During the day, Sidharth was a ghost. He left before she woke, returned long after dinner, and when they did cross paths, he treated her with the same cool politeness he'd show a business associate. His eyes would slide past her like she was part of the furniture. Conversations were limited to necessities: "I'll be late tonight." "There's an event on Friday." "The blue dress, not the red one."
But at night...
At night, he was fire and possession and desperate hunger.
It started three days after their first time. Advika had been in bed, pretending to read, when Sidharth had emerged from the bathroom in just his pajama bottoms. Their eyes had met across the room, and something had shifted in the air—charged, electric, inevitable.
He'd crossed to her in three strides. The book had fallen from her hands. And then his mouth was on hers, and all the careful distance of the day evaporated in the heat between them.
Now, two months later, it happened two or three times a week. Always at night. Always initiated by him with that same intense, wordless hunger. He'd reach for her in the darkness, and her body would respond before her mind could protest, arching into his touch like she'd been waiting for it all day.
Because she had been. God help her, she had been.
The sex was incredible—passionate, intense, sometimes tender, sometimes rough, always leaving her boneless and satisfied. Sidharth was an attentive lover, learning her body with the same focused precision he applied to everything else. He knew where to touch, where to kiss, what made her gasp and what made her scream.
But afterward...
Afterward, he always left.
He'd roll out of bed, his breathing still heavy, and disappear into the bathroom. She'd hear the shower running. When he emerged, he'd dress in fresh clothes—usually a t-shirt and sweatpants—and leave without a word. Sometimes he went to his office. Sometimes to one of the guest rooms.
He never stayed. Never held her. Never whispered sweet things in the aftermath or asked if she was okay.
It was just sex. Physical release. Nothing more.
At least, that's what Advika told herself.
She was lying.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when Advika finally worked up the courage to approach Sidharth in his home office. She'd been rehearsing her pitch for days, knowing she'd only get one shot at this.
She knocked on the heavy wooden door, her heart hammering.
"Come in."
Sidharth sat behind his massive desk, surrounded by papers and screens, looking every bit the powerful businessman. He didn't look up from his laptop.
"I need to talk to you," Advika said, closing the door behind her.
"I'm busy."
"It'll just take a minute."
He sighed, the sound conveying his irritation clearly, but finally looked up. His amber eyes were cool, assessing. During the day, he looked at her like this—like she was an inconvenience he had to tolerate.
It made what they did at night feel even more surreal.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I want permission to use the kitchen. To bake." The words came out in a rush. "Not interfere with the staff or anything, just... I need to create something. I need to do what I love, even if it's just for the household."
Sidharth leaned back in his chair, studying her. "The kitchen staff can make whatever you want."
"That's not the same. I need to do it myself. With my own hands." She hated how desperate she sounded. "Please. I'm going insane with nothing to do."
A long silence stretched between them. Advika forced herself to hold his gaze, to not look away first.
"Fine," he finally said. "But clear it with the head chef first. And don't disrupt the household schedule."
