The next morning, I woke up in my bed, lying on my stomach, feeling like an idiot.

A heavy sense of guilt weighed upon me, and it wasn't a new sensation. It was a reminder of an old habit that had plagued me for much of my life—an obsession with vanity and physical appearance. I couldn't help but care deeply about how people looked, and this obsession had led to numerous mental breakdowns over the years. It wasn't that I ever ridiculed anyone for not meeting society's ever-changing standards of beauty; in fact, I believed that I had never met an unattractive person. My fixation lay in my attraction to men and women who possessed physical beauty, often at the expense of having any depth of character or intelligence.

This obsession had deep roots in my past, in the haunting memories of relationships that had left me scarred. Those experiences had fueled my insecurity, and the images of their faces, unattractive and repulsive, haunted my mind. I couldn't escape those memories, and I couldn't escape the guilt of my own shallowness. The weight of it all was suffocating, and I closed my eyes tightly as if trying to shut out the painful thoughts that threatened to consume me.

I don't want to remember this...

I don't want to remember this...

I chanted quietly.

It was almost 10 am. I rolled around in bed a few times, and then I sat up.

The view from my bedroom alone was enough to make me realize I didn't even need to leave my suite to explore the entire city of Paris, the City of Love.

The City of Love.

Last night when we landed in front of the hotel, I had been on the lookout for the iconic Eiffel Tower. However, the grandeur of this building surpassed my expectations. It wasn't merely a vantage point for the Eiffel Tower; it was designed to offer panoramic views of the entire city. This explained why the tower looked somewhat diminished from my windows compared to the images I had seen online.

The extravagant pricing of these rooms, starting at a staggering 10 grand plus VAT, service charges, and taxes, finally made sense.

Inside the opulent suite, yesterday I noticed a laptop in the office room. I approached it, realizing that this part of the grand suite had remained untouched since my arrival. I eagerly opened the laptop and began searching for the pricing of the presidential suite.

To my surprise, the description of the presidential suite fell short of what I had experienced. While it was undoubtedly grand, it couldn't hold a candle to the magnificence of my surroundings.

I contemplated the Imperial suites, but they too didn't seem to measure up.

Adjacent to the office, I discovered a library and a mini reception area. As I explored the library, I realized that not a single book was fictional. The shelves were filled with business books, political histories, military information, and a plethora of volumes on astrology and astrophysics, including math and basic physics books suitable for graduates.

Intriguingly, a miniature replica of a rocket, bearing the SpaceX logo, drew my attention. Positioned to the left of the rocket, there was a glass casket holding a ragged rock, delicately nestled on a velvet cushion. These items adorned the sole empty cabinet on the shelf.

The impeccable condition of the bookshelf, devoid of even a speck of dust, was a testament to the meticulous maintenance of this luxurious space. The seating arrangement offered the most exquisite view of the suite, with floor-to-ceiling windows providing an expansive view of the city. The wooden handles of the divan in front of the windows showed signs of wear, and throw blankets were artfully draped over every seat in the library.

What the fuck.

I slowly walked to the main lobby of my suite and looked all around me closely. Everything that should be in a home was there. Pots and pans hung in the open space kitchen. There was an abundance of cutlery, glasses, and plates in the cabinet. I lowered a silver pot and inspected its surface. It had scratch marks on the inside, as if someone had used a steel spoon or something to scratch the stainless-steel surface.

I opened the grill oven; it was clean but worn out enough to let me know it had been used often.

It wasn't a commercial suite I was staying in; it was an apartment. An apartment that belonged to a private owner who seemed to have a strong interest in astrophysics and businesses. A luxury hotel suite would never have a library filled with college books. I knew that expensive hotels have apartments that rich people buy for regular stays, but who would let me stay in an empty apartment?

Did the hotel make a mistake? Was it intentional? If it belonged to someone else, then would it not have a private entrance other than a hotel entrance?

I returned to my room and sat quietly, my brain working hard to connect the dots and solve the puzzle. The doorbell rang twice. Glancing through my open doors, I realized that I hadn't opened the door in the morning for room service to clean my suite or whatever else they usually did.

Outside, there was a tray trolley loaded with breakfast, and a nervous waitress stood beside it at my door. I gave her a puzzled look as I stood in front of my open door.

