3. Disaster
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Y U G A N T
I leaned back on the couch, my elbow resting lazily on the armrest, flipping through the proposal file in my hand like it bored me which it did.
Beside me stood Ishaan Awasthi. My PA
Six feet, grey suit, black tie, no emotion.
I’m serious, None.
He could be watching a baby fall off a stage and still blink at the same speed.
“The client from Florence wants a variation in the emerald choker weight,” he said, his voice clipped and cold. “They’re requesting a redesign that doesn’t compromise the structure.”
I looked up from the file with a flat stare. “So… they want a diamond choker that floats in air? Should we also make it sing lullabies?”
He didn’t blink. Just said, “They’re willing to increase the advance by 20% if approved today.”
Damn him and his poker face.
I rubbed my temple, sighed. “Fine. Give them the lighter variant but maintain the layering design. If they touch the centre pendant, I’ll personally throw it into the ocean.”
He gave a slight nod.
I raised a brow. “You’re allowed to blink, Awasthi.”
“I just did.”
Of course he did.
I turned back to the file but couldn’t resist. “Tell me something. Were you born like this, or did someone kill your sense of humor with a dagger?”
“No, sir. It died naturally. During my fifth year in this business.” I almost smirked.
“Moving on,” he said, placing another file on the coffee table. “Milan showcase. Sapphire or gold?”
“Sapphire. The world has enough gold to bury itself. We’re not running a family wedding here.”
“Understood.”
He made a note. I could barely hear the scratch of the pen, the man writes like a ghost.
“No suggestion from your side today?” I asked, one brow cocked.
“I only offer them when they’re needed. Today isn’t that day.”
God.
He was more robotic than my espresso machine.
I took a long breath. “You do realize that one day, your expressionless face will scare away an investor, right?”
“Investors trust numbers. Not facial expressions.”
I stared at him.
He stared back.
This man was a human thermostat always set to zero.
“Alright. Go on. Haunt someone else’s meeting room today.” He gave a short nod and turned, walking out as silently as he had entered.
Not a single noise. Not a single word wasted.
I watched him leave, “And they say I’m cold.”
I just tilted my head back, letting out a breath.
Peace? Five seconds of it?
Not in my damn house.
Chhan... chhan... chhan...
It had been a week.
Seven long days since she’d arrived. Seven long days since my sanity started to wear thinner than the pages of my patience.
And somehow…this tiny chime of metal tied around her ankle had become background noise in my life.
Sometimes it was soft.
Sometimes it was rapid. Like she was running from ghosts only she could see.
And right now?
Right now it came in tiny, rhythmic bursts like she was tiptoeing… trying to hide from me inside my own damn house.
I opened one eye, lazily scanning the living room and found her behind pillar.
Peeking like this was a game of hide-and-seek, and I was the monster she was trying to avoid.
Her honey brown eyes met looking around.
Then step. step. And again she darted behind another pillar.
Is she five?
Another peek.
Another dash.
Another fucking pillar.
I rubbed my forehead, groaning under my breath, "Bastard. Asshole. Dickhead Samarth."
Each word dropped like a stone.
"Where the hell are you, you traitorous piece of emotional blackmail? Just come back in front of me once—just onceand take this silent storm away from my house before I lose what’s left of my sanity."
I muttered a few more creative curses under my breath, most of them not appropriate for civil earsor uncivil ones, really.
It had been a week.
A full goddamn week.
And she had done nothing except roam around the house like a quiet, clueless ghost with ghungroos and big honey-brown eyes.
I didn’t bring her here for this. I didn’t let her into my life to float around like some Disney princess in exile.
No, I brought her here to trap her. To bait Samarth. So that wherever the hell he was, he’d smell her presence like a scent trail and come crawling back.
But instead?
I had this mute little whirlwind playing peekaboo with my furniture and haunting my hallway with the sound of tiny bells.
I sighed sharply and stood.
I spotted her heading toward the kitchen and followed her in, my jaw tight.
She walked in with this… lightness. The kind only clueless people have. Her ghungroos chimed against the tiles. She looked at the dishes on the counter her eyes lit up for a moment like a child expecting candy—and then dulled in the next second.
Empty.
She picked up a pot, peeked inside… nothing.
