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Bright sunlight streamed through the tall window, casting golden lines across the room as the curtains fluttered in the cool breeze. The warm rays fell straight on Siara’s face, yanking her out of the depths of sleep. Her bed looked like a war zone—papers, passport-size photos, lipstick-stained coffee mugs, and half-eaten biscuits scattered between notes that might just help her crack the case.
Her phone had been ringing nonstop for the past five minutes. Annoyed, she blindly reached out and grabbed it, answering in a groggy, half-dead tone, “Hello? Who is this?”
A voice, equally tired but visibly done with life, snapped from the other end, “Your mom, idiot. I’ve been standing outside for one hour. Open the damn door.”
Siara’s eyes flew open. Tara.
She bolted upright, her hair a bird’s nest and her T-shirt backwards, and checked the time. 10:00 a.m.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she whispered to herself as she stumbled over her own shoes and sprinted to the front door.
She flung it open—and there stood Tara Agnihotri, the fashion devil herself, glaring daggers with two enormous shopping bags in her hands and murder in her eyes.
“You look like you lost a fight with your bedsheet,” Tara said dryly, pushing past her into the penthouse. “What even is this? A crime scene or your IQ level?”
Siara rubbed her eyes, trying to catch up. “Okay, okay. Sorry! I thought I set an alarm... I probably solved a crime in my dreams and forgot real life existed.”
Tara didn’t wait. She dumped the bags on the table and started pulling out clothes, her tone switching into designer mode. “Focus, detective daydream. These are our outfits for tonight—don’t wrinkle them with your sleep aura.”
“Tonight?” Siara blinked.
Tara turned slowly, looking at her like she just asked if the sky was blue. “Yes, tonight. The party? My client? Her web series just went viral? The one we’re celebrating at the club? Ring any bells, or should I slap Wi-Fi into your brain?”
Realization hit Siara like a late deadline. “Ohhh... that party.”
“Yes, that party,” Tara said, rolling her eyes. “All the girls are going. And I swear, if you show up looking like this—”
She motioned toward Siara’s disheveled appearance—
“—I’ll personally Photoshop you out of every picture.”
Siara grinned sleepily. “Okay, okay, fashion queen. Let’s party-prep before you murder me with fabric swatches.”
Being best friends with a fashion designer has its perks—free fashion tips, wardrobe updates every month, and exclusive designer dresses no one else can afford. Tara had designed countless outfits for me and our girls’ gang. Whenever we offered to pay, she’d dramatically say, “You girls are the reason I’m standing here today. If I ever take money from you, may my sewing machine jam forever!”
And just like that, she'd shut us up. No payment. No argument.
After finalizing tonight’s look, I went to freshen up in my room. I had barely reached the bathroom door when I heard Tara scream my name—like she'd just witnessed a ghost stabbing someone with fabric scissors.
I sprinted back into the living room.
There she was: frozen, standing on the sofa like it was the last safe spot on Earth.
And approaching her, calmly and cutely, was none other than Roy—my baby boy, walking up to greet her with the hug I had personally trained him to give guests.
I was about to melt from how adorable he looked… when a cushion smacked me in the face.
“OW!”
I blinked, and there was Tara, still perched on the sofa, glaring at me with her eyes wide.
“What happened?! Why are you standing like Simba presenting himself to the kingdom—and angry too?”
Her voice wobbled as she dramatically pointed at Roy, “You… you’re planning my death, aren’t you, you witch?”
She snatched another cushion and lobbed it toward the kitchen, like it was a grenade.
“Roy, my cutuu, go bring that cushion, okayyy? You will, won’t you? Please? Just… just don’t jump on me.”
Roy looked at me, confused. I gave him a nod. He tilted his head, then padded off to fetch the cushion like a good boy.
Tara stormed down from the sofa and marched to her bags.
“That’s it. I was going to stay, but clearly you’ve trained that fluffy killer to end me in my sleep.” She tossed her hair and zipped her bag with vengeance.
“Be ready by 6 PM. Sharp. No tragic oversleeping. I’ve sent our outfit update to Sara—she’s already drowning in drama with that stupid Sartori company guy. She and I will come pick you up. Don’t make me wait, Siara.”
While she packed her stuff (and Roy's ego, which she crushed), she somehow managed to neatly lay out my dress like a true professional. Then she left, shouting a slightly panicked, “Bye Babu… and uh, Roy… please don’t kill anyone,” before slamming the door behind her.
I looked around the living room—it was chaos. Torn wrapping paper, tissue, two chewed socks, and three cushions on the floor. My entire body sighed.
“These two monkeys will never change,” I muttered and collapsed on the floor.
I didn’t even realize when sleep claimed me.
When I finally opened my eyes, I felt warmth—something pressing against me from both sides. I turned right: Bubu, curled up like a cinnamon roll, breathing peacefully. I turned left: Roy, lying like a royal on my stomach, drooling slightly.
I smiled.
They’re not just pets. They’re my babies.
