Yuvaan Grewaal
[Now, USA]
I didn't answer her call. Even though every cell in my body lit up like a faulty Christmas tree, twitching with the kind of resentment that tasted suspiciously like longing. The urge was there—primed, sharpened, loaded. In fact, every nerve ending was begging me to answer just so I could yell about the series of catastrophic decisions that had dominoed into this exact moment.
But I didn't.
I wanted to pick it up. To scream. To rant. To laugh, maybe. To ask her what the hell she was thinking and, simultaneously, what the hell I was.
Yet I didn't.
Because I've mastered the fine art of self-preservation under the extremely niche label of passive generosity.
Generous to myself, to be more exact.
Because I knew if I heard her voice—velvety, biting, familiar—I'd launch straight into a spiral. And my mind? It was already running like a caffeinated hamster on a rusted wheel, screeching for release. What I needed was silence, peace, or possibly a black coffee strong enough to burn a hole through my internal organs, or maybe a punching bag. Or a ten-hour nap and selective amnesia. Anything but another emotionally explosive conversation that would end in one of us saying something we'd want to eat raw the next day.
The day had done enough damage. It had already taught me the obvious: life is messy, plus a hurricane in a luxury suit. And if you're not wearing your emotional seatbelt tight enough, it'll fling you straight out the windshield and into the nearest metaphorical ditch.
The ringtone eventually stopped. The screen went black. And with it, something in my chest exhaled.
The night swallowed the road as I sped through it, letting the silence wrap around me like armor. Moments blurred into minutes, and minutes folded into seconds, and reality flickered around me like a cinematic time-lapse. That's what driving does for me—it compresses time, swallows thoughts, and gives the illusion of movement when everything else in life is suffocatingly still.
Eventually, I turned into the driveway of my estate. A ridiculous piece of architecture that looked like it belonged in a high-budget spy movie or an auction house catalogue.
By the time I pulled the BMW into the opulent garage, I was already halfway into a better mood. Or at least, a quieter one.
The garage lights flickered on automatically, casting a museum glow on my collection of cars (McLarens, a limo, Audis, Porsches, Lamborghinis, and so many more).
It's excessive, I know.
Most people have photo albums. I have polished paint, revving engines, and horsepower lined up like therapy sessions. Every model parked here has a memory stitched into the leather—wins, losses, nights I needed to feel like I was moving forward when life had me dead-stuck.
Cars and sports are my escape routes, and I don't apologize for it. Some people go to therapy. I do 220 mph down the coast with screaming engines and zero regard for speed limits.
By the way, my therapist is deeply offended by that fact.
But these metal beasts never ask me why I am the way I am. They just purr when I need them to. And I love that.
Once done with the parking, I stepped out of the garage and into the night, where the moonlight spilled over the estate as if it was auditioning for a painting: subtle, perfect, and pretentious. It was casting long silver shadows on the stone pathway and catching on the edges of the curved balcony railings as though it had a favorite corner to flirt with.
Spoiler alert: It did.
This estate demanded its own limelight and the moon simply obliged.
The moment my leathery oxfords hit the marble floor of the living hall, immediately, one of the house staff appeared. All crisp tuxedo, polished shoes, and a robotic sense of timing. He wordlessly took my blazer as if it was made of gold-threaded stress. Another staff member—new one—bowed awkwardly, unsure if I liked that kind of thing. I didn't correct him. I was already halfway up the curved staircase.
"Sir, what would you like for dinner?" The voice floated up from behind me, polite and practiced, as though he'd been rehearsing it in front of a mirror with a linen napkin over his arm.
I paused mid-step, halfway to emotional hibernation, and turned around to find Chef Thomas standing a few steps below—eight, to be exact. He never stood closer than that, as if the marble staircase were his imaginary boundary line for formal interaction. The man, with his silver-streaked hair and perfectly ironed chef whites, appeared no less than the human embodiment of an old-school recipe book—timeless, precise, and slightly intimidating if you didn't know the magic behind the methods.
His hands were clasped like he was awaiting a spiritual decree. The faint smile on his face was respectful but warm, the kind of smile that said, You've been a disaster all week, but I'm still rooting for you.
I scratched my brow. "I don't know…" I exhaled, then shrugged with a helpless half-grin. "Maybe masala dosa. Fried rice. And, uh…daal."
He nodded, not even a blink of judgment crossing his face—professional to the core. And without another word, he turned and made his way toward the kitchen.
I continued my way up to the second floor, where my room waited like an old friend I hadn't seen in years. There's something about coming back to your own space after a day that felt like a relentless rollercoaster ride you never actually agreed to. The familiarity grounded me. The walls of my room were painted in dark brown and white— just like my personality, if it were a color palette. Serious, classic, and expensive. It screamed old money, quiet authority, and a smug splash of elegance that didn't try too hard because it didn't need to.
I was halfway to the shower when I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror.
And, well, It felt rude to ignore it.
So I didn't.
I paused, backtracked little, and gave my reflection the attention it clearly deserved.