Her smile vanished and shoulders slumped a little.
Then she turned to the fridge, opened it.
And again, that pale look on her face returned.
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching.
Of course. She’s hungry.
My cook’s on leave today. I didn’t eat breakfast.
And clearly—neither did she.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I snapped, the words leaving my mouth sharper than intended.
She flinched.
Turned.
Those goddamn honey brown eyes met mine, wide and scared.
Okay, maybe that was too harsh.
But this is what I want, right? To make her uncomfortable. To remind her where she is. Why she’s here.
I took a few slow, calculated steps toward her.
Predatory. Intimidating.
She stepped back, her feet almost fumbling over themselves until her back hit the fridge with a soft thud.
I didn’t stop.
I walked until I was inches from her, close enough to hear the shaky breath she sucked in.
“What were you doing in my kitchen?” I asked again, low and cold.
She stared at me blinking, lips parting slightly, like she was about to speak. My eyes dropped to her mouth automatically.
She licked her lips. Nervous habit?
Then she lifted a trembling hand and pointed at the counter. The empty dish.
Oh.
Of course.
She’s hungry.
"What the fuck do you want?" I growled, grabbing her arm. “Tell me with your damn mouth.”
She looked down at my hand, the grip I had on her arm tightening.
She tried to pull away, weakly her fingers pressing against my wristbut I didn’t loosen my hold.
Her eyes filled up. Again.
God, those eyes.
I hate them. I fucking hate them. Because they look exactly like hers my mother’s. Same shape, color, softness.
But these eyes?
They mock me.
Because the girl they belong to… she’s not family.
She’s the trap.
A living, breathing trap Samarth left for me like a chess move.
I let go of her arm with a frustrated sigh and turned her toward the stove.
“Hungry, aren’t you?” I said, shoving a chopping board toward her. “Then go on—cook something. Breakfast for both of us.”
She looked at me like I’d asked her to climb Mount Everest.
Her brows furrowed.
She looked at the stove, the uncut vegetables, the oil bottle on the side.
Then she looked at me… and shook her head.
I sighed.
“If you won’t cook, then you won’t get anything to eat. Simple.” I walked out of the kitchen, tossing the words over my shoulder.
“I’m already getting late for office. Just cook for both of us. That’s all.”
I should’ve left it there.
Should’ve walked straight and vanished like a responsible adult.
But no.
Because I’m Yugant Raizaada.
And apparently, self-torture is my thing now.
So I stopped right outside the kitchen window.
And peeked in.
She was still standing there—frozenstaring at the vegetables like they were ticking bombs.
Then…
She turned.
Opened the fridge.
Pulled out… eggs.
I smirked.
Finally. Progress.
Until—She placed it on the chopping board…
And picked up the knife.
What the fuck?
And then…
She tried to slice it. My eyes widen in shock. What the hell she was doing?
With the precision of a surgeon. Except—the egg wouldn’t cut.
She frowned. Held it down harder.
Pressed the knife over it again, with so much concentration you’d think she was defusing a bomb.
It still didn’t crack.
She huffed wiped her forehead, looked around then GENIUS MOVE as she switched the knife…
To the blunt side.
I almost choked on air.
She hammered the egg with the flat of the knife like she was in a food-themed WWE match.
It still didn’t budge.
She looked frustrated now.
Then, She picked up a ladle.
Yes, a ladle. And slammed it on the egg.
The egg slipped out from under her hand and hit the floor.
It broke.
Finally.
She stared at it.
A slow, innocent smile spread across her lips like she'd won gold at the Olympics.
And then—She picked up another egg.
And dropped it.
It broke too. She’s not cooking. She’s conducting a funeral service.
I slapped my forehead. “Oh god, no,”
She dropped another one.
And another one.
Then, she crouched down… Tried to scoop up raw egg from the floor with her bare hands… And poured it—yes, actually poured it—into a bowl.
Except… it mostly slid down the sides and back to the floor.
She blinked. Looked at the mess.
Then used the eggshells like a spoon and tried to collect the yolk.
I swear, I saw my life flash before my eyes.
She stood up, holding the bowl like a trophy, egg dripping down her wrists. Ewww…
And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse
She slipped a little in the mess.
Wobbled.
