, "Meera, does Harsh—er, Mr. Shekhawat—always act like he's got two personalities? One minute he's all intense and… nice, and the next, he's colder than a Himalayan winter."
Meera's eyes twinkled with knowing amusement. "Oh, our sir? He's a puzzle, that one. Always has been. He's got the weight of the world on his shoulders, you see. But deep down, he's got a heart softer than you'd think. Just takes the right person to crack that shell."
Isha's cheeks warmed. "I'm not trying to crack anything," she mumbled, focusing on the bread. But Meera's words lingered, stirring a dangerous hope in her chest.
The breakfast tray was ready—perfectly toasted sandwiches, a steaming bowl of chicken soup, and a glass of fresh orange juice. Isha carried it to the dining hall, her heart thudding as she spotted Harsh at the head of the long mahogany table. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, reading a tablet with a frown that could freeze lava. His dark hair fell slightly over his forehead, and those ocean-storm eyes didn't even flicker as she approached.
She set the tray down, her voice barely above a whisper. "Breakfast."
Harsh glanced at the food, then at her, his expression unreadable. "You made this?"
"Well, Meera helped," she admitted, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. "Don't expect a Michelin star, okay? I'm still learning."
He didn't smile. Didn't even nod. Just picked up a sandwich and took a bite, his eyes returning to the tablet. The silence was deafening, and Isha felt a spark of irritation. *What's his problem?* She stood there, waiting for a reaction, a thank-you, anything. Nothing came.
Finally, she couldn't take it. "Is it… okay?" she asked, her voice sharper than intended.
Harsh looked up, one eyebrow raised. "It's edible," he said flatly, then went back to his tablet.
*Edible?* Isha's jaw tightened. She'd spent an hour on that damn sandwich, and all she got was *edible*? "Glad it didn't poison you," she snapped, turning to leave.
"Stop," Harsh said, his voice low but commanding. She froze, her back to him. "Sit."
She turned slowly, glaring. "I'm not a dog, Harsh."
His lips twitched, almost a smile, but it vanished quickly. "Sit, Isha. Eat with me."
Her heart did a stupid flip, but her annoyance held firm. "Why? So you can critique my soup too?"
This time, a real smirk broke through his icy facade. "Maybe. Or maybe I just don't like eating alone."
Confused but curious, Isha pulled out a chair and sat across from him, grabbing a sandwich. The air between them crackled, a mix of tension and something else—something that made her pulse race. They ate in silence for a moment, the only sound the clink of his spoon against the bowl. Then, out of nowhere, Harsh spoke.
"You're not what I expected," he said, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful.
Isha swallowed her bite, caught off guard. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He leaned back, studying her like she was a puzzle he couldn't solve. "You saved a general in a terrorist attack. You stood up to a billionaire who's blackmailing you. And yet, here you are, making me sandwiches like it's no big deal. You're… fearless, but you don't act like it."
Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down at her plate. "I'm not fearless. I'm terrified all the time. For Riya. For myself. I just… do what I have to."
Harsh's gaze softened, and for a moment, she saw the man from the garden—the one who'd kissed her like she was the only thing that mattered. "You don't give yourself enough credit," he said quietly. "Not everyone would've done what you did in Kashmir."
The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard, and she felt a warmth spread through her chest. But before she could respond, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and just like that, the warmth vanished. His face hardened, and he stood abruptly. "I have a meeting. Clean this up when you're done."
Isha blinked, stunned by the whiplash. "Seriously?" she muttered under her breath as he walked away. One second, he was sweet, making her heart skip; the next, he was barking orders like she was his servant. *What the hell is wrong with him?*
She cleared the table, her mind a storm of questions. Why did he blow hot and cold? Was he playing some kind of game? And why did her heart keep betraying her, fluttering every time he looked at her like that?
---
Later that afternoon, Isha wandered into the mansion's library, seeking a distraction. The room was a marvel—shelves towering to the ceiling, filled with leather-bound books and modern tablets, a blend of old-world charm and cutting-edge tech. She ran her fingers along the spines, pausing at a biography of a tech mogul. That's when it hit her—she still didn't know who Harsh *really* was.
Meera had hinted at his power, but what did that mean? She'd overheard whispers at the London party—Alex Shekhawat, a name that made tycoons tremble. But why? Curiosity got the better of her, and she grabbed a tablet from a nearby table, hoping to dig up answers. Before she could type his name, the library door swung open.
Harsh stood there, his expression a mix of surprise and irritation. "What are you doing in here?" he asked, his tone sharp.
Isha fumbled with the tablet, nearly dropping it. "Just… looking for something to read. Is that a crime?"
His eyes narrowed, and he crossed the room in three long strides, snatching the tablet from her hands. "This isn't a public library. Some things in here aren't for you."
Her temper flared. "Oh, come on! I'm stuck in your house, cooking your meals, and I can't even read a book? What's next, locking me in my room?"
Harsh's jaw tightened, but something flickered in his eyes—guilt, maybe? "You don't understand," he said, his voice low. "There are things in my world you're better off not knowing."
