🥀 Author’s Note to the Reader

This is not your usual story.

This is not a tale of flowers, sunshine, or easy love.

This is the story of two souls carved from shadows — Alaric Valtor and Eira Valtor.

Both carry the same surname, but don’t be fooled. Blood is not love, family is not safety, and power is not protection. Sometimes the people you call your own are the very hands that carve the deepest scars into you.

Alaric Valtor is the President of India. A man who rules with steel in his veins, not warmth in his heart. He is untouchable, calculated, and merciless — the kind of man who doesn’t just win, he annihilates. He was born to lead, raised to control, and trained to hide any weakness. His mind is sharper than a blade, his silence louder than any scream, and his presence alone commands nations.

But underneath that power, he is dangerous in ways words cannot contain.

He is not your savior.

He is your warning.

Then there’s Eira Valtor.

A psychology student. A girl who should have been sheltered, protected, loved. Instead, she was broken. She carries trauma like a second skin, but never lets the world see the cracks. People call her unstable, violent, reckless — and perhaps she is. Because pain makes monsters out of angels, and Eira is no angel.

She doesn’t crave love.

She doesn’t beg for acceptance.

She is fire — untamed, unpredictable, and unafraid to burn.

And yet, she and Alaric share the same curse.

They are both dangerous.

Both carved by betrayal.

Both poisoned by hate.

But hate is never pure. It is never clean.

Hate is messy. It claws, it tears, it bleeds into obsession. It’s sharp enough to wound, but intoxicating enough to pull you closer even as it destroys you.

Alaric and Eira crave to hate each other.

It’s the only language they know, the only tether binding them together. Every word is a knife, every glance is a war, every silence is a battlefield. They should have been family. They should have been allies. Instead, they became each other’s chaos, each other’s undoing.

This book is not about heroes.

It’s not about villains either.

It’s about two broken souls who are both.

⚜️ Alaric is a President to the world, but a storm in Eira’s life.

⚜️ Eira is a psychology student to the world, but a curse in Alaric’s life.

Their story is not simple. It is not clean. It will bleed.

It will bruise.

It will consume.

You, dear reader, are about to step into a world where morality is blurred, where love is stitched with hatred, and where obsession feels like the only truth. You will not find comfort here. What you will find is fire, ice, poison, and desire twisted into something that should not exist, but does.

Because that’s what Alaric and Eira are — a contradiction, a war, a craving too dangerous to name.

He is in control. She is chaos.

He is silence. She is scream.

He is restraint. She is rebellion.

Together, they are destruction.

Together, they are inevitable.

So if you choose to read on, don’t expect softness. Don’t expect a safe romance that holds your hand and kisses your scars. No. This story will drag you by the throat, bruise your heart, and set your mind on fire. It will make you question loyalty, morality, even love itself.

And maybe, just maybe, you will find pieces of yourself in their rage, their pain, their hunger.

Because at the end of the day — aren’t we all just a little dangerous when the world breaks us?

Welcome to the world of Alaric Valtor and Eira Valtor.

Two souls who should never collide, but always will.

Two names written in blood, bound by fate, and cursed to crave the one thing they should never touch.

This is not love.

This is not hate.

This is both.

And it will ruin them.

And it will ruin you.

TROPES 🎀

Grumpy × Grumpy.

Enemies-to-Obsession.

Dark Cousin Romance.

Power Imbalance.

Hate Attraction.

Forced Proximity.

Morally Gray Male Lead.

Broken & Dangerous Female Lead.

Poisonous Family Dynamics.

He’s Everyone’s Hero, Her Villain.

She’s Everyone’s Burden, His Obsession.

Hurt/Comfort with a Dark Twist.

Touch Her and You Die.

Madness & Medicine.

Anger → Tension → Almost Kisses.

Unspoken Desires.

Family Tree 🎄

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

...THANK YOU....

Flashback.

The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the Valtor mansion.

Clara Solenne’s hand struck against the young girl’s cheek again and again, but Eira Valtor did not shed a single tear. Her face burned, her skin stung, yet her eyes remained cold—wild, rebellious, and venomous. Hatred blazed in her gaze like fire refusing to be extinguished.

A boy—no, almost a man, barely in his twenties—stood there, silent. Alaric Valtor. His jaw was clenched, his fists balled so tight his knuckles whitened, but he did not intervene. He didn’t move, didn’t stop Clara. He simply watched.

Because that same hatred that burned in Eira’s eyes was mirrored in his own.

And yet, her words cut deeper than any slap, deeper than any wound life had ever inflicted on him.

