Drunk On Love

Chapter 1

Wait… am I dead?

Because this place looks like heaven.

Endless flowers in every color. Towering fountains. Glass walls. An ocean view that belongs in a dream.

Oh God. I’m at Roy’s house.

Scratch that—his estate. Or fortress. Or something that makes a palace look like a rental.

Why did I say I’d walk from the gate?

Right. To prove I still had some autonomy after my emotional breakdown over a lost sock.

Two days ago, I called my billionaire genius brother, sobbing at 2 a.m. Next thing I knew, his private jet was rerouted to Delhi, India, alarming half my neighborhood and possibly killing two uncles from sheer shock.

Now I’m here. At his place in Beaufort, USA. Jet-lagged. Emotionally fried. Sleep-deprived to the point of psychosis.

And being followed by five staff members offering me lavender towels and quinoa-something I can’t pronounce.

I don’t even get a chance to process the last question about Tomatokeftedes, because someone else is already adjusting the temperature in the room, and another staff member is bringing out a tablet to go over my “daily schedule.”

A daily schedule?

Well, good luck managing this hurricane. My so-called “schedule” consists of endless hours of overthinking until my brain officially declares itself non-operational.

“Ma'am, here’s the warm water you requested.”

Yes, warm water is helpful…

“Ma'am, your lunch is ready…”

“I’m good,” I managed, clutching a glass of warm water someone handed me—bless them—and blindly following another into what I assumed was my room.

The moment I stepped in, I stopped.

Muted tones. Sheer curtains. Ocean breeze drifting in from a private balcony.

And silence. Real silence.

For the first time in months, I felt my breath go deep. My muscles unclench. The bed looked like it could swallow me whole.

I let it.

____________

There’s something magical about waking up from a nap that feels like it healed your soul. I stretched lazily; my muscles were thanking me for this unexpected moment of relaxation. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender and… vanilla. Oh, wait—that’s me.

The sun dips closer to the horizon, and for a moment, everything feels calm, still, and just…

perfect. A world away from my dad’s cutting words, my stepmom’s constant disappointment, the anger of my ex-fiancé, and the shadows that still creep in from the night I don’t talk about—the one where I nearly didn’t make it back. But I made it out. I always do.

So, here I am. Still breathing. Still standing. Or… lying down—but you get the point.

I’m a survivor. Life may throw its chaos. Sure, I stumble. A lot. Sometimes, I overthink, say the wrong things, or get caught in moments I don’t know how to handle. But that’s life, isn’t it? Messy, unpredictable, and full of surprises.

I picked up my phone—the single most irritating device ever invented—and stared at the screen. Twenty-nine missed calls and fifty-four messages, all from the world’s noisiest, most hilariously dramatic, and insanely talented best friend: Myra.

Where the hell are you?

Call me back before I launch a series of world wars that’ll end the planet in hours.

Kiara, if you don't reply in five minutes, I'm pulling a full Liam Neeson, Taken style. I will find you.

I swear, if you don’t call me back now, I’ll file a missing person’s report.

Kiara? Are you OKAY? Trust me… My designer is dead today.

Babe? Hello?

Why is your number telling me you’ve left the country?

If your disappearance has anything to do with that douchebag VIHAAN, consider him dead too.

Kiara, CALL ME, I am fucking worried.

Tell me he didn’t try to get you murdered again?

Why isn’t she part of the Indian army? She could probably bring down entire enemy troops with a single death stare.

However, I don’t have the strength to give her a detailed explanation right now. Another unknown number is buzzing on my screen, and I couldn’t care less who it is.

I turned off the phone and am not planning to switch it on anytime soon. But I need to eat something before my stomach crawls out of my body.

____________

I think this house should have signs everywhere, showing where to turn right or left. Its corridors are bigger than an entire city in India.

Thank God I’m alone—no staff in sight to pester me with questions about unleashing tomato carnage or pasta meltdowns! Just me, the universe, and… wait.

I stepped into the kitchen and stopped.

Somebody pinch me. No, scratch that—don’t! Because if this is a dream, I’m filing a petition to never wake up.

Oh. My. God.

There was a man. Shirtless. Cooking.

Yes, shirtless.

He moved like the kitchen belonged to him.

Muscles flexing as he flipped something in a pan, apron tied low on his waist, black sweatpants clinging in ways I tried not to acknowledge.

He stopped tossing, picked up a whisk, and started whipping something with such precision that it was like culinary magic in motion.

What kind of chefs has my brother hired?

Oh my God, I want to look away. I really do. But my eyes? My traitorous, disobedient eyes are glued to him like he’s the finale of the greatest crime thriller ever made, and I have to know what happens next. I was just standing there, gawking like a creep.

He turned slightly—perfect stubble, a sharp jawline, and piercing blue eyes that made me lose my grip on reality for a moment.

“Need some help?” he asked, voice deep and smooth.

I froze. Turning around is the last thing I want to do.

Focus, Kiara… breathe.

Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him.

But I do. Of course, I do.

“Hi…?” My voice finally breaks through as I try to steady myself. “I… just wanted coffee.”

He pointed casually, “Machine’s over there.”

“Thanks…” I mumbled as I stepped toward the coffee machine, praying I wouldn’t trip over my own two feet.

And what is this absurd dance my taste buds are doing with this fragrance? Is that… biryani? Is he cooking Indian food? Oh my God. Can I somehow steal a plate without him noticing?

The annoyingly perfect human cleared his throat, “Your mug… it’s overflowing.”

Oh—shit.

The last thing I wanted was the mess I had just created. Coffee flowed like a rogue river over the pristine counter, cascading onto the floor—the nicest and cleanest floor I had ever seen.

“Oh God—sorry, I—”

“It’s fine,” he said, not moving. Just watching me flail.

And then… It happened. My brain short-circuited, and my mouth decided to betray me in the worst way possible.

“Do you always cook like you’re auditioning for a shirtless MasterChef?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

Congratulations, Kiara… you’ve officially lost your mind.

“Are you even allowed to work here like this?”

“Like this?” he echoed, baffled.

“Naked…” I gestured vaguely at his whole Greek-god situation. “There are abs involved. Gross abs.”

He straightened up, his brows knitting together as his expression shifted to one of sheer disbelief. “Are you having a stroke?”

“This is so distracting,” I blurted before I could stop myself.

He leaned casually against the counter, crossing his ridiculously sculpted arms over his chest. “So… let me get this straight,” he began, clearly enjoying my complete and utter meltdown. “My abs are gross and distracting?”

Kill me. Now.

“Not in a good way,” I lied—badly.

“Should I call a doctor? Or is this just your usual reaction to hunger?”

My stomach had chosen that moment to growl—loudly.

“Is that biryani?” I blurted.

He raised a brow. “You’re hungry?”

“No.” Another growl.

“Alright then,” he said, his voice smooth and calm, still watching me closely as if I’m the one cooking shirtless in someone else’s house. “But in case you change your mind… You’re welcome to join. It’s a bit much for one person.”

I hesitated. Every prideful bone in my body screamed no, but my stomach had officially taken control of the conversation.

“Do you offer food to all strangers wandering into your kitchen?”

“Only the ones who look like they might pass out.”

“Kiara. I’m Roy’s sister,” I muttered. “You know Roy, right? The person who hired you as his chef.”

He tilted his head. “I’m not your brother’s chef.”

“Oh.”

“And I’m not naked,” he said, gesturing to the apron like it counted as full clothing.

I looked him over one more time—just to be sure.

Yeah, I was doomed.