Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Riya

Friday came too fast.

I spent the two days in between packing like I was going on a trip I already knew I wouldn’t enjoy. Clothes. A few books. The photo of my mother I kept in the drawer. The cheap jewelry that still felt like mine.

Everything else stayed.

The apartment already felt half-empty.

Dad asked questions. I gave him half-answers.

“It’s a private arrangement. The bills are covered. You’re moving to a better facility with real nurses. I’m going with the person handling the debt.”

He knew I was leaving something out. The look in his eyes said so.

But he was too tired to push, and I was too much of a coward to tell him the full truth yet.

The black car arrived at nine in the morning.

Not a regular town car. Something heavier. Tinted windows. A driver who didn’t smile and a nurse in scrubs who spoke gently to Dad while she helped transfer him.

They were efficient. Professional. Like moving sick people into Aryan Rajvansh’s care was just another item on somebody’s morning schedule.

I locked the apartment door for the last time and didn’t look back.

The drive into the city was quiet. Dad dozed against the window. I stared at my phone and the message I still hadn’t deleted.

Welcome to the family, Mrs. Rajvansh.

No number I could trace. No reply when I finally broke and texted Who is this?

The message just sat there, cold and final.

I told myself it was probably some assistant. Or a relative who got the news early. Or a test.

I didn’t believe any of those options.

---

Aryan’s residence wasn’t a penthouse.

It was a full building.

A private townhouse on a quiet Upper East Side block, the kind of place that didn’t need a nameplate because the people who mattered already knew who lived there.

Black iron gate. Stone facade. Cameras that tracked the car the second we turned onto the street.

The driver opened my door. The nurse handled Dad. I stepped out onto the sidewalk and felt the weight of the place settle on my shoulders before I even reached the steps.

A woman waited at the top.

Mid-forties. Dark hair pulled back so tightly it looked painful. Black dress. No jewelry except a single thin gold chain. Her expression was polite and completely empty.

“Miss Kapoor,” she said.

Not Mrs. Rajvansh.

“I’m Mrs. D’Souza. House manager. Mr. Rajvansh is in a meeting and asked me to show you to your rooms.”

Rooms. Plural.

I followed her inside.

The entrance hall was all dark wood and white marble. High ceilings. A staircase that curved like it belonged in a different century.

Everything smelled expensive and controlled.

No clutter. No warmth.

Just money that had been told to stay quiet.

Mrs. D’Souza walked with the kind of posture that said she had seen every version of this situation before.

“Your father is being taken to the private care suite on the garden level. Full medical staff is already in place. You may visit whenever you like, but the nursing team prefers structure. I’ll give you the schedule.”

I nodded.

Words felt useless.

She led me up the stairs and down a long hallway on the second floor. She stopped at a set of double doors and opened them.

The suite was larger than our entire apartment.

Sitting room. Bedroom. Bathroom that looked like it belonged in a hotel I could never afford. Floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a private garden.

A walk-in closet was already half-filled with clothes still in garment bags.

New.

Expensive.

In my size.

I stared at them.

He'd had someone buy clothes for me.

In my size.

I didn't know whether to be impressed or creeped out.

“Mr. Rajvansh had a stylist select basics,” Mrs. D’Souza said, as if that explained everything. “If anything is unsuitable, leave it on the chair. It will be removed.”

“I brought my own clothes.”

“Of course. Those will be placed in the secondary closet.”

She handed me a slim black folder.

“Wi-Fi information. Building access codes. A direct line to the security desk. And Mr. Rajvansh’s schedule for the next week. He requested that you review it.”

I took the folder without opening it.

“Where is he?”

“As I said. In a meeting. He will send for you when he’s free.”

She paused at the door.

“One more thing, Miss Kapoor. The staff is under instruction to treat you with every courtesy. In return, we ask that you respect the private areas of the house. The third floor and the basement level are restricted. If you need something, use the intercom. Do not wander.”

The way she said do not wander made the hair on my arms stand up.

“Understood.”

She left.

I stood in the middle of the ridiculous sitting room and listened to the silence.

It wasn’t empty silence.

It was the kind that came from thick walls and people who knew how to keep secrets.

I walked to the window.

The garden below was perfect.

Manicured.

Empty.

I opened the folder.

Aryan’s schedule was color-coded and precise. Meetings. Calls. A dinner I was apparently expected to attend on Tuesday.

A note at the bottom, in clean handwriting that wasn’t printed:

Dinner. Tonight. 8 p.m. Ground floor dining room. Do not be late.

No signature.

I closed the folder and sat on the edge of the bed.

Three days ago I had been in Queens, counting hospital bills and hoping the landlord would give us one more week.

Now I was in a townhouse that felt more like a fortress, wearing a name that didn’t belong to me yet, with a message on my phone that still hadn’t been explained and a house manager who looked at me like I was temporary.

I pulled out my phone again and stared at the unknown number.

Welcome to the family, Mrs. Rajvansh.

I typed a new message.

I don’t know who you are, but if this is some kind of joke it’s not funny.

I hit send.

The reply came thirty seconds later.

No joke. Sleep light.

My blood went cold.

I locked the phone, stood up, and walked to the door of the suite. The hallway outside was empty.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

Somewhere deeper in the house, a door closed.

I stepped back inside, locked the suite door, and leaned against it.

Dinner at eight.

Restricted floors.

A message that knew I was already here.

I had signed the papers.

I had moved in.

And for the first time since I hit send on that acceptance email, I wondered if three years was going to be long enough to survive whatever I had just walked into.