Chapter 6: Chapter 6
The helicopter ride back from Italy was quiet.
Arya watched the coastline recede through the window, the sapphire water fading to gray, the cliffs shrinking to specks. Devraj sat across from her, his eyes closed, his breathing even. He hadn't touched her since the pier. Not on the yacht, not on the flight. He had kept his word.
She hated how much she noticed his restraint.
The mansion came into view beneath them—a sprawling estate of white stone and dark glass, perched on a hill overlooking the city. It had always looked like a fortress to her. Today, it looked like a prison.
They landed on the helipad behind the east wing. A driver waited with the car, and they rode in silence through the long driveway, past the manicured gardens, past the fountain that never stopped running.
The front doors opened before they reached them. A housekeeper took Arya's bag. Another took Devraj's coat.
"Welcome home," the housekeeper said.
Arya didn't correct her. What was the point?
She walked through the marble foyer, her heels clicking against the floor, and stopped at the base of the grand staircase. The house stretched above her—three floors of corridors and rooms she had never fully explored. It was too big. Too quiet. Too much.
"I'm going to shower," she said.
Devraj nodded. He was already walking toward his study, his phone in his hand, the world outside calling him back.
She climbed the stairs alone.
Her room was the same as she had left it—the silk sheets, the fresh flowers, the walk-in closet full of clothes she hadn't chosen. She stood in the doorway for a long moment, looking at the bed where she had slept alone for the first week. The bed where she had cried. The bed where she had stared at the ceiling and wondered if she would ever feel like herself again.
She showered. She washed the salt from her hair and the sand from her skin. She stood under the hot water until it ran cold, and then she stepped out and wrapped herself in a robe.
Her phone was on the nightstand.
Three missed calls from Rohan.
She stared at his name on the screen. Her thumb hovered over the call button. She didn't press it.
Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed and let the phone fall to the mattress beside her. The silence of the house pressed in on her, thick and heavy.
She thought about the cove. The sand. The way he had looked at her when he said I'm not going to kiss you tonight.
She thought about the yacht. The blanket he had given her. The way he had slept in another cabin without complaint.
She thought about Rohan. His voice. His hands. The way he used to laugh at her jokes, even the bad ones.
She didn't know what she felt anymore.
The afternoon passed in a haze. She wandered the house, restless and aimless. She found herself in the library—a room she had avoided until now—and ran her fingers along the spines of books that looked old and expensive and utterly untouched.
She pulled one down. Dante. The Divine Comedy. The same book he had mentioned at dinner.
She opened it. The pages were yellowed, the binding cracked. On the inside cover, written in faded ink, was a name she didn't recognize. A date. 1972.
She closed the book and put it back.
Dinner was served in the dining room at eight. The table was long enough for twenty, but only two places were set—at opposite ends. Arya sat. Devraj sat. The distance between them felt deliberate.
"You're quiet," he said.
"I'm tired."
"You slept on the flight."
"I'm tired in other ways."
He didn't push. He ate his dinner—rack of lamb, roasted vegetables, a wine she didn't recognize—and she picked at hers. The silence was different from before. It wasn't hostile. It wasn't tense. It was something else. Something almost like waiting.
After dinner, she went to her room.
She didn't sleep.
She lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, and listened to the house settle around her. The creak of the pipes. The whisper of the air conditioning. The distant hum of the city beyond the walls.
At midnight, she got up.
She walked barefoot through the corridor, past the closed doors, past the paintings she had never really looked at, until she reached his study. The light was on. She could see it under the door.
She knocked.
"Come in."
She opened the door.
Devraj was at his desk, his sleeves rolled up, his glasses on. He looked up when she entered, and something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or hope.
"You should be asleep," he said.
"So should you."
She walked to the window. The city sprawled below, a million lights blinking in the dark. She pressed her palm to the glass and felt the cold.
"I keep thinking about what you said," she said. "On the pier."
"Which part?"
"That you wanted me to choose."
She turned. He had taken off his glasses. He was watching her with an intensity th