Chapter 4

                                    

                                          
~Maya~
Do you ever find yourself at life's crossroads, where change looms on the horizon, and you're left wondering if it signals a dawn of promise or a twilight of regret? 
Or those peculiar instances when you are suspicious about the bodyguard of your childhood friend. You watch them, observe their every move for weeks, only to conclude there is nothing out of sorts about them—which, paradoxically, makes them all the more next-level suspicious. 
I've never been so captivated by anyone as I am by him—the man who drives with a casual mastery, one hand steering while the other rests nonchalantly on the center console. His sleeves are haphazardly rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms etched with prominent veins that dance with every subtle motion. At eighteen, I've had my fair share of men, yet there's something about the way his muscles tense and relax that sends an unfamiliar shiver down my spine. 
I avert my gaze, peering out the window, lost in thought. I don't know how or when the universe decided to make Ilya part of my everyday life. Because of him the mansion doesn't feel the same and if he ever leaves it won't feel the same either. He didn't appear for me, of course. He's merely my friend's bodyguard, yet his presence has become a constant in my daily routine. 
Glancing back at him, the sunlight casts a contrast effect across his face, half in light, half shrouded in shadow—a sight eerily reminiscent of... something. A memory? 
No, idiot. The first time you laid eyes on him was merely a month ago, in the mansion, where you promptly decided that you hate him. Understand? 
I roll my eyes at the internal monologue, the voice in my head that never ceases its chatter. I don't know about Ilya, but one thing is crystal clear—I utterly despise her. 
Today, Ilya is driving Jeremy, Mia, and me to the university. It was I who suggested to Mia that we ask Jeremy for a ride, and she agreed without hesitation. Mia suspects I harbor a crush on Ilya, especially after she caught me spying at him from the shadows, only for me to insult him when confronted. 
What? I know that's rude. But there's a reason people call me a Diva Bitch, bitch. 
There have been a few instances where we've shared confined spaces—much like right now. And even fewer where Ilya and I found ourselves alone which was after I called him a dog when I was caught stalking him from the shadows. 
The memory of Ilya cornering me is etched in my mind, his words slicing through the air, "Disrespect me again, Maya, and you certainly won't like how I react." His eyes were tumultuous, like a sea thrashed by a relentless storm. Irritation and anger were etched on his face, imbued in his words, and seared into his touch that imprisoned my hand in a vice-like grip. 
The raw fear that cascaded down my spine with each venomous word he spat still lingers. Yet, amidst the fear, I was ensnared by the way my name rolled from his lips—the 'M' pursed in a soft caress, the final syllable a whisper against the roof of his mouth. It's a memory that refuses to fade. That was the last time we were alone, the only time he uttered my name. 
Sometimes, I'm tempted to provoke him, just to hear him say my name once more. But what claim do I have over his words? 
To him, I'm merely an annoying, spoiled princess, and to me, he's nothing but a man with a stick up his ass. 
"Maya?" Mia pats my arms which jolts me from my reverie, "We've arrived," she signs, gesturing for me to exit the car. 
"Oh, go ahead. I'll just touch up my makeup here and follow," I reply. Mia nods and departs. My gaze shifts to Ilya, who's observing me through the rear-view mirror. Our eyes lock in a silent battle, and he quickly averts his gaze elsewhere. Actually, not elsewhere, but to the girls passing by, offering him smiles, which he returns with a subtle one of his own. 
Excuse me? He's smiling? I thought he had face paralysis, which explained the only reason for his poker and stoic expression all the time. His smile is faint, barely a twitch at the corner of his lips. If I weren't so attuned to his stoic facade, I might have missed it. But there it is... and it's... ugly. He shouldn't smile. Ever. 
I shoot a glare at the girls, who scurry away at my silent command. Ilya turns to me, a smirk playing on his lips. "What?" I snap, feeling a flush creep over my cheeks. I didn't chase those girls away out of jealousy, but because it's rude to peer into someone else's car. 
"Why did you glare at them?" he inquires, his fingers tapping a rhythmic beat on the steering wheel. 
"Who said I was glaring at them?" I retort, applying another layer of lipstick. 
"I'm not blind, you know," Ilya responds coolly, parking the car. Instead of turning off the engine, he cranks up the air conditioner. 
"Why did you make it colder?" I ask, deflecting his earlier accusation. 
He nods towards my compact, "You're doing your makeup. I assumed you wouldn't want to sweat." He faces forward again. "Hurry up, so we can head inside before we're late for class." His fingers drum on the steering wheel, which is nothing like the beat of my heart which collides so furiously with my ribs that they physically ache. 
Ilya adjusted the A/C for my comfort, and now he waits for me to finish so 'we' can go to our classes together. 
Perhaps I'm overly conscious of his presence, but his scent which is a of citrus and cinnamon, and it fills my senses, nearly suffocating the life out of me. 
I hastily pack away my makeup, "I'm done," and bolt from the car, racing towards the university. 
Ilya's laughter chases after me, a sound so familiar and unexpectedly delightful that I wish I could capture it. Abruptly, I stop, only to be jolted by a collision from behind. Strong arms encircle my waist, lifting me from a near fall. Ilya's familiar scent envelops me, his body pressed against mine. "Careful, moya dusha. You almost fell," he teases, his breath warm against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. 
You're wrong, I've already fallen. 
I shake off the thought, extricating myself from his hold. I meet his gaze, which is softened by a genuine smile, wider and more sincere than the one he offered those girls. What he gave them was mere politeness, this... this is something else entirely. 
Words fail me, and rather than risking embarrassing myself, I choose the dignity of silence and retreat. Yet, my mind can't help but replay the moment when I nearly stumbled, and he was there to catch me, calling me 'moya dusha.' 
Abruptly, my heels screech to a halt, and this time, Ilya doesn't collide into me. "What now?" he teases. 
I spin around, my glare sharp as a blade. "Why did you call me 'moya dusha'?" 
"I did?" His smile is anything but innocent. 
"Yes, you did. Why?" 
"Why did I?" 
Frustration mounts within me. "Stop answering my questions with your questions," I huff, and Ilya's laughter rings out, clear and carefree. It's the second time withing five minutes that I've heard his laughter—a sound that's as rare as the England's sun. But what stuns me more is the dimples that crease his cheeks as he smiles widely. I look around to see if there's someone who is looking at the beautiful dimples and rich laugh. It's mine alone to witness. Mine. A feeling so potent courses through me that I feel blade slicing through my heart. 
Someone's in a good mood today. 
I bite my lip to stifle a smile. Why am I even tempted to smile? He's mocking me, but my heart doesn't seem to understand that since it's pounding fiercely against my ribs, sending a rush of dopamine that scrambles my thoughts. 
Choosing not to engage further, I stride towards the university, with Ilya matching my steps. His expression has returned to its usual neutrality, but there's a softness in his eyes that wasn't there before. We walk in silence to our class, and that silence stretches on for the rest of the day, and then for the week that follows, until. But there's one wish through out, when will I get to hear the laugh again?