"May I come in?" she asked, and I allowed her to enter.

"Who ordered this?" I asked, my voice tinged with uncertainty. She hesitated before replying,

"You haven't had your breakfast yet, so the restaurant manager sent this to you." 

She motioned towards the tray trolley, which was stocked with croissants, exotic cheeses I didn't even know existed, smoked salmon, white caviar tins, capers, two sunny-side-up eggs, sausage-like items, soups, and an assortment of fruits. There were also two teapots and juice jars.

I continued to regard the spread with confusion, and before I could say anything, she spoke again,

"All these are Halal Madame, don't worry!"

I looked at her, she was sweating profusely.

"I didn't mention anywhere that I eat halal." I hissed so smoothly. Her eyes widened with fear and confusion.

"Take everything away." I hissed again and stepped a bit closer to her.

"But Madame!" she insisted.

"TAKE. EVERYTHING. AWAY!!! It's an order!" I hissed at her violently. I could feel my chest going up and down with every breath I was taking in.

The poor lady jumped out with fear and took the trolley away with her.

I was fuming with anger. Now I got it, this same son of a bitch sends me food that night when I thought someone poisoned me.

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As I walked out of the round revolving doors of the Caelus, it was already 12 p.m. I was dressed in black jeans and a matching jeans jacket, with a black bodysuit underneath. The only jewelry I wore were my regular watches and earrings, but I had on sunglasses. I carried no handbag.

I was hungry, hungry, and furious.

I strolled through the streets and stumbled upon a bakery that was less crowded than the others. I entered, grabbed a croissant sandwich, and quietly sat in a nearby park.

Calculations whirred in my brain.

All of this had been happening for four months now. I had caught someone's attention in Como, and they had been pursuing me relentlessly ever since. They stalked me and attempted to woo me with eerie romantic gestures. Now, somehow, they had brought me here to France for some grandiose gesture. John had warned me not to involve Maria's name in all of this. If it wasn't her, then was it her husband, Royce? If Royce had a questionable reputation, Julia would have warned me about him just as she had warned me about how dangerous Maria was. I recalled Danny's husband's reaction when he learned I had met Maria casually.

Was their son behind all of this? Rhys Volkner? Why the fuck he would do that? He is the sole heir of this whole Volkner Empire, why the fuck he would waste his time chasing after me? He could have had any woman in the world; why choose me? Even if he was so curious, he could have met me in Como. But he declined; he was in Milan the day I left. He could have met me in Milan if he was truly interested. If he hadn't managed to meet me in Italy, he could have simply met me in the UK like a normal, decent human being.! Why would someone try to creep me out like that with their every move?

Kids were playing football on the field in front of me. I couldn't concentrate on anything at all. Normally, I would have joined them in playing football, but now my brain was mush. I tried to focus on my croque-monsieur.

But a fly was already laying an egg on my half-eaten sandwich. My whole body curled with disgust!

I promptly discarded the sandwich and noticed a convenience store adjacent to the park. I went inside, and to my surprise, they were selling the same groceries and dry foods I used back home. A quick idea flashed through my mind. What if I used the kitchen in my apartment to cook? That way, I wouldn't have to worry about being drugged or poisoned in a foreign country.

I grabbed everything I needed, from olive oil to coffee creamers, rice, and all the herbs and spices required for my South Asian cooking. It was essentially a week's worth of groceries, totaling almost 150 euros. The cashier happened to be a fellow Bangladeshi, and he asked if I was Bangladeshi too. I frowned at him and told a little white lie. He seemed visibly upset when he realized I had not been truthful.

At the entrance, all guests were required to have their bags checked whenever they entered the hotel with new purchases. They had checked mine when I was in Como, inspecting it every time I returned from an outing, but not here. Somehow, I was spared from their security checkups.

I entered the lobby discreetly, ensuring no one noticed the two large white polythene bags filled with groceries. Every employee in the lobby gawked at me as though they had seen a ghost. As I made my way towards one of the elevators, a thought struck me.

I halted at the reception area, situated between two grand staircases leading in opposite directions, and approached it. Behind the black obsidian reception desk, there were two men and a woman.

"Enlighten me, Miss...," I glanced at the nameplate and continued, "Miss Amelie, are there any Volkners on the premises? Royce? Rhys? Maria?" I asked with a mocking tone.

