Riaan didn't sleep.
Not because of the thunder outside.
But because of the two storms inside.
One wore anklets and looked at him like he was a question she was too young to ask.
The other locked the door behind her and moved through shadows like she owned them.
And maybe she did.
---
The Haveli by daylight was no less secretive — just better at pretending. Staff moved quietly. Curtains stayed drawn. Paintings on the walls stared with knowing eyes.
At breakfast, only Devika appeared.
Black chiffon saree. Hair tied high. A single gold ring on her thumb. She poured chai like it was an art form, her every gesture deliberate.
"Meher isn't feeling well," she said without looking up.
Riaan nodded.
"She has a soft mind. Romantic. Impressionable. I shouldn't have let her meet you last night."
"I didn't touch her," he said, his voice even.
She looked at him then. A slow, deliberate glance that undressed more than clothes.
"But she wanted you to," Devika said. "That's worse."
He leaned forward. "Why did you lock the door?"
She sipped her tea, eyes never leaving his. "Because I wanted to know what kind of man you are. Some try to run. Others try to own the room. You did neither."
"And what does that mean?"
"It means," she said softly, "I haven't decided what to do with you yet."
---
Later that day, while reviewing the estate for shoot angles, Riaan wandered into a locked room on the second floor. The latch was loose. The inside smelled of mothballs and roses.
Old books. A mirror with a crack running down the center. And a velvet-covered diary on the desk.
He opened it.
It wasn't Devika's handwriting.
It was Meher's.
> "He doesn't know it yet. But she wants to break him. Slowly. And then claim what's left."
> "I watch from the staircase sometimes. The way she touches her neck when he walks past. The way she speaks slower when he's listening. It's all a trap."
> "But if I warn him, will he listen? Or will he think I'm just another girl trying to be noticed?"
He closed the journal. Fast.
Someone had been watching him. Writing about him. Predicting him.
And someone was playing a game far older than seduction.
---
That night, a door creaked open again.
But it wasn't Meher.
It was Devika.
No words. Just her shape silhouetted in the doorway. Moonlight on her collarbone. Silence heavy like smoke.
She crossed the room in bare feet and sat at the edge of his bed.
"You read the diary, didn't you?"
He didn't lie.
"Yes."
"Then you know the house is more honest than its people."
She touched the edge of his shirt, fingers deliberate.
"Tell me to leave," she whispered.
He didn't.
He couldn't.
And when her lips touched his neck — not with urgency, but with ownership — he finally realized:
The game had started long before he arrived.
And he was already losing.