Eventually, I got up, carefully carried them to their cozy little beds, and called the cleaning service to rescue my penthouse from this furry disaster.
Fifteen minutes later, the cleaner arrived. I gave instructions with all the authority of a CEO, then marched off to the shower. I had exactly four hours to transform into a walking, talking, party-worthy masterpiece.
And this time, no distractions.
HER STALKER’S POV
{The Cleaner}
She explained the tasks I was “supposed” to do, completely unaware of who stood just a few feet from her.
As she disappeared into the bathroom, I shook my head and muttered under my breath,
"Huh... Look at all this work I have to do just to keep an eye on her. And this madam? She's clearly plotting my early death."
Man in love can do anything—they call it a myth. But I’m living proof that it’s terrifyingly true.
I glanced around. The penthouse looked like a battlefield after a hurricane. Tara’s tornado energy, Roy’s paws, and Bubu’s fury had all left their mark.
"Siara's not wrong. They are monkeys… disguised as a fashion icon, a panther, and a dog." I scoffed under my breath.
"And Tara? How does her poor boyfriend even deal with her chaotic soul every day?"
But I wasn't here to philosophize about animals or exasperated boyfriends. I was here with a mission.
One hour in—I had scrubbed, wiped, vacuumed, and fixed the clutter. The place looked like a catalog photo now. I was almost packing up when I felt her presence behind me. That subtle shift in the air. Like gravity realigning itself around her.
I turned.
And everything in me froze.
She stood there, ready for the party.
No. Not like that.
her dress~
The dress hugged her curves like sin. Her damp hair clung to her neck. She wasn't trying to be seductive—she never tries. That's what makes it worse. That's what drives me insane.
She's going out like that?
To a club?
With men?
Strangers?
Alcohol?
No. Hell no.
I will be there.
I have to be.
Her tolerance for alcohol is non-existent, and her taste in people? Questionable.
The mere thought of someone else putting their hands on her—even by accident—made my blood burn. It coiled through my chest like poison.
If they touch her, I’ll—
Her voice cut through my spiral.
"Excuse me? Is all the work done?"
I snapped out of it, immediately straightening.
I nodded silently, lowering my eyes just enough to avoid too much scrutiny.
"Yes, ma’am. It’s all done. It was a pleasure."
My voice was lower than usual, slightly hoarse, masked in professional courtesy. She didn’t recognize it. Good. That meant I was still careful enough.
She gave a tired smile. “Okay, thanks. You can leave.”
I turned quickly before my emotions betrayed me, exiting her penthouse with tight fists and a thundering heart.
Down in the basement, the air was cold and damp, the fluorescent lights flickering with menace. I reached my car, shut the door behind me, and inhaled deeply.
Control. Get it back. Now.
I grabbed my phone. Fingers steady. Voice flat. Professional mask back on.
Three rings.
“Good afternoon, sir,” came the secretary’s voice—efficient, obedient.
“Hm,” I replied sharply. “Reschedule the Sartori Co. meeting to 3 PM. I don’t care if they argue. Make them agree. Other matters require my attention.”
“Understood, sir. I’ll inform them immediately.”
Call ended.
I stared through the windshield, but all I could see was her. That dress. That soft look in her eyes. That unbothered innocence that made her even more dangerous.
For this little defiance... she'll pay.
Not tonight.
Not in anger.
But soon.
Very, very soon.
I stood in front of the mirror—dressed head to toe in my chosen outfit, heels on, earrings in place… and yet, something was missing.
The final, dreaded step awaited me:
Makeup.
“Ugh, makeup again,” I groaned, glancing at the clock. 3:00 PM.
The idea of spending the next two hours painting my face felt like volunteering for a gladiator fight—with concealer, mascara, and contour sticks as my weapons.
But skipping it?
Not an option.
Not tonight.
I exhaled deeply and reached for my brushes, already feeling the pressure of judgment radiating from the invisible-but-ever-present storm I call my best friend: Tara.
She wasn't just dramatic. She was Drama with a capital D, sewn into silk and stilettos.
I could already picture her standing at the club entrance like a bouncer of beauty standards, arms crossed, judging.
“You didn’t do your eyeliner?” she'd say, scandalized.
And just like that, she'd snatch away my drink privileges and blacklist me from her Instagram story.
So yeah—makeup was mandatory if I wanted to party... or survive.
As I began, my brain—my ever-so-supportive, sarcastic sidekick—whispered:
"You make criminals tremble, but quiver at the sight of one fashion designer. Pathetic. Truly, you're a walking contradiction in curls."
“Shut up,” I muttered back at my own reflection and kept blending.
Two and a half hours of focused, precise, borderline surgical artistry later—
I was ready.
And this time, I didn’t just look like myself.
I looked like the version of me I loved the most.
Confident. Bold. Untouchable.
My makeup was flawless. Not too loud, not too tame—just right.
My curls bounced like they had their own agenda.
And the dress? Let’s just say the dress didn’t fit me—I was born for it.
I checked the time. Half an hour to spare. Miraculous.
