Alisha stood in Samrat Oberoi's sleek kitchen, the scent of mangoes filling the air as she prepared his juice. Her hands moved mechanically, but her mind churned with resentment. Serving him like a maid was a far cry from the bodyguard role she'd signed up for, a bitter reminder of the debt that bound her—the boy's accident, the surgery only Samrat could perform. Her phone buzzed on the counter, shattering her thoughts.Samrat strode in, his presence as commanding as ever, and handed her the phone. The screen flashed "Mummy." Alisha's stomach tightened. She answered, her voice clipped. "Hello?"Her mother's tone was sharp, laced with hurt. "Alisha, you're in Bangalore and haven't come home. Your grandparents ask about you. We hear about your movie from the news, not you.""I'm busy," Alisha muttered, her words rough. "I can't come now.""You're our daughter, yet we're strangers," her mother snapped. "Stay there, alone." The call ended with a harsh click.Alisha's chest tightened, her hand trembling as she lowered the phone. She turned, freezing as she met Samrat's piercing gaze. He stood too close, watching her with an intensity that unnerved her, as if peeling back her secrets.Their eyes locked, the silence heavy with unspoken questions. Neither moved, the air crackling between them. Then Samrat broke the quiet, his voice low. "Is the juice ready?"Alisha blinked, snapping back to reality. "Not yet. Give it a minute.""Fine," he said, leaning against the counter. "After that, make me a sandwich. I'm starving."Her temper flared. "I don't know how to make sandwiches."Samrat's gaze was calm, almost amused. "Eggs are in the fridge. Make something edible. And don't tell me you can't cook at all."Alisha smirked, seizing the challenge. "Don't worry, boss. Eggs I can handle."He nodded and left, leaving her to fume. Arrogant jerk, she thought, pouring the juice with more force than necessary.She finished the juice, keeping a small glass for herself, and carried Samrat's to the living room. "Here's your juice, boss," she said, her tone mockingly sweet. "Cool, refreshing, medium chill, just as ordered."Samrat glanced up from his laptop, his expression unreadable. She braced for a compliment—her juice was damn good—but he sipped it silently, eyes on his screen. Alisha's smile faded, her ego bruised. Muttering under her breath, she stormed back to the kitchen. "Can't even give a lousy compliment. What was I expecting from him?"In the kitchen, she grumbled, "Forget it. I'm starving too. Time to cook." Her stomach growled, fueling her resolve. She whipped up omelets and egg curry, the spices filling the air with a mouthwatering aroma. With rice on the side, she set the dining table and called Samrat. "Food's ready. Come eat."Samrat arrived, his eyes scanning the spread—golden omelets, fragrant curry, steaming rice. It looked delectable. He sat, raising an eyebrow. "What's this?""Egg curry and omelets," Alisha said, plating his food with a flourish. "Dig in."He took a bite, then paused. "It's too spicy."Alisha frowned, tasting her own plate. "It's fine to me. Perfectly balanced."Samrat took another bite, his face neutral. "Still spicy."She rolled her eyes, chewing thoughtfully. "Wait a sec—you're North Indian, aren't you? That explains it."He shot her a look. "What's being North Indian got to do with taste?"Alisha grinned, warming to the topic. "You North Indians can't handle a pinch of spice. It's like your tongues are allergic. Growing up, I ate chili like candy. In college, I had this friend from Uttar Pradesh, Sejal. Sweet girl, but hopeless with spice. Chips, kurkure—her face would turn red, eyes watering like a fountain. My home cooking? She wouldn't touch it. Her best friend, a South Indian, was the opposite—loved the heat. Then there was Jaya from Bihar, another spice lightweight. I've tried North Indian dishes, and trust me, they're bland compared to South Indian fire."Samrat listened, his expression softening as she rambled. He ate quietly, letting her words fill the space. Alisha, caught up in her story, didn't notice the faint smile tugging at his lips. Sejal and her friend, she mused, were still thick as thieves, their differences binding them closer.As they ate, Samrat's gaze flicked to her. "When does your next movie's shooting start?""Ten days," Alisha replied, surprised by his interest."Good. Two days from now, you're coming with me to Delhi."Her fork paused mid-air. "Why?"He smirked. "Forgotten already? You're my bodyguard."Alisha's jaw tightened, but a spark of opportunity flared. "Fine. I need to meet someone in Delhi anyway."Samrat's brow arched, curiosity flickering. "You know someone in Delhi?"He wasn't one to pry—other people's lives bored him. Yet something about Alisha drew him in, her fire igniting questions he couldn't ignore. "You're from Delhi?"Alisha hesitated. She wasn't one to spill her secrets, but Samrat's genuine tone loosened her guard. "Kind of. I was born and raised here in Bangalore—school, college, everything. But I moved to Delhi for my job.""Job?" Samrat asked, leaning forward, intrigued."Before acting, I was a software developer," she said, her voice tinged with pride. "I did my BCA here, landed a developer gig in Delhi. Acting was my childhood dream, so I kept auditioning. Got rejected a ton, but I needed money to live, so I coded. Still do, sometimes."Samrat's eyes widened, though he masked his surprise. He already had a dossier on Alisha—her films, her accident, her debt to him. But hearing it from her, raw and unfiltered, hit differently. A software developer turned actress? Her layers intrigued him more than he'd admit.
Why are Alisha's ties with her family so fractured, a wound that festers even in her rise to fame? Will she follow Samrat to Delhi as his bodyguard, or will her plans unravel? And who is the mysterious figure she intends to meet in the capital? As sparks fly and secrets simmer, Alisha's world teeters on the edge of revelation.
What Happens Next? Find Out in the Next Chapter! Until Then, Dive into My Story, "Guarding the Grump" 🥰