Raina's POV
The phone trembles in my palm like something alive and afraid.
My thumb hovers over the name I used to say like a prayer: Vikram Singhania.
Billionaire.
Automobiles.
Towering presence in India and in boardrooms everywhere.
The man who could bend supply chains and silence journalists with a single line in the ledger. My father.
I have not called him in ways that mattered for a long time. Not about fear, not about the nights that left their marks under my skin. I had kept my life at arm's length, Beverley Hills, the clinic under my real name, my quiet routines, because calling him always made me feel painfully exposed.
Yet tonight my fingers move before my mind forgives them.
The line clicks and he answers on the first ring. "Raina," he says, that one-syllable question that somehow balances affection and command.
"Papa," I breathe. The sound splits and I almost hang up. The world is too loud behind my ribs. "Someone was at my door tonight."
There's a breath on his end, the tiny inhalation of a man who measures risk like currency. "What happened?" he asks. He doesn't ask with surprise. He asks like someone already expects the worst.
I tell him, in splintered sentences, in the overturned grammar of someone who hasn't slept properly in days. The knock. The velvet box. The black rose at my threshold. The video file in the private folder that proves he was there the night of the gunshot. Ethan Hale's name, the way it sits between us like an accusation and a promise. I speak too fast, every detail tumbling out because if I don't say it, the edges of the night will fold back in on themselves and swallow me whole.
Silence waits. Then Vikram answers, slow and even. "He called me earlier today," he says. "Ethan Hale."
My chest convulses. "He called you?"
"Yes." His voice is iron in silk. "He phoned asking about you. He explained what he wants. He said he would protect you if you agreed to live where he can ensure your safety."
Emotion surges — anger, humiliation, the raw sting of being told what to do by a man who recently whispered my name across my doorway as if he owned the syllable. "He wants me to live with him," I say flatly. "In Bel-Air."
There's a long pause. I can hear the faint rustle of his study — perhaps the movement of the evening release in one of his factories. "He asked for my blessing," Vikram says finally.
"He said he wants you under his roof so he can control the environment."
My stomach drops. My first reaction is the old reflex, to recoil, to run, because ingrained into every cell of me is the memory of that night, the feeling of doors closing and the world narrowing to one sound. But this time the shelter being offered sits on both sides of my fear: Ethan's house, yes, but also my father's power and resources backing that arrangement. I remember, abruptly and painfully, that I have a father who can make a private jet hum and a security detail materialize within minutes.
The thought of going back to India flashes through me, and I shut it out instantly; I would never return there. Not now. Not ever. India is where the old wounds bled open. I will not put my fingers back into the flame.
On the line, my father says, "I don't want you to return to India, Beta. You will not go back. That is not what I'm telling you. I'm asking what will keep you safe, where you can rebuild without being exposed."
The relief that should rise is complex; it carries weight, metallic and suspicious. "Then what?" I ask. I am exhausted and raw and I sound smaller than I feel. "Ethan says he'll protect me if I go to him. He says he'll house me in Bel-Air. He said the paperwork is ready, marriage, legal cover. He said it's the only way to contain the curiosity."
Vikram's breath moves. "He spoke to me candidly. He said he will protect you, under his roof. He asked my permission. I took time. I weighed options. I will not send my daughter back to where she can be hurt. But I will do everything to make sure you are not a target."
There is a ferocity in his voice now, like the engines in his factories — quiet, reliable, and capable of tearing down anyone who threatened what he loved.
I picture my childhood home, heavy curtains, the scent of cardamom in the air, my father's shoulder as a quiet refuge. The image steadies and breaks me at once. "Papa, I can't come back," I whisper. "India is not safe. You know that."
"I know," he says. "And I would never ask you to return. I will, however, ensure you have a secure place to go in America. I can arrange a private suite on one of my company properties in California. Or, if you will accept it, I will work with Ethan to ensure that any residence in Bel-Air has my direct security overlay. You will be under both his roof and my protection."
I close my eyes and picture the McLaren idling in the dark outside — the memory of the engine's low growl from earlier tonight still raw. The idea that my father would cooperate with the man at my door both comforts and terrifies me.
It means he's watching. It means he will intersect with Ethan's plan. A plan that smelled of control and an unsettling tenderness.
"You want me to go with him?" I say, voice frayed.
"Not as a hostage," Vikram says quickly. "As someone under a protective arrangement." His voice hardens. "If Ethan insists on living with you in Bel-Air and if that is the most immediate and effective way to keep other vultures from picking at your life, then we secure that. I won't send you into a media frenzy without backup. If you prefer my private suite until we evaluate, we will do that. You have a choice. But you will not be alone."
The choice feels smaller than I'd imagined and infinitely heavier. Metrics and logic camp around my heart as if making a boardroom decision. But this is not a spreadsheet. This is my life.
Tears come anyway, small, hot, inevitable. I let them fall because I am tired of keeping everything in. "Papa," I say, my voice a broken thing, "I don't know what to do."
"Do what keeps you alive," he said finally — the calm weight of authority threaded through every syllable. "I'm sending one of my men to you within thirty minutes. A driver you can trust. He'll wait downstairs — don't hesitate, just go. Take only what you need: passport, essentials, nothing more."
The fight in me, the woman who builds walls of order and logic, resists like an animal. The memory of hurt clamps down like a reflex. But in the background the black rose on the table mutters its silent threat. The velvet box feels like a rock in my bag; I shove it in without thinking, a talisman and an indictment.
His voice steadied me and broke me all at once. I could almost smell his office, the sharp tang of machine oil and the faint sweetness of tobacco that clung to his suits.
"I'll have my Los Angeles team arrange a safe location," he continued.
"Somewhere private, under my security. You'll stay there until we decide what to do next. I'll send your documents, and a few people you know, from our company branch in California, to help you settle for now."
I nodded even though he couldn't see me. "What if Ethan—"
"If Ethan comes," my father interrupted, his tone turning to steel, "you don't fight him alone. Let me handle that part. Don't engage, don't argue, just leave when the car arrives. And Raina…"
His voice softened just enough for the father to step out from behind the billionaire.
"You don't owe that man anything. Not your explanations, not your fear. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Papa," I whispered, though the words barely made it past the lump in my throat.