And—okay, this is going to sound conceited, but bear with me—I looked better than I had any right to. Taller than I usually admitted, a little too intimidating for someone who kept trying to pretend he didn't care what people thought. A jawline that could've been sharpened in a lab. My expression was the usual blend of aloof and mildly murderous, but tonight it carried something else—edge. Power. It felt villain-coded hot. Like the kind of person who breaks hearts and then wears it on the sleeve like a trophy.
I smirked. Couldn't help it.
"You're too good to fall for anyone," I muttered to no one in particular but myself. "Too smart, too unbothered. Love? Please. You'd rather fake your own death than catch feelings."
And then—because the universe has no respect for moments of main-character energy—my phone rang.
I groaned in disgust before yanking the device out of my front pant pocket. The screen flashed 'MOM.'
Not again, I thought bitingly.
The ring kept going, and I kept staring at the screen with the kind of internal debate that could've earned me a UN seat.
Pick up or don't? Don't. That was the smart option. The protect-your-sanity option. But if I didn't, she'd just keep calling over and over again. No less than a possessed telemarketer with a vendetta and emotional blackmail on speed dial. Tch.
With all the enthusiasm of a man signing his own demise certificate, I swiped the green button, brought the phone to my ear, and immediately regretted my choice.
"Oh my god, are you okay?" Her voice was panicky and a little loud. "I just saw the news and—"
"You might be disappointed to know that..." I scoffed, interjecting her "I'm very much alive. Not kidnapped. Not bleeding. Not headline-worthy in the slightest. Which is a shame, I know—how inconvenient for your emotional narrative. And don't you think the act that you are trying to put up right now is as transparent as a thief denying his theft skills?"
"What are you talking about? Why would I be disappointed?" Her voice was shrill now, "And since when did real care start to seem like an act?" She paused before gently adding, "I know it's not the appropriate time for this conversation...but...ehm...how did the date go with Tania?"
A sound clawed its way up my throat. Rage. Disbelief. Despair.
"Oh, you never hesitate," I said, clutching the last threads of my patience. "You really outdid yourself this time. After all the drama, the cloak-and-dagger matchmaking, and the emotional extortion, you landed me smack in the middle of the front page as the guy who almost got abducted in broad daylight and, not to mention, right in front of my headquarters. So yes, bravo. The date went so well that I now officially hate matchmaking even more than I hate waiting in line at the DMV."
"I was—"
"And for the love of caffeine and common sense, her name was Jenny, not Tania. Honestly, who even is Tania? A Bond villain? A houseplant? I don't care if it's Jenny or Tania or Seema or Naina or a well-dressed giraffe. I'm not interested. In any of them. Unless one of them turns out to be a time-traveling assassin here to end my misery, I'm out." I let out an exasperated sigh, "You could launch a nationwide campaign with flyers saying 'Marry My Son, He's Single and Sorta Employed,' and I will still be as least interested as I am right now in this whole thing. Why don't you get it?"
"I want the best for you, son," she said, suddenly switching to her velvet-glove tone, the one that usually precedes guilt-tripping of Olympic level. "I want you to be happy and—"
"I am happy," I shot back, emphasizing each syllable with the desperation of a man who was done for the day. "I'm thriving. I'm blooming. I'm a cactus in a desert of unwanted dates. But your forced set-ups and cheap Bollywood plot twists aren't helping. They're the reason I now get hives every time I hear the word 'love.' So please. For the sanity of your firstborn and the safety of unsuspecting women everywhere—stop trying to find me a bride. Enough is enough. And don't even mention today's date. I'm emotionally constipated just thinking about it."
There was a pause. Then she sighed. It was one of those sighs that sounded like it had been passed down through generations of exasperated mothers—part guilt, part surrender, and a sprinkle of you'll thank me later.
"Fine," she said, and I knew that word didn't mean fine at all. "But you are coming to the 100th anniversary celebration of your beloved grandparents tomorrow. Don't flake. It's the one night the entire family manages to gather under one roof without trying to kill each other."
"I know."
"Be in Mumbai by evening. I'll try not to throw any women at you over dinner. No promises, though."
"Thanks for the warning. See you there."
The call ended with a chirpy ding, and the screen lit up like a Vegas billboard: 52 messages from the Family WhatsApp group, which I regretted not muting years ago. A horrifying sixty-two missed calls from my mother, as if I'd faked my own death for the third time this month. And Mr. Shan? A humble thirty-three missed calls. The man was clearly auditioning for the role of "most persistent stalker in a supporting."
Oh, and just for a little razzle-dazzle, every corner of Twitter and half of the evening news was throwing a parade over the "shocking abduction scandal" and its "mysterious political ties." My face was now unofficially a trending topic sandwiched between a viral dance challenge and a squirrel that could waterski.
I stared at the screen, loathing it with a passion that poets write sonnets about. The impulse to yeet it into a black hole or donate it to the Bermuda Triangle was strong. But I'm a merciful soul, so instead, I launched my phone onto the plush safety of my king-sized bed, where it could think about what it'd done.
And just when I thought the circus had peaked, reality tapped me on the shoulder with a sledgehammer. I had a thousand other disasters queued up and waiting: I had a flight to catch. An awkward family dinner to survive in India. And after that? A PR meeting where I'd likely have to smile through gritted teeth and pretend I wasn't being branded a national embarrassment.
Perfect!