I pulled out my case files for a quick skim—because why not juggle criminal leads and contour in the same day?
That’s when my phone buzzed.
Tara.
"Bring your fabulous self down here, hot lady!"
I stared at the screen, blushing like some rookie romantic. Even when she was bossy, she was... weirdly sweet. And way too good at getting under my skin.
I grabbed my purse, tucked a small knife inside—old habits die hard—put on my heels, and kissed both Roy and Bubu goodbye. They watched me like betrayed lovers.
"Be good, my babies. No chewing slippers or emotional blackmail."
Then, I was out the door. Ready to own the night.
The car was already waiting. I slid into the back seat like a main character entering her scene.
Sara sat next to me, radiant in brownish, and I gave her a warm side hug.
As the car pulled away, I looked at both of them—Tara in her designer power, Sara glowing like a firecracker—and smirked.
“Okay, you two are seriously making me question my straightness. This? This is borderline illegal.”
They exchanged that classic, synchronized smirk.
Tara, with her hand on her hip, leaned in and purred, “For you, hot lady, I’d leave my boyfriend in a heartbeat. Just say the word.”
Sara winked. “Me too.”
Tara and I burst into laughter before I could even reply. Together, we pointed at Sara and shouted,
“You don’t even have a boyfriend, my lady!
TARA'S OUTFITS ~
SARA'S OUTFIT~
The car exploded in laughter, echoing through the night streets. For a moment, there were no cases, no pressure, no pain—just the sound of joy, the sparkle of city lights, and the sense that tonight might be unforgettable.
Somewhere deep inside, a quiet voice whispered:
You’re safe. You’re glowing. But not everything’s as it seems...
...................
We finally reached the club at 8 PM, after crawling through what felt like a never-ending sea of brake lights and honking chaos. Traffic in this city? Satan’s maze.
By the time we arrived, I was already tempted to start the party in the car.
At the entrance, we went through the standard security check. No skipping protocols—even if you're an officer. Rules are rules, and besides, I looked too good to flash a badge and ruin the mood.
But the moment we stepped inside, the vibe hit us like a thunderclap.
Lights. Beats. Bodies moving like liquid fire.
It was as if the night had been waiting for us to begin.
The music was deafening—so loud it vibrated in my chest and made my brain threaten a full shutdown. But that didn’t stop us. We headed straight to the bar like soldiers on a mission and ordered five rounds of tequila. Yes, five.
Mistake?
Probably.
Worth it?
Absolutely.
By the time shot five hit my bloodstream, I was bold, reckless, and barely aware of my own limbs. My feet dragged me onto the dance floor like they had their own GPS set to chaos. The lights spun, the beats pounded, and I laughed—free and feral—drink still in hand.
We ran into the director and half the team celebrating the web series, and I vaguely recall congratulating someone while attempting what I believed was salsa. (It was not salsa.)
And then—
I felt it.
That eerie, spine-prickling sensation of being watched.
Not the casual club glance.
This was different.
Heavier. Focused. Personal.
The back of my neck tingled. I stopped dancing mid-spin, the alcohol in my system no longer enough to drown out the chill crawling up my spine.
My eyes darted across the room.
And that’s when I saw him.
Leaning against a dark wall like he’d stepped straight out of a noir film.
Not dancing. Not smiling.
Just… watching me.
His face was shadowed, unreadable—but what caught my attention wasn’t his expression.
It was his hand.
Dangling from two fingers was a faded spider-web keychain, swaying gently.
My stomach flipped.
No one else would carry that.
No one else could.
It was the same one I had seen when I kissed him.
The boy from two years ago.
The one-night spark.
The memory that refused to fade, no matter how deeply I wanted to bury it in the dark.
Recognition hit me like a slap in slow motion.
My brain, despite the tequila-induced fog, tried to offer logic:
"People can have the same keychain, Siara. It’s not a fingerprint. Walk away."
But another part of me—older, softer, aching—whispered:
“It’s him.”
My legs moved on autopilot.
Heels tapping against the floor, heart thudding like a war drum.
I approached him, still unsure, still half-hoping this was just an alcohol-fueled fantasy.
But as I got closer, I saw it—the tattoo curling just above his collarbone.
The one I kissed, once.
The one I never forgot.
The one that never faded, even when everything else did.
But the only thing faded is his face.
I blinked up at him, the buzz in my chest turning electric, and before I could stop myself, I blurted—slurred, really—
“Hey… I kissed you two years ago, right?”
Elegant, Siara. Truly Shakespearean.
My brain screamed:
"Why would you say that?! WHY. WOULD. YOU. SAY. THAT?!"
But he didn’t flinch.
Instead, he stepped forward.
His hand slid around my waist like it belonged there, and in a swift, almost reverent motion, he lifted me off the ground—his grip secure, his breath warm against my skin as he leaned into the curve of my shoulder.
Then came the whisper.
Low. Rough. And devastatingly familiar:
“Yes, my lady. I’m the one you kissed… and the only one who kissed you back—and made it last.”
................
TO BE CONTINUED...
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