6

Anya’s POV

“Who the hell are you?” His voice was low, harsh, and utterly devoid of any recognition. It was the voice of a man in deep, silent agony, and yet, it still held that same imperious rock-star authority.

“My name is Anya,” I said, walking slightly further into the room, ensuring I was visible. “I’m the new Personal Assistant. Ethan Cole hired me. I start… now.”

Finally, slowly, he raised his head. His eyes—those stormy, green-gray eyes that could look either like a misty morning or a gathering storm—fixed on me.

It took him only a fraction of a second to piece it together. The shape of my face, the familiar high cheekbones, the undeniable, unwanted connection. His eyes widened, not with surprise, but with immediate, chilling hostility, like a fuse being lit. The silence that followed felt like an explosion waiting to happen.

The glass in his hand slammed down hard on the side table, rattling loudly against the heavy wood.

“Anya fucking Sharma,” he hissed, the name sounded more like a curse on his tongue. “My supposed father’s leech of a daughter?! Ethan hired you?” he chuckled, gulping down a large content of his drink, befor continuing.

“You’ve been publicly wishing death on my career for years. And now you’re here to fetch my ibuprofen? Did he run out of qualified sycophants?”

The insult, specifically targeting my deceased father and the circumstances of my childhood, landed like a physical blow. The heat rose in my chest, threatening to ignite my control. He was every bit the arrogant monster I had spent years condemning.

I met his gaze, refusing to flinch. The money, the NGO, the mission. They were my shield.

“I’m here to fulfill a contractual obligation, Kai. Just like you are, by continuing this tour. My business is strictly professional.” I crossed my arms, mimicking his guarded posture.

 “I’m here to manage your schedule and keep this tour functioning. If you require anything, you’ll find my number on the duty chart. Just consider me furniture, slightly less comfortable than this chaise lounge, but hopefully more functional.”

His body shifted, and he leaned forward, his bare arms resting on his knees, his good hand gripping his thigh. The sight of his immobilized, left hand was sobering, driving home the reality of his predicament. He couldn’t play his music, well, and that was clearly his greatest torment.

“Furniture that smells like deceit,” he spat, his voice dangerously low, like a low cello note filled with malice. “Tell me, Critic. Did your father put you up to this? Did he tell you to sneak on board so you can finally get the dirt you need to run your disgusting little smear blog? Did he get a cut of Ethan’s money? Do you still think I was drunk when I crashed?”

The accusation of my father’s involvement, a suspicion that always lay dormant in my mind, a ghost whispering that my father used me, stung like salt in a fresh wound. And the insult about the crash. I watched his face closely, searching for any flicker of guilt, any hesitation that suggested he was hiding something about the accident. There was nothing but pure, unadulterated contempt for me.

“My father has nothing to do with this,” I lied smoothly, maintaining the rigid mask of professionalism. “I took this job because it was an incredible offer. End of story. My ethics are my own, and right now, they’re governed by the ironclad confidentiality agreement I signed. I’m legally your servant, not your enemy. Try to remember that.”

“No,” he corrected, pushing himself upright slightly, his stare boring into me.

“The end of your story is ruining everything you touch. You are a poisonous pathetic distraction, Anya. And you will be confined to the kitchen and the bunk. If you cross this threshold again without my express command, you will be fired, and you will lose the money you’re clearly desperate for.”

He gestured to the door with his good hand. “Now get out. And don’t forget to knock before you deliver the slop. Your new job description is ‘silent and subservient.’ Try to keep up.”

I turned, my jaw aching from how tightly I was clenching it. He was every bit the arrogant, entitled monster I had written about for years. The brief pang of sympathy I had felt the night before was instantly vaporized by his contempt.

As I stepped out and closed the thick door behind me, I pressed my back against the wall of the corridor, breathing hard. He was right. I was desperate.

Was this truly worth it? Being insulted, demeaned, and serving the man whose existence was a blight on my memory of my mother—all for money? The humiliation was immediate and crushing. I felt sick, physically ill with the compromise I had just made.

The image of the bright, shining building of the North Star Foundation wavered in my mind, fighting against the ugly, visceral feeling of having been called a “leech-daughter” by the one person who knew the true context of that title.

Thirty days, I told myself, only thirty days. I reached into my messenger bag, touching the familiar sheaf of North Star documents. This wasn’t just a PA job. This was a war of attrition, and my moral center was taking heavy fire.

I needed air. I needed to escape the purple mood lighting of the bus. I needed to remember why I was here. I walked stiffly down the corridor, past the bunks and the galley kitchen, heading toward the front lounge.

As I reached the midpoint of the bus, Ethan Cole stepped out of the crew mess area. He was in a perfectly tailored dark suit, looking impossibly pristine and composed, a stark contrast to the angry, half-naked wreck I had just left.

I walked past him, my face rigid with barely contained fury. He didn’t say a word, just watched me go, his lips forming the slightest, almost imperceptible shake of his head—a silent acknowledgment of the chaos I had just experienced.

I stopped dead on my track, realizing I had just walked past the most important man in my mission. I turned just as Ethan Cole entered the private area where Kai was.

My breath hitched. He wasn’t just observing, he was a major key player in this and probably the closest thing to a friend Kai has.

Oh yes! Fuck yes!

 I was definitely going back to eavesdrop on what Kai had to say about me. And, perhaps more importantly, what Ethan had to say about Kai. The humiliation Kai dealt me provided the fuel for a spectacular relapse of my journalistic impulse.

I tiptoed and walked silently back to the door of Kai’s suite, my sneakers making no sound on the thick carpet. My ears were standing upright, metaphorically speaking, and my heart was beating so fast it felt like a hummingbird trapped in my ribcage. Something disturbing in me was also curious to know if the gay rumors were true. Was the intimacy of the tour environment leading to genital meets and greets behind closed doors?

I strained my ears to listen, pressing myself against the thick wood of the door.

My brows furrowed. They weren’t conversing in English, but they were sure having a shouting match. The words were guttural, sharp, and definitely not the low, seductive tone I imagined for a secret rendezvous.

The language was clearly not English, possibly something Slavic or Greek, making the content impenetrable, but the intent was pure, aggressive rage.

Ethan finally shouted something in a booming voice that cracked through the thick door. It was definitely English: “Kai, please will you just calm the fuck down!!”

Oh shit.

Then came the silence.

A long, thick, suffocating silence.

I tried to steady her pulse, breathing slowly through my nose, but the next words that came out of Kai’s mouth, spoken in a clear, measured, and terrifyingly calm English whisper, destabilized me entirely.