Raina's POV
The night pressed against my window like a secret waiting to be spoken.
I had packed only what my father said ,passport, phone, one change of clothes, nothing personal that could trace me.
The bag felt too light. My chest felt too heavy.
The call still echoed in my head:
"I'm sending my driver. You'll be safe, Raina. Just go. Don't ask questions."
His voice had been firm but kind, the way he used to sound when I scraped my knees as a child. That same calmness now wrapped itself around something darker.
I kept repeating to myself: He knows what he's doing.
Papa always knew.
He is Vikram Singhania — a man who built empires out of steel and gasoline.
If he said a car was coming, it was safe.
It had to be.
When the headlights curved into the street below, the relief was almost painful.
A Rolls-Royce Ghost, black as wet ink, glided to a stop outside my building. Its engine purred, expensive, deliberate, almost gentle. The driver stepped out, crisp in a dark suit. He was middle-aged, Indian, his accent soft when he said,
"Dr. Mehta? Mr. Singhania sent me, ma'am. Please, we should leave quickly."
I nodded, though my hands were shaking.
He opened the back door for me with an old-world courtesy that made my throat sting with homesickness.
Inside, the car smelled faintly of sandalwood and leather, a scent I hadn't realised I associated with my father until now. The seat was cool under my palms. Everything about the interior whispered luxury and order, Vikram's world translated into upholstery and chrome but my papa never has such taste. It's more subtle, this is what I am experiencing is more raw.
The driver eased the car forward. Los Angeles blurred by in ribbons of light. I watched storefronts slip past like film stills, my reflection faint in the tinted glass, a woman who no longer looked entirely like herself.
The driver spoke after several minutes.
"Sir said to tell you the place is quiet, far from the city. Just rest for now."
I exhaled shakily. "You work for my father?"
"Yes, ma'am. Long time," he said without turning his head. His hands were steady on the wheel, his posture straight. Everything about him read discipline.
I let my shoulders drop a little. "He didn't tell me where I'm going."
"He'll speak with you when we arrive," the driver said. "Somewhere private. Safer."
Safe.
The word floated through me like morphine, temporary, numbing, maybe even fake, but I clung to it.
The city lights thinned; roads grew wider, darker. Palms turned to silhouettes. The radio hummed low instrumental jazz. The vibration of the tires against asphalt became hypnotic.
For a while I stared at the driver's profile reflected in the glass partition, the hard line of his jaw, the glint of his wedding ring catching dashboard light. Completely ordinary, reassuringly human.
I almost believed it.
But there were small details that didn't add up.
First - the phone signal. It had vanished twenty minutes ago. This route shouldn't have lost reception; I had driven north toward Malibu before, the signal flickered but never died completely.
Second- the driver's silence had changed. It wasn't the calm of a man at ease; it was the silence of someone replaying instructions in his head.
My pulse climbed quietly. "How much longer?"
"Not long, ma'am. We'll reach in about forty minutes."
He didn't say where.
I swallowed. "You're from Delhi, right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
A safe lie or a true one — impossible to tell. His accent was too neutral.
I folded my arms, rubbed my palms against my sleeves to chase the chill crawling up them. Goosebumps lifted like small alarms. The windows showed only darkness now, no road signs, just the faint wash of headlights over distant trees.
Something about the air changed.
It smelled different, not city dust but wet earth.
"Where exactly is this place?"
He hesitated. "A family estate. Been unused for some years. Sir said no one will disturb you there."
A farmhouse. My father had mentioned one long ago, somewhere on the outskirts, he kept it for business retreats, guarded, remote. It made sense. It did.
Still, my stomach wouldn't unclench.
We drove another twenty minutes before I noticed the turn. The car slowed, wheels crunching over gravel instead of asphalt. I leaned closer to the window.
Tall cypress trees lined a narrow driveway, their branches stitching together above us to block the sky. The headlights carved through the mist like surgical lights.
Something primal in me whispered, This doesn't look like my father's style.
He preferred glass, steel, symmetry, not wilderness.
The car rolled to a stop before an old, sprawling farmhouse. It was beautiful in a desolate way, whitewashed walls, a wraparound porch, lanterns glowing dimly. The silence here was almost heavy, like the air itself was waiting for something to happen.
The driver stepped out, opened my door. "We've arrived, ma'am."
I hesitated. "Can I call my father now?"
"He'll contact you once you're settled."
He motioned toward the porch, where another man waited, tall, lean, posture immaculate in a black shirt and slacks. He looked foreign, maybe Italian. His expression neutral, polite.
"I'll take your bag, Dr. Mehta." His voice carried a smooth European inflection.
I froze. "Who are you?"
"House staff," he said with a small nod. "Mr. Singhania's instruction."
Something about his tone, courteous but rehearsed, made the back of my neck prickle.
He reached for the bag; I held it tighter.
"May I?" he asked again, too patiently.
I handed it over, pulse hammering.
Inside, the farmhouse smelled of lavender and old wood polish. Dim lamps burned along the hallway. The floor creaked under my shoes. Every sound felt amplified, my breath, the rustle of fabric, the faint hum of electricity.
"Your room is ready," the man said. "Please follow me."
He led me up a short staircase to a large bedroom overlooking the hills. Curtains moved slightly from the evening breeze; the view outside was pitch black.
"This will be comfortable," he said. "There's food in the kitchen, clothes in the wardrobe. Rest, Dr. Mehta."
He turned to leave.
I swallowed hard. "Wait. I want to speak to my father."
"Of course," he said smoothly. "I'll inform him you've arrived."
He closed the door behind him.
The click echoed far too long.
For a minute I just stood there. Then I moved toward the window, drew the curtain back an inch.
Darkness.
Trees.
Nothing else.
No gate lights, no city glow.
Just void.
Something in me cracked open, an unease I couldn't reason away. I pulled my phone out. No signal.
I tried the landline on the bedside table, dead tone.
Goosebumps ran up my arms like frost.
The wardrobe door stood ajar; inside hung clothes, my size, my style, even the muted colours I wore to the clinic. On the dresser, beside a folded white scarf, sat a small vase.
Inside the vase one black rose.
The air left my lungs.
For a moment I couldn't think, couldn't move. I turned blue. Color of my face gone.
I turned slowly toward the mirror.
He was there.
Ethan stood in the doorway, half-shadowed, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes darker than the night outside.
"I told you," he said quietly, almost tenderly.
"You're safest with me."
The world tilted.
My throat went dry, heart hammering so loud it felt visible beneath my skin.
"Ethan," I whispered. "What have you done?"
He stepped into the light, his expression unreadable, the kind of calm that only predators and gods know.
"Exactly what your father asked," he said. "I kept you alive."
The lamp flickered once, throwing his reflection beside mine, two ghosts staring at each other across a line neither could cross without bleeding.