"If only you had died with your parents, then today my parents would have been mine. Not yours."

Those words had been knives, plunged straight into his chest. They haunted him. They poisoned him. He had carried them for years, carved into his very bones.

...----------------...

present day.

The Valtor Mansion hummed with restless anticipation. White lilies, once Eira Valtor’s favorite flower, filled the halls, perfuming the air with a sweetness almost sickening. The staff scurried about, polishing floors and adjusting drapes, as though they were preparing for royalty.

And in a way, they were.

The prodigal daughter—the so-called princess of the mansion—was returning after twelve long years.

From Italy to India.

From silence back to the family that had abandoned her.

Cecilia Valtor’s heart soared with excitement. The grandmother, silver-haired and gentle-eyed, was perhaps the only one who had truly loved the girl without condition. She smiled, her wrinkled hands trembling slightly as she arranged the lilies herself.

Joseph Valtor, Eira’s grandfather, stood tall but cold. His face, carved from stone, betrayed little. Perhaps he was happy; perhaps not. The man never wasted emotion on displays.

Clara and Nathaniel Valtor—Eira’s parents—felt nothing resembling joy. No warmth. No eagerness. Only tension. Because the Eira who was returning wasn’t the eleven-year-old they had sent away to boarding school. No, she was twenty-three now, a grown woman forged in anger, sharpened by hatred, and tempered by silence. They knew it. They feared it. Deep down, they understood—her return could shatter everything they had built.

And then there was him.

From the grand staircase, a man descended, phone pressed to his ear, words clipped and sharp. He wore power like a second skin—tailored suit, eyes like steel, expression carved in stone. His presence was enough to silence the air around him.

Alaric Valtor.

No longer the quiet student swallowed by grief. No longer the young man standing in the shadows.

Now, he was the fucking President of India.

The nation worshiped him. Feared him. Obeyed him.

To the world, he was untouchable. Unshakable. A man of iron, a leader forged in fire.

But to her? To Eira Valtor?

He was still the thief who had stolen everything—her parents, her home, her life.

And he knew she was coming. He knew she wasn’t returning as some fragile little girl. She wasn’t coming back to smile and play nice, to pretend at family dinners, to forgive and forget.

No.

She was coming back as a storm. A fucking hurricane dressed in silk.

And Alaric Valtor, the man who commanded nations with a single word, felt it in his bones: her arrival would rip apart the fragile balance of the Valtor Mansion.

Not just the mansion. The Valtor bloodline itself.

Because sometimes the most dangerous wars are not fought in parliaments or battlefields.

They are fought inside the same house.

Between the same blood.

Behind closed doors.

And this war was only just the beginning.

......................

Cecilia Valtor stood in the grand kitchen of the mansion, her silver hair tied back neatly, her sharp eyes flicking across the room as if she were commanding soldiers, not maids. Her voice cut through the air like a whip.

“Not too much sugar, damn it!” she snapped, her voice rising as she snatched the mixing spoon from a trembling maid’s hand. “Do you even know who the cake is for? My Firefly doesn't eat cloying, sickly shit like this. Fix it—or I’ll make sure you’re out by morning.”

Her Firefly.

That was what Cecilia used to call Eira when she was small, a name the little girl adored. A name that now echoed like a ghost in Cecilia’s mouth—sweet, fragile, deceptive.

The door creaked, and Clara Solenne Valtor stepped inside. Her perfectly manicured brows furrowed as she watched the scene unfold, her lips curving into a bitter line.

“Mom,” Clara said, voice dripping with disdain. “Why are you tearing into her like this? It’s just sugar. It’s not like Eira will suddenly gain ten pounds or drop dead from diabetes over a slice of cake.”

The venom in her tone was unmistakable. Not for the maid. Not for the cake. But for her daughter—Eira Valtor.

Cecilia’s head turned slowly, her expression softening into that syrupy smile she wore whenever she was about to gut someone with words. Her voice was calm, even sweet—but sharp enough to bleed.

“Clara, my dear daughter-in-law,” Cecilia began, each syllable laced with mockery, “if you can’t lift a single finger for your daughter’s return, then perhaps you should also refrain from passing judgments on those who actually give a damn.”

Clara stiffened, eyes widening for a second before narrowing again, but Cecilia wasn’t done.

“And let’s be honest,” Cecilia continued, voice like poisoned honey, “Eira would hate it if she thought you’d done anything for her. She doesn’t need your half-hearted gestures. She’s suffered enough at your hands already. So kindly, for once in your goddamn life, stay out of my way.”