Miss Amelie's eyes widened as if my words had insulted her employers. A man stepped forward and responded on her behalf,

"We are not authorized to disclose such private information; it's considered sensitive. Please let us know how else we can assist you." He spoke politely.

Hmmm. You won't tell me? Okay. When I was in Como everyone drummed in my ear about their holy arrival on the premise as if Jesus reincarnated.

"Is there anyone close to the Volkners? Any Volker enterprise employee on the premises?"

"Tell us what you want, and we are ordered to serve you." The Male receptionist demanded.

I smiled cruelly.

"Tell them I'd like to meet them," I demanded.

"Now" I added humbly. Without letting them speak a word I left for my suite.

I was craving Bangladeshi-style chicken curry, so I fired up the stove and grabbed a pan to start cooking. First, I added a cup of sliced shallots to the hot oil, as I was preparing nearly 2 pounds of chicken. I also added 2 teaspoons each of ginger and garlic paste, along with whole spices like a few pods of cardamom, a bay leaf, a handful of whole black peppercorns, and a cinnamon stick. I stirred the mixture until the onions began to brown slightly.

Next, I incorporated 1 and a half teaspoons of red pepper powder, half a teaspoon of turmeric, and 2 heaping teaspoons of coriander powder. I stirred the mixture occasionally until the oils began to float on top. During this process, I added two generous spoonfuls of yogurt mixed with a bit of sugar. This helped balance out the heat from the spices.

I then added the chicken pieces and potatoes, frying them along with the spices. Afterward, I carefully sprinkled in half a teaspoon of cumin powder and let everything cook for a bit.

Once everything was well cooked together, I poured in some hot water with a teaspoon of salt to create a flavorful gravy. I reduced the heat to a low simmer and left the curry to cook while I went for a quick shower. The apartment was soon filled with the spicy aroma of Indian-style curry.

The delightful smell eased my tension a bit, and I headed to my luxurious bathroom for a refreshing cold shower, trying to calm the anger that surged through my veins like molten lava.

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When I entered the main lobby, my doorbell rang. I peeked through the door viewer to see who was there.

There were a few men standing outside.

"Wait 5 minutes," I demanded, as I was still in my bathrobe. I quickly changed into a maxi dress, similar to my white library dress but in black. I didn't even have time to brush my hair, which was still dripping wet, and then I opened the door.

John and Ju were there with a mysterious man who bore a striking resemblance to a young Sylvester Stallone, but with a deeper tan and a more muscular build. His hair was slicked back, giving it a wet appearance, with a few strands hanging over his forehead.

Is this Rhys Volkner? I wondered. The guy was undeniably handsome, wearing a smile as if he were thoroughly enjoying being there.

"May I come in?" the mystery man spoke in an American accent, his voice surprisingly resembling that of a male singer with a high-pitched tone. The voice didn't quite match the face.

I allowed them to enter. Instead of sitting on the couch in the living area, they remained standing.

"Do I need to tell you to sit down in your own place?" I quipped, while I stood in the open kitchen. My chicken curry was filling the air with the mouthwatering aroma of Bangladesh. My stomach and every taste bud in my mouth was begging me to take a big spoonful of curry that was on stove.

A broader smile graced his face as I gestured for him to sit.

"This is not my place, Miss," he reassured me, his eyes scanning the room. "These smell really nice. What's that?" he inquired, his voice friendly and comforting.

"Have you had lunch?" I asked instead. He looked momentarily puzzled but then smiled again.

"Are you offering lunch?" he asked, sounding amused.

"I just need to cook the rice. John, Ju? Care to join us?" I offered. Without uttering a word, John and Ju left the room, their nonchalant attitude leaving me astonished.

"Do you have any allergies?" I inquired.

"Miss, I'm Italian. It's a sin to have food allergies as an Italian," he replied with a grin.

I smiled back and returned to my kitchen counter.

"If you're not Royce, Maria, or Rhys... then who are you?" I pressed as I prepared to cook the rice.

"My name is Marco Reus Alvares. I work for Volker Enterprise as the Director of Mass Communication in Hospitality Management......"

I was shocked, he was a director of Volkners?

Then I remembered who he was; he served as the spokesperson for the family, providing media statements about their business ventures. He was essentially the only bridge between the Volkners and the world they kept hidden from.

