CHAPTER 3: THE WALL AND THE WHISPER
ARORA'S POV
The mansion quickly transformed from a place of awe to a gilded prison. Days bled into a dizzying cycle of "challenges," each more absurd than the last. There was the "Romantic Dinner" where we had to prepare a meal for Nathaniel, showcasing our culinary skills and conversational charm. The "Intimate Portrait" challenge, where we posed for a photoshoot, draped in silks, trying to convey effortless allure. And the "Dance of Seduction," a choreographed routine designed to highlight our grace and... well, temptation.
Each challenge was a performance, and Nathaniel, our reluctant audience of one, remained an enigma. The other women—the confident bombshells and the practiced flirts—grew increasingly frustrated. They whispered in hushed tones over expensive lattes about his stoic expression, his unwavering politeness, his utter lack of reaction. They called him cold, unfeeling, a robot.
Arora, however, found herself watching him, truly watching him. She wasn't trying to seduce him; she was trying to survive, to make it to the next round for the money. Her strategy was simple: blend in, do just enough not to be eliminated, and avoid direct confrontation. During the "Romantic Dinner," while the others vied for his attention with flamboyant dishes, she made a simple, comforting stew, the kind her grandmother used to make. She spoke little, offering quiet observations about the city lights beyond the panoramic windows.
During the "Intimate Portrait," instead of trying for sultry, she let her genuine thoughtfulness show, a slight, almost wistful smile. She wasn't trying to be someone else. She was just Arora.
And it was during these moments, when she wasn't actively trying to tempt him, that she noticed the subtle shifts. The way his gaze would linger a fraction of a second longer on her than on anyone else. The almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw when another woman brushed too close. There was a quiet intensity about him, a barely contained tension that spoke volumes to her observant nature. He wasn't cold; he was a fortress.
During the dance challenge, while the other contestants moved with overt sensuality, Arora's movements were fluid, almost melancholic, reflecting her inner turmoil about being here. She caught his eyes across the vast ballroom. Just for a moment, the wall he'd built seemed to crack. A flicker of something raw and unreadable, a glimpse into a soul battling unseen demons. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but Arora felt it. A whisper of connection that transcended the manufactured glamour of the show.
NATHANIEL'S POV
Every day was a fresh assault. The parade of women, each more dazzling than the last, was a living nightmare. His allergy, usually manageable with extreme caution, flared constantly. His skin itched, burned, threatened to erupt. His muscles tensed, his head throbbed. The erectile dysfunction, a constant, humiliating shadow, was a cruel reminder of his brokenness. He sat through dinners, watched dances, endured forced conversations, willing himself to appear unaffected for the cameras, for his image, for Jake's desperate plan.
He was the "man who could withstand temptation," a lie he had to maintain, even as his body screamed in protest.
But then there was Arora.
He'd seen her during the initial lineup, a quiet storm amidst the vibrant colors. He'd felt it then, a strange, almost imperceptible lack of reaction. A momentary calm in the storm of his symptoms. He'd dismissed it as a fluke.
But she kept proving him wrong.
When she spoke about the city lights, her voice low and earnest, his usual headache receded. When her stew, humble amidst the gourmet fare, sat before him, the nausea that usually accompanied his meals around women was absent. Her scent, when she was near, wasn't a trigger. It was… a balm. Vanilla and cedar, yes, from his soap after the shower incident, but beneath it, something uniquely hers. Something clean, almost like rain after a long drought.
He watched her during the photoshoot. While others postured, she simply was. Her eyes held a depth that pulled at something inside him he thought long dead. And during the dance, her quiet grace, so different from the aggressive sensuality of the others, captivated him. She wasn't trying to tear down his wall; she was simply existing beside it, and somehow, it felt like she was already inside.
It terrified him. This inexplicable anomaly. This single, unwavering exception to his cursed existence. Jake, his friend, his only confidant in this twisted game, had been subtle at first, nudging him towards her. "Focus on Arora, Nate. There's something there. A unique frequency."
Nathaniel hadn't understood. Now, he was beginning to. Every moment near her, his symptoms were lessened, sometimes even absent. He felt a flicker of something new, something that wasn't pain or revulsion—curiosity, perhaps. A fragile hope. He found himself subtly directing his choices, his "eliminations," to ensure she remained. He needed her near. He needed to understand.
He didn't know what she was, or why. He only knew that for the first time in years, he could breathe. And she was the reason.