"Then why am I here?" she shot back, stepping closer, her frustration boiling over. "You storm into my engagement, kidnap me, and now you're treating me like I'm some… some burden. If you didn't want me here, why didn't you just let me go?"
For a moment, he just stared at her, his eyes darkening with something unreadable. Then, in a move that stole her breath, he stepped closer, so close she could feel the heat radiating from him. "You think I don't want you here?" he said, his voice a rough whisper. "You have no idea what you've done to me, Isha."
Her heart pounded, her anger melting into confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?" she whispered back, her voice trembling.
He didn't answer. Instead, his hand reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. His fingers lingered, grazing her cheek, and her skin tingled under his touch. For a second, she thought he might kiss her again, like in the garden. Her lips parted, her breath hitching. [Note: If you want an intense erotic moment here, like a near-kiss escalating to something more charged, you can add it. I'll keep it to a romantic clash.] But then, just as quickly, he pulled back, his face closing off again.
"Stay out of the library," he said coldly, turning away. "And don't touch my things."
Isha stood there, her heart racing, her cheeks burning with a mix of anger and longing. "You're impossible," she muttered, storming out of the library. As she slammed the door behind her, she leaned against the wall, trying to catch her breath. Why did he keep doing this? Pulling her in, then pushing her away? It was driving her insane.
---
That evening, Isha sat on her balcony, staring at the starlit mountains. Meera had told her a bit more about Harsh over lunch, and the pieces were starting to come together. Harsh—or Alex Shekhawat—wasn't just a billionaire. He was the founder of Shekhawat Enterprises, a shadowy conglomerate with tendrils in tech, defense, and global politics. At thirty-two, he'd brokered deals that stopped wars, funded tech that reshaped economies, and advised world leaders in secret. His name wasn't in Forbes or on TV, but in the halls of power—Washington, Beijing, Moscow—it was whispered with awe and fear. He wasn't just rich; he controlled information, influence, networks. A single call from him could shift markets or silence enemies.
But that wasn't all. Meera had let slip that Harsh's power came with enemies—ruthless ones. His coldness, his guarded nature, was a shield, built from years of betrayal and loss. "He wasn't always like this," Meera had said softly. "Life made him hard. But you, Isha… you're waking something in him."
Isha's heart twisted at the thought. Was that why he was so hot and cold? Protecting himself? Or was he just toying with her?
Her thoughts drifted to Vikram. Back in India, he was probably fuming, plotting. She'd learned enough about him to know his obsession wasn't love—it was her beauty, her defiance, the way she'd stood out at every event he'd attended. He'd once told her, drunk at a party, "You're a jewel, Isha. Men like me collect jewels." The memory made her skin crawl. He'd ruin Riya just to own her, to parade her as a trophy. And now, with Harsh in the picture, Vikram's obsession would only grow darker.
A knock on her door snapped her out of her thoughts. Meera stepped in, holding a small velvet box. "From sir," she said with a knowing smile.
Isha opened it, her breath catching. Inside was a delicate silver bracelet, engraved with tiny stars. A note was tucked beneath it, in Harsh's sharp handwriting: *"For the girl who saved a soldier. Wear it."*
Her heart skipped. Sweet Harsh was back. But for how long?
She slipped the bracelet on, her fingers tracing the stars. Then, steeling herself, she marched downstairs to confront him. She found him in his study, surrounded by screens flashing data—stock markets, satellite maps, encrypted messages. This was his world, the one that made him untouchable.
"Harsh," she said, her voice steady despite her nerves.
He looked up, his expression guarded. "What?"
She held up her wrist, the bracelet glinting. "This. Why?"
For a moment, he seemed caught off guard. Then he leaned back, his voice soft but edged. "Because you deserve it. And because I wanted to."
Her frustration boiled over. "You can't keep doing this! One minute you're giving me gifts, looking at me like… like you care, and the next you're acting like I'm invisible. What do you want from me, Harsh?"
He stood, crossing the room to stand in front of her, his eyes blazing. "You think I don't care?" he said, his voice low and intense. "You have no idea how hard it is to keep you at arm's length. But I have to. My world—it's dangerous, Isha. And you're already in too deep."
Her breath hitched, her heart pounding as his words sank in. "Then why bring me here?" she whispered.
He didn't answer, just stared at her, his eyes flickering with something raw—desire, fear, longing. The air between them was electric, and for a moment, she thought he'd pull her close, close the distance. [Note: This is another spot for an intense erotic scene if you want to add one—e.g., a charged moment where they almost give in to their attraction.] But then, his phone buzzed, shattering the moment.
He stepped back, his face hardening. "Go to bed, Isha. We'll talk tomorrow."
As she walked away, her heart racing, she heard a voice from the shadows—Varun, Harsh's friend, on a call. "Vikram's men are moving. They know she's with you, Alex. This isn't over."
Isha froze, fear gripping her. Vikram was coming. And Harsh's world was about to collide with hers in ways she couldn't imagine.