Who the fuck I just summoned in my place!

"....and I am close to the Volkner family. As you demanded my presence an hour ago...." He admitted.

"We need to talk, Mr. Alvares," I commanded.

"Call me Marco, Miss."

"Call me Kaya, Marco."

A warm smile lit up his face, and it seemed like he was eager to share something with me. I found myself liking him already.

I set up two chairs at the kitchen counter, as I had opted to tidy up the space on my own. I invited Marco to take a seat.

"Why am I here?" I asked as we settled into the chairs at the kitchen counter.

"You wanted a trip to Paris, and you're having one," he replied.

"I received a 10-thousand-euro gift, which I suspect came from the Volkners, and it can only be spent in their hotels. I canceled my Airbnb reservation and booked a 1000-euro room for 8 days, only to discover that I'd been misled into staying in one of the private apartments within this hotel," I stated. Marco pursed his lips, struggling to contain another smile.

"You are smarter than what we thought." He admitted.

"We? Who are we?" I was confused.

Marco took a deep breath, his gaze locked onto mine. My pressure cooker's whistle reminded me that my rice was ready. I served Marco a plate and handed him some utensils.

"Whose place is this? Rhys's? Royce and Maria's? or someone else's?" I inquired as I took the first bite of my organic chicken drumstick meat. I used a fork and knife to eat, a concession I made only because Marco was present. I wanted to maintain a certain level of decorum in such situations. Under different circumstances, I'd have happily used my bare hands, a typical practice in South Asian cultures.

"This tastes so good! So spicy and creamy! It's warming the cockles of my heart," 

Marco exclaimed as he quickly devoured his meal with a knife and fork. It became apparent that he wasn't going to answer my questions directly, so I shifted my line of inquiry.

"You know, I've been chased and stalked by someone for the last 4 months. Do you have any idea who might be behind this? I was in your Como hotel four months ago, and perhaps some of your wealthy acquaintances decided to play a game of cat and mouse with me. Any guesses?" I asked him. Marco suppressed a smile, and I felt slighted as I noticed the change in the shape of his eyes.

"There are 8 billion people, Miss. How could I possibly know who's been chasing you?" he replied his words a blatant lie to my face.

"As a Director of Mass Communication of motherfucking  Volkner Enterprise, do you know you are very awful at lying? You work for the Volkners, you should be good at lying for them." I told him, my voice changed with subsided anger.

He stopped eating for a second and looked at the distance, then he looked at me.

"You are very scary do you know that? Like really scary. You are pretty, and scary. Like the prey deep inside of the Jungle." He told me directly looking at my eyes.

I could be scarier. With proper opportunity. He had no intention of telling me the truth.

"Tell Rhys to meet me," I demanded out of the blue.

Marco's eyes widened with awe and mischief. As if he was not expecting me to say this. He stayed quiet for a minute.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I am solving a puzzle and his presence would be the last piece of it," I explained. Marco was trying very hard to keep himself from saying something that might jeopardize his relationship with the Volkners.

"Your cooking is fantastic, Kaya. I would love this recipe to try on someday. My girlfriend would love to try this curry." He spoke as he stood up to clean his plate. I smiled at him.

"Tell Rhys to meet me," I demanded again. I wasn't merely asking him; it was a command. These powerful individuals were unaccustomed to someone like me giving them orders. I needed to establish some form of control over them to navigate this tricky situation. That's why I adopted this assertive tone. Marco should have sensed the air of authority in my voice.

"I expect you to get in touch with him as soon as possible, Kaya. That's my request," he said, placing his clean plate down. There was a resolute determination in his voice as he continued, "Thank you for the lunch. I'll see you again soon." Marco hurried towards the door without further ado.

"Ensure he has security with him when he meets me," I added as I followed him.

"Why?" Marco turned back, standing by the main door

"Because I might fork his eyes out of his sockets," I hissed through my teeth.

Marco struggled to suppress his laughter, his lips tightly pressed together. He turned red as he fought to hold back his amusement. After a few moments, he finally spoke, his voice cracking,

"I'd pay to witness you in that role, Kaya," he said, struggling to control his burst of laughter. Tears welled up in his eyes as he made an effort not to laugh directly at my face.

I was furious; my entire body seethed with anger as I saw him leaving my suite.