The Temporary Villa
The April sun was soft when he drove his parents up the winding hill road. The slopes were covered in the fresh green of new leaves, and the air carried that faint sweetness that only came after spring rain. Along the bends, wild rhododendrons bloomed like scattered torches of red, and the distant pine canopy whispered in the breeze.
His parents had no idea where he was taking them.
"Beta," his father said, peering through the window, "this road… it doesn't even show on the map. How far is this place?"
"Not too far," the MC replied with a small smile, keeping one hand on the wheel. "Just wait."
The convoy behind them—two trucks and a discreet SUV—was unmarked. Inside the trucks were their belongings, carefully moved from the old family home. He had made sure his parents never had to lift a finger.
At the crest of the hill, the villa appeared. White stone walls, terracotta-tiled roof, and wide glass windows that reflected the morning light. A garden stretched in terraces around it, where early blooms of lilies and roses swayed as if welcoming them.
His mother gasped. "This… this can't be for us."
The MC only parked the car silently, walked around, and opened her door like he had done as a child when pretending to be a chauffeur. She stepped out slowly, her sandals sinking into the soft gravel of the drive.
The villa wasn't ostentatious—it was elegant. Aarya had designed it to resemble the mountain retreats of Switzerland, but infused with subtle Indian touches: a carved teakwood door, brass bells that chimed softly in the breeze, and the faint smell of sandalwood oil from a lamp already burning inside.
Workers bowed slightly as the family entered. They weren't ordinary workers—each was hand-picked, loyal, and well-paid, but to his parents they looked like ordinary caretakers.
The living room was flooded with sunlight from two stories of glass. Beyond it, the valley stretched endlessly, a sea of forest and mist.
His mother's eyes filled with tears. She touched the polished railing of the staircase as though it were fragile.
"I never imagined… never in my life… that we would live like this."
His father was quieter, walking slowly across the room, running his hand along the smooth grain of the wood paneling. A man who had spent decades budgeting every rupee, he seemed almost afraid that all this was temporary, a dream that might vanish.
The MC watched them, heart tightening. For all his billions hidden in dimensions, for all the power he wielded, this was the moment he had been waiting for. To give them a life without worry, without compromise.
He guided them through the villa. The kitchen had already been stocked—fresh spices, lentils, rice, even his mother's favorite brand of pickles placed neatly on the shelf. In the dining area, a large window opened to a balcony where two chairs faced the valley. He imagined his parents sipping chai here in the mornings.
In the bedrooms, the beds were made with handwoven quilts from Kashmir. The walls bore paintings commissioned from young local artists. Aarya had curated everything with precision, but it still carried warmth, not sterility.
When his mother entered her room, she paused. By the bedside table sat an old wooden jewelry box—her jewelry box from the old house, restored and polished. She pressed her palm to it, recognizing the scratches made years ago when it fell during a move.
Her voice broke. "You even… kept this safe?"
The MC nodded. "Everything you thought you lost, I kept."
She turned and hugged him tightly, her frail frame trembling. For the first time in his two lives, he let himself lean into the embrace, breathing in the scent of her hair, hearing her whisper:
"You've given us more than we ever dreamed, beta. May God bless you."
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Side POV: The Caretaker
One of the villa caretakers, a man in his forties from the nearby village, watched quietly from the hallway. He had seen wealthy families before, usually distant, arrogant. But this young man treated his parents with reverence, almost devotion.
The caretaker wrote in his journal that night:
> "This boy is different. Whoever he is, he is building not just wealth, but respect for his roots. If all rich men were like him, our villages would never have to suffer."
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Closing Scene
That evening, the MC stood outside on the balcony while his parents settled into their rooms. The valley spread out below, dotted with the faint lights of villages. He heard his mother humming a bhajan in the kitchen, his father unpacking books in the study.
For the first time since his rebirth, the house felt alive.
The estate would take another year to finish, but this villa was already more than shelter—it was home.
And as he looked at the stars, he whispered to himself:
"This is only the beginning."