Samara woke up the next morning with a groan. The mansion was silent—so silent that even her heartbeat felt too loud. She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes, still not used to the cold luxury around her. Everything felt… intimidating. Even the curtains looked more expensive than her entire wardrobe.
Her stomach growled.
“Great,” she muttered. “I’m starving in a palace. What a glamorous life.”
She dragged herself out of bed, threw her hair into a messy bun, slipped into her oversized T-shirt and shorts, and marched downstairs.
The moment she entered the living room, she froze.
Shivansh was there.
And not just “there”—he was sitting on the couch, dressed in a navy suit, hair perfectly styled, reading something on his iPad with the seriousness of a man negotiating a billion-dollar merger at 8 a.m.
Her mismatched pajamas suddenly felt illegal.
He glanced up, expression blank. “Good morning.”
Samara blinked. “You talk in the mornings?”
“I’m impressed you’re awake before noon.”
“Oh,” she scoffed, “I can wake up early. I just choose not to.”
He gave a small hum—something between disbelief and amusement.
Samara crossed her arms. “Is there breakfast?”
“Of course.”
She waited.
He continued scrolling.
She stared. He ignored.
Finally, she snapped, “You know, in normal houses, people tell each other where the breakfast is.”
Without looking up, he replied, “Dining hall. Second door on your left.”
Samara grumbled as she stomped away. “This place has more doors than people…”
She pushed open the door and—her jaw dropped.
A feast.
Fruit platters, pancakes, idlis, parathas, juices, and things she didn’t even know how to pronounce. Her eyes sparkled like a child at a candy store.
She reached out to grab a pancake—
“Mrs. Malhotra?”
She jumped. The head maid, Meera, smiled kindly.
“I’ve prepared your favorites.”
“My favorites?” Samara blinked. “How? I didn’t tell you.”
“Sir instructed us.”
Samara froze. “Shivansh… told you what I like?”
Meera nodded. “He asked your parents last week.”
Samara stared at the table, suddenly feeling something unfamiliar in her chest. Warmth. Confusion. Maybe a bit of shock.
But before she could process it, Shivansh entered the dining room too.
She immediately straightened up like a student caught skipping class.
“Oh,” she muttered. “You’re eating too?”
He pulled out a chair. “Is that a problem?”
“Yes.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She quickly corrected herself, “I mean—no! Of course not. I’m just… unused to your face in the morning.”
“My face looks like this every morning.”
“That’s the problem.”
A tiny smirk tugged on his lips—the first she had seen since they met. She looked away quickly.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Samara kept stealing glances. Why did he remember her favorite foods? Why did he ask her parents?
The thought annoyed her.
“Why did you tell the staff about my food choices?”
“Because you’re living here,” he replied calmly. “You should be comfortable.”
She blinked. “Comfortable?”
Since when did he care about comfort?
But she didn’t say that aloud.
After breakfast, she hopped off her chair. “Okay, I want to explore this mansion.”
Shivansh set down his fork. “No.”
“No?” She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean ‘no’?”
“You can’t simply wander around. Some areas are restricted.”
“Restricted?” She gasped dramatically. “What are you hiding? A secret lab? A hidden wife?”
He gave her a bored look. “Yes, Samara. I have my secret wife chained in the basement.”
She gasped louder. “You have a basement?!”
He rubbed his temples. “That’s not the point.”
“It is now,” she said, marching toward the corridor.
He stood up. “Samara.”
She stopped.
His voice was low, firm, commanding. “This house is large. Some areas are under renovation. Some have confidential files. You can roam, but not everywhere.”
She crossed her arms defiantly. “Then show me the places I can go.”
He blinked—clearly not expecting that.
“Fine,” he sighed.
She followed him through the mansion as he explained each section.
“This is the private library,” he said.
Samara gasped. “Whoa… it’s bigger than my school library!”
“You can use it. But don’t touch the locked shelves.”
She poked her tongue out. “You’re no fun.”
He ignored that.
“This is the office wing.”
She wrinkled her nose. “It smells like stress.”
He paused mid-step, actually amused. “It’s an office. Not a bakery.”
“This is the entertainment room.”
Samara’s eyes widened. “You have a home theater? And a pool table? And—wait—THIS IS A CHOCOLATE FOUNTAIN???”
“That was for a party last week,” he replied.
“Can we keep it?”
“No.”
“I hate rich people,” she muttered.
“You are rich people now.”
“I hate myself then.”
He shook his head, looking away before she saw the smile hiding at the corner of his mouth.
Finally, he led her to the last room.
“And this is—”
“THE SWIMMING POOL?!” she screamed.
“Indoor pool,” he corrected dryly.
She ran to the edge, bouncing with excitement. “I’m living in a resort!”
He folded his arms. “Don’t run near the pool.”
She turned. “Oh, so you can give orders now?”
“I always give orders,” he said.
“Yeah, well, I don’t follow them.”
“You have to, Samara,” he said seriously. “This house has rules.”
She scoffed. “Sure. What are the rules? No smiling? No breathing loudly? No having fun?”
He stared at her, expression unreadable. “Rule one: Don’t wander alone at night.”
“Why?”
He hesitated. “Just don’t.”
There was something in his tone—something heavy, unspoken. Samara softened.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Next rule?”
“Rule two: Inform me if you leave the house.”
“Are you my husband or my jailer?”
“Both, apparently.”
She laughed.
His eyes softened briefly—but when she looked at him, he quickly looked away.
“Next rule?” she asked.
“Rule three…” he paused, “Don’t disturb me when I’m working.”
Samara saluted dramatically. “Yes, sir, Mr. Cold CEO sir.”
“And rule four,” he added.
She blinked. “There’s more?”
“One more. The most important.”
He stepped closer. She held her breath.
He looked directly into her eyes—calm, deep, unreadable.
“Rule four: Don’t enter my private room. Ever.”
Samara felt a strange chill. Not fear—curiosity. Why was that room so important?
“Why?” she whispered.
He didn’t blink. “Because some doors are locked for a reason.”
Her heartbeat quickened. For the first time, she sensed the mystery behind his coldness. A secret. A past. Something heavy.
Before she could ask more, his phone rang. He turned away instantly.
“Yes,” he answered in his sharp CEO tone. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
When he hung up, he said curtly, “I have to leave for a meeting.”
Samara nodded.
He hesitated at the door. “If you need anything… tell the staff.”
She smiled, surprisingly gently. “Okay.”
Just as he turned, she called out, “Shivansh?”
He paused.
“Thanks for breakfast,” she said softly.
He blinked, almost startled.
For a moment—just one—his voice warmed.
“You’re welcome.”
And then he left.
Samara watched him go, her heart doing something stupid in her chest.
She muttered under her breath,
“Why is the cold CEO… not so cold today?”
She didn’t know it yet, but this tiny shift—this gentle morning—was the beginning of everything.
Their fights.
Their laughter.
Their secrets.
Their adventure.
And their love.
The ice had cracked, even if just a little.
And Samara?
She was about to step right through that crack.
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