The words landed like slaps. Clara’s face went pale, her composure cracking for a heartbeat before she swallowed hard, fixing her mask back into place. Her lips pressed together as she forced a thin smile, then she turned sharply on her heel and stalked out of the kitchen, heels clicking against marble like gun shots.

Cecilia exhaled slowly, her gaze sliding back to the chocolate batter. She didn’t miss the maid’s frightened expression, nor did she care.

Because tonight wasn’t about the cake.

Or the maids.

Or Clara’s endless incompetence.

Tonight was about her butterfly.

Eira Valtor.

After twelve years away—after exile, silence, and shadows—her granddaughter was finally coming back.

The flight would land late, around eight or nine at night. Darkness would cloak her arrival, as if even the skies understood the storm that was about to descend on the Valtor Mansion.

Cecilia had made sure the Solenne family had been invited, too. Her sister, Clara’s mother, Eira’s maternal grandmother.

......................

The clock struck 8:30 p.m., yet for Cecilia Valtor, every passing minute dragged like an excruciating hour. Her eyes kept darting toward the phone on the mahogany side table, as if sheer willpower could make it ring. She wanted—no, needed—to hear her granddaughter’s voice, that curt confirmation that she had landed safely and was on her way. The silence gnawed at her, pressing weight on her chest she would never admit to anyone.

Joseph Valtor—her husband, the formidable patriarch—had already deployed a special car to fetch the girl, shadowed by an entourage of black SUVs packed with bodyguards. The Valtors were not some pedestrian, suburban family. They were powerful, carved into the veins of this nation. Their name wasn’t spoken lightly—it carried blood, legacy and danger. And now, with Alaric Valtor sitting on the presidential throne, every single move of theirs was a national matter, every member’s safety guarded as if they were crowned royalty.

The Solennes were present too, lounging in their controlled silence. Elias Solenne wore a smile that couldn’t quite hide the storm in his eyes, his joy at his granddaughter’s return genuine, if bittersweet. Teresa Solenne, however, was the embodiment of frost, her expression as unreadable as her daughter Clara’s. They weren’t smiling, nor were they mourning. Their faces told a story of restraint, calculation—the kind of emotionless calm that was far more terrifying than open hostility.

The air shifted, heavy and electric, when the cars finally rolled past the Valtor mansion’s wrought-iron gates. First came the SUVs, sleek and ominous, engines growling low like beasts prowling for prey. Then the midnight-black Rolls Royce glided in, regal and untouchable, carrying the one they were all waiting for. Behind it, more guards. The convoy screamed of power, of importance, of danger. Anyone watching would know—a fucking princess had just arrived.

Inside, Cecilia stood tall at the entrance of the grand living room, her figure a shadow of her younger self—sharp eyes, spine straight, her aura still deadly despite the years. Behind her, the rest of the family waited, breathing in the same tense air.

And then—Eira Valtor stepped out.

No longer the child they remembered, but a woman. A dangerous one.

She carried herself with the same arrogant poise her grandmother once did, her chin tilted ever so slightly upward as if the world was beneath her. The same razor-edged grace, the same fire blazing in her eyes. Cecilia felt an odd twist in her chest, as though she were staring at her own reflection from decades ago. The resemblance was uncanny, unsettling. Not just the face, not just the features—it was the aura. That vicious charm, that merciless elegance, the unspoken promise of destruction.

And it hit Cecilia—Eira hadn’t simply grown up. She had become a storm, a weapon, a younger, sharper version of herself.

Eira walked straight up to her grandmother, heels clicking against marble like gunshots. The two women, mirrors of different eras, stood face-to-face.

Cecilia broke first, pulling her granddaughter into a tight embrace, her iron façade cracking just a fraction. Eira returned the hug, but it was different—cold, restrained, controlled. A hug not of affection, but of formality. A reminder: I’m here, but I haven’t forgiven you, old woman.

Cecilia released her with a small smile, though her eyes narrowed slightly, reading the tension in the girl’s body.

“How are you, my child?” she asked, voice calm, but sharp like steel dipped in honey.

Eira’s lips curled into the faintest smirk. Her reply sliced through the silence, arrogant and venom-laced.

“As always.”

The words hung heavy in the air, dangerous, almost blasphemous in their audacity. And yet, her voice carried no tremor, no hesitation—only arrogance, only fire.

The Valtor bloodline was not made of saints. They were storms in human skin. And now, their newest storm has arrived.

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ ...

Hey guys, How are you doing?

I hope you liked chapter 1 of this story.

I want you guys to support me as much as you can and as I'm a new author so if I make a mistake so ignore it.