Caught herself.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
I was this close to walking into that damn kitchen and ending the egg massacre myself.
But no.
No, Yugant. You said she’d cook today. Let her cook.
I dragged myself back to the couch, dropped down myself.
I pressed my fingers to my temple.
My inner voice scoffed. “You’re really going to eat what she’s cooking?”
I flinched like I’d been slapped.
Hell no, I won’t.
I’d rather chew on a brick.
I dialed Ishaan.
He walked in like some mafia consigliere—perfect posture, pressed suit, stone face.
“Sir?” he asked, calm and collected as always.
I stared at him. Then asked, deadly serious, “If a person breaks eggs on the floor… scoops them up with their hands… and puts them in a bowl… What does it mean?”
He blinked once.
Then answered—without changing his tone, “They are either mentally unstable or experimenting with modern art.”
I choked on my breath. “Bro—” I leaned forward, laughing in disbelief. “Atleast hesitate before saying that.”
He simply nodded. “I’m trained to adapt to unpredictable scenarios, sir.”And finally sighed. “Get the number of a backup chef ready. But don’t let her know.”
He nodded. “Understood.”
"And if I die from food poisoning?"
"I’ll notify the board. Raizaada Empire shall mourn accordingly." I rubbed my forehead, groaning. Everyone around me are so fucked up.
I placed my head back against the couch, trying to relax—just for a minute.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Forget the crime scene happening in your kitchen.
And then—Cham... cham... chamm...
Her anklets again.
This time, closer.
I swear, at this point, I’ve started believing she’s not human but a cute, mute ghost.
I opened my eyes—and there she was.
Standing right in front of me.
Holding a tray.
Her condition was looking worse than the food she was holding.
My soul screamed: RUN.
She placed the tray down on the table in front of me…
And stood beside me with the same innocent face—as if she hadn’t just committed culinary manslaughter.
I glanced at the tray.
And froze.
The Apocalypse Breakfast.
I’m not even exaggerating.
First—there were scrambled eggs.
Except, they weren’t scrambled.
They were... mangled.
Like someone got into a fistfight with the eggs and lost.
Some eggshells were still very visible—as if they were meant to be part of the texture.
One of them had a smiley drawn with ketchup.
Why.
Then there was toast.
If you could call it that.
It was blackened from one corner, half raw from the other—basically a personality crisis in bread form.
Next to it sat a glass of something suspiciously white.
Milk, maybe.
But it looked like she poured yogurt, stirred it with a toothbrush and called it a drink.
And the worst?
She placed a fork inside the cup.
Why?
God knows.
I blinked. Then looked around.
Was this a prank show?
Where were the cameras?
“Are you trying to kill me?” I muttered under my breath, horrified.
And then I saw it.
A tiny sticky note on the side of the tray.
Drawn with a smiley face.
In her handwriting: “Sorry, first try :)”
I stared at it for a long moment.
Then back at the food.
Then back at the note.
My head hit the back of the couch again.
Softly.
Repeatedly.
“This is why Samarth needs to come back,” I whispered to myself.
This is slow poison. That she is giving me.
I had just exhaled. A deep breath. Calm. Peace.
And then—BOOM.
A loud blast echoed from the kitchen.
I literally jumped out of my seat like I’d been electrocuted.
“What the—?!”
My eyes darted to her first.
Thankfully—she was beside me, standing with that same innocent expression, wide-eyed and equally shocked.
I didn’t even think twice.
I ran, Straight to the kitchen. And stopped dead at the entrance.
What.
In the actual.
Hell.
The pressure cooker was lying sideways on the floor, The cap? Flung across the kitchen—lodged halfway into the drywall like a missile.
The ceiling? Painted. No, splattered with whatever was in the cooker.
Rice? Dal? Mud?
God knows.
It looked like a wild raccoon had a food fight with a blender. The countertop had lentils dripping off its edges like a cursed waterfall. There were splashes on the fridge, the stove, the cabinets. Even the poor salt jar had fallen victim—lying on its side like a casualty of war.
And the smell? Eww… .
The cooker’s whistle had rolled under the sink like it was hiding from her.
Firstly, I turned off the stove. The kitchen wasn’t just messy. It looked like the Hiroshima of food disasters.
My blood pressure said goodbye.
°°°
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