Like, vote and don't forget to comment your thoughts.

Bye.

~Eshie🦋

...****************...

"Eira, come. Lemme explain this equation to you."

"Eira, you’ll not tell anyone about this, right?"

"Eira, you’re a good girl, hmm?"

The whispers of the past slithered into my head, like poison dripping through veins. I could still hear them, soft but suffocating.

"N…No, please. D…don’t come near me. I’ll… I’ll kill you."

"Please, p…please. I won’t tell anyone b…but don’t touch me. Don’t fucking touch me!"

Then silence. Always that cursed silence that follows screaming.

"I… I didn’t kill him. I didn’t… didn’t kill."

"Please, someone… call my parents."

"My…my parents."

Beep. Beep. Beep.

My eyes shot open. I sat upright, drenched in sweat, heart clawing at my ribcage as though it wanted to tear itself free. The nightmare again. The same one that had shackled my nights for twelve goddamn years. There was no sleep for me—only prisons made of memory.

When will I get out of this hell? When? The answer was cruelly simple—never.

And then, like a ghost creeping through the walls, her voice played in my head:

"Eira, you’re gonna pay for what you said to Alaric. And I’ll make sure you learn your lesson."

The bitch. That witchy bitch.

I laughed—a bitter, broken sound that didn’t even reach my throat. What a joke my life had become.

Dragging myself to the mirror, I stared at the stranger staring back. Pale skin, hollow eyes, lips cracked from nights of silence. This wasn’t me. Not the girl who once laughed so hard the world shook with her joy. No, that girl was dead. What stood in her place was Eira Valtor—empty soul in a breathing corpse.

"Mom, I’m sorry. I’ll not misbehave with Alaric again. I won’t even talk to him. I'll be good, I promise. Please, just… stop this."

Those words still cut through me like glass, reminders of the day innocence was stripped from my skin. What sin did I commit to deserve this goddamn punishment?

I grabbed clothes from my wardrobe with shaky hands, forcing myself into the bathroom. Cold water. Only icy water numbed the memories, numbing me long enough to pretend I was still human.

---

Later — College.

I sat in the last class, scribbling nonsense into my notebook, mind nowhere near the chalkboard. My last lecture for the day, but the dread still lingered like smoke in my lungs.

When the class ended, I slipped into my car, eager to vanish into silence. I had just touched the ignition when my phone buzzed. A name flashed on the screen—Grandpa.

Joseph Valtor.

Why him? Why today, after all these years of absence?

For a moment, my thumb hovered over the red button. I should ignore it. I should let it ring. But some fragile, stupid part of me—the little granddaughter buried deep inside—pressed accept.

"Hello?" My voice was cold, empty, stripped of anything resembling warmth.

"How are you, Eira?" he asked, as if the question mattered, as if the years hadn’t passed in silence.

I smirked, though he couldn’t see it. "As always," I replied. Two words. That was all I ever had left of myself.

"I want you to come back to India," he said suddenly, his voice unshaken, like an order stamped into law.

My hands tightened on the wheel. "I didn’t hear you right."

"I said—you, Eira Valtor, are coming back to India this week." His tone was iron. No questions. No explanations.

I scoffed. "I’m in my final year, in the middle of exams. You think I can just—"

He cut me off, sharp, merciless. "I’ll take care of everything. You only need to pack your things. I’ll book the flight. Tell me about the day."

My jaw clenched so hard I thought it might crack. Of course. As always. Everyone had a right to decide my fucking life—except me.

"And if I don’t want to?" I asked, voice low, dangerous.

"You don’t have another option, Eira. It’s been twelve years since you left your family, your country."

I barked a laugh, bitter and poisoned. "How kind of you to suddenly remember. Twelve years. Twelve goddamn years, and now you play the doting grandfather."

"You can continue your taunt session later," he snapped. "For now, do what I said. Tell me when to book your flight."

I let silence stretch, then hissed into the phone: "I’ll decide if I come back or not. And, my dear grandfather, don’t ever think I need anyone to dictate my life again."

I ended the call before he could reply, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. My chest heaved, fury boiling under my skin.

After twelve years, all he had was orders. No questions. No explanations. Not even a single—"How did you survive, child? How did you keep breathing after everything we did to you?"

Nothing.

Just control. Just another chain to wrap around my throat.

But fuck that. Fuck them all.

I am Eira Valtor. And I’ll burn before I bend.

"Alaric Valtor, the President of India, has refused to sign the bill that could have brought relief to thousands of poverty-stricken families."

"Why did the man hailed as the people’s warrior deny this opportunity?"

"The public still trusts him, but for how long?"

The news anchors’ voices echoed through the office, sharp and relentless, filling every corner of the high-ceilinged room. The bill itself lay before me on the mahogany table, its pages untouched, it promises nothing but empty ink.

My PA stood in front of me, hands clasped, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. He didn’t dare raise his gaze—few ever did when I was silent.

"Sir, we still require your signature. Parliament has already passed it. Only your approval remains." His voice trembled as though he already knew the answer.

I leaned back in my chair, eyes still locked on the bill, my lips curving faintly in disdain. "Hmm. I already refused. I made that perfectly clear in the last meeting."

"But, si—"

I didn’t let him finish. My words sliced through the air, low, deliberate, venomous. "Do. I. Need. To. Repeat. Myself? Mr. Rishabh?"

His throat bobbed, his spine stiffened. "Y–Yes, sir. I’ll… inform them." He turned and fled as though escaping fire.

I let out a breath, steady and controlled. People always believed me. Whether I gave or withheld, whether I built or destroyed, they trusted it was for their own good. That was the trick. Once you win their trust, their souls belong to you—and in politics, that is the sharpest blade to wield.

Alaric Valtor wasn’t just a President. I was a dynasty. A living emblem of the Valtor name, carved into generations of blood and legacy. This was my turn, my reign.

---

Night – 10 p.m. – The Dining Table

The table gleamed under chandeliers, silver cutlery aligned with military precision. Everyone sat in their designated places. Grandfather Joseph at the head, immovable, cold. Grandmother Cecilia opposite me, as regal as a queen stripped of her crown. Clara and Nathaniel, my aunt and uncle, seated beside Grandfather.

"Why didn’t you sign the bill?" Grandfather’s tone was flat, empty of all emotion. He never raised his voice. He didn’t need to.

I lifted my glass, took a sip of wine, and set it down before answering. "Because it wasn’t profitable to me." Brutal honesty—that was the only currency that mattered within these walls.

His eyes narrowed a fraction. "Remember this, Alaric—trust, once broken, never returns. You may be clever enough to manipulate the world, but even gods fall when faith turns to dust. Still… you are intelligent. You will learn."

I inclined my head slightly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at my lips. "Yeah."

The rest of the table filled the silence with idle chatter. Nathaniel and Clara recited details of their day, ordinary, mundane. I listened, half-distracted, the fondness buried beneath my cold exterior surfacing just enough. I loved them more than anyone—because when the world abandoned me, when death stripped me of my parents, they were the ones who kept me alive.

Cecilia never spoke. She hadn’t spoken to me in twelve years. Perhaps love had dried in her heart, or perhaps she held a grudge too ancient to forgive. I no longer cared to ask.

Dessert was being served when Grandfather dropped the words that turned the air into stone.

"Eira is coming back to India. This week."

The silence was deafening. My gaze flicked immediately to Cecilia—her face illuminated by a happiness I hadn’t seen in years. The fucking irony. Then to Clara and Nathaniel—whose faces twisted with unease, even fear. Their daughter’s return was not a celebration to them. It was a threat. A reminder.

"Why? She doesn’t need to come back, Dad," Nathaniel muttered, uneasy bleeding into defiance.

"I didn’t ask your opinion," Grandfather replied, calm yet final. One command, and the air bent to his will.

"B–But why now, so suddenly?" Clara’s voice carried the tremor of dread.

"Because it has been years since she left her family," Joseph said flatly.

"She’s used to it now," Clara argued softly. "We all are."

His gaze cut through her like ice. "I do not owe anyone explanations. I’ve already spoken to Eira this afternoon. That is final."

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, rose from the table, and left, leaving silence in his wake like a storm receding but promising to return.

---

Later, in my room, I emerged from the steam of a hot shower. The city glittered outside my window, a thousand lights bowing to the crown I wore. My phone rang, the name flashing on the screen—a different life, a darker one.

I answered, voice smooth, calculated. "Torture him. But make sure he doesn’t die." I ended the call before hearing a reply.

That was the duality of me—President to the world, a saint on their television screens. But behind closed doors? A monster in a tailored suit.

Still, the words from dinner haunted me.

"Eira is coming back to India. This week."

Why now? Why her? For years, Grandfather had forbidden her return. Now, suddenly, he summons her home. His reasons were his own, locked behind walls only he could build.

But I knew one thing with the kind of certainty that burned in my bones—her return would not be simple. Eira Valtor would bring storms with her. And when the storm collides with fire—entire kingdoms burn.

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

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