Yuvaan Grewaal
[Italy, right now]
It was only by the benevolent, half-drunk grace of the Universe—or maybe a particularly lazy god on their lunch break—that my size nines made contact with the ladder of the helicopter at exactly nine minutes and forty-five seconds. Not that I was keeping time. Okay, I was absolutely keeping time. I'd been gasping for air like a 19th-century damsel in a corset sprinting through a Jane Austen fever dream, wheezing like someone had laced my lungs with pepper spray. And my hair? My perfectly sculpted, once-proud hair had turned against me—rebelling in tragic tufts, like a poodle in a hurricane.
But let's not dwell on logistics. The takeaway here is: I made it. On time. Barely. Heroically. And in truly cinematic fashion.
That's what really matters. Not the wheezing. Not the full-body sweat. And certainly not the fact that my tie had somehow looped itself into a noose.
As for Jenny? Oh, sweet, duplicitous Jenny. I could only hope the moment she heard I'd boarded the chopper unharmed, she'd let out a guttural groan of disappointment. That mental image alone deserved a self-satisfied smirk plastered across my face for the next two years.
I took one last, overly dramatic breath—because everything I do is theatrical when I'm this close to emotional combustion—and adjusted my waistcoat as if I was accepting an Oscar. Then I swatted away the invisible residue of her. That woman. That siren in overpriced stilettos. I swear I could still smell her perfume—a noxious blend of citrus, sin, and lilies. I ran a hand through my hair to fix it (again). Because appearances matter when you've been nearly seduced, emotionally whiplashed, and mildly kidnapped within a twenty-four-hour period.
God, I needed therapy. And maybe a stiff drink.
Shoving the emotional baggage into the darkest recesses of my brain—the part labeled, deal with this never—I turned to give the order to charmingly mute, seven-foot-tall protein shake bodyguards. You know, the ones who had cheerfully participated in my kidnapping, like it was just another Tuesday.
But, before I could bark command at them to seal the damn door so I could fly away into sweet, silent oblivion, one of them stepped forward.
He was bald, had sunglasses perched on his nose ridge, and his biceps were large enough to have their own Instagram following. He gave me a smirk. A smirk. The kind of smirk that said, "You thought this was over? How cute."
Then, without a single word, he shut the door. And just like that, the chopper lifted off the ground.
Wait. Why the smirk?
WHY THE SMIRK?
Was there a bomb onboard? Was I not on my way back to States? Was I being rerouted to a remote island where I'd have to forage for coconuts and emotionally unpack my trauma with a volleyball?
I clutched my temples, as if physical pressure could squeeze out the absurdity of the last twenty-four hours. Spoiler alert: it couldn't.
"Okay," I whispered to no one, "Don't spiral. Maybe he just likes smirking. Maybe it's gas. Maybe he's imagining me with a machete and a chicken trying to survive in the wild. Maybe I'm imagining that."
Oh God, this is crazy.
I shut my eyes, telling myself I just needed five seconds. A mental reboot. A sanity snack. Something. But in a moment, I fell asleep. Blackout.
I don't know how many minutes went by—could've been five, could've been a small eternity—but then came the sound.
Sound of clicks, murmurs and something else. I peeled my eyes open like I was auditioning for a horror movie and was immediately greeted by a retina-scorching white light. Bright enough to fry an ego.
Wait… am I dead? Is this heaven? Do they let sarcastic degenerates into heaven now?
Lol. Hard no. Heaven wouldn't smell like a mix of sweat, anxiety, and stale airport coffee.
As my vision cleared, reality slapped me square in the face. I was flat on the ground like a forgotten yoga mat, limbs flopped with the careless grace of someone who never planned to survive this morning. My legs were spread as if they were auditioning to be a luxury estate—sprawling, disorganized, and definitely not open to the public.
And the lights? Oh, those were not celestial beams sent from the heavens to bless me with a second chance. No, sir. These were flashes. Camera flashes. The kind that signified doom, trending hashtags, and a hundred close-up shots of my dumb, stunned face.
And then the real horror marched in: the people.
A full-blown battalion of press badges, lenses the size of dinner plates, and notebooks flipping open like they were personally offended by my posture. Their faces were some kind of disturbing Picasso mash-up: Equal parts thrilled, horrified, and ready to tweet.
FREAKING Paparazzi !!
Actual, honest-to-God, tabloid-hunting, headline-thirsty paparazzi.
They circled me, with their badges swinging from necks, and their eyes gleaming with the predatory glee of people who get paid by the scandal. And me? I was the unwilling center of their attention. A gloriously disoriented hot mess laid out on the pavement no less than the newest species pinned in a zoological exhibit.
WHAT THE FUCK!
Those bodyguard bastards didn't even show courtesy to at least wake me up and inform me that we had arrived at place. Instead they decided to toss me out of the helicopter as if I was yesterday's takeout—expired, unwanted, and completely weightless. Fantastic.
I wanted to scream. Throw things. Stage a dramatic breakdown that would be replayed on every trashy morning show for weeks. Instead, I just... blinked at camera crew, who were still shamelessly snapping photos like I was posing for the September issue of Vogue, not just spat out of a helicopter like a chewed-up piece of mint gum.
I braced myself to stand—dignity clutched in shreds, pride possibly still somewhere in my left shoe—but before I could, one of the woman in her sleeveless crop top and matching high-waisted trousers that screamed I do yoga at 5 a.m. and judge people who don't—stepped forward, bent dramatically like she was proposing marriage, and shoved a microphone in my face.
"Mr. Grewaal, how are you feeling? Was this part of a new PR campaign, or are you actually that reckless in real life?"
My eyelid twitched. Wow. Journalism really was dying.
Before I could respond with a suitable mix of sarcasm and pure rage, another mic appeared in my peripheral vision like a badly rendered jump-scare in a horror film.
This one belonged to a guy in a white shirt so wrinkled it could've doubled as modern art. His glasses were smudged. His ID card swung like a tiny red noose around his neck.
"Mr. Grewal," He wheezed out, "could you comment on the rumors of your kidnapping? Any involvement with the mafia? Drug cartel? Alien abduction?"
I almost choked. On air.
Excuse me?
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. These vultures with press passes don't have a single neuron dedicated to timing. Ask the right question at the right time? Too complicated. Ask no questions when a person's clearly two seconds from emotional combustion? Unthinkable. God forbid they actually pause when they have no idea what the hell's going on. Nope. Let's just aim the mic, click the camera, and hope the mess spills itself. Classy.
And wait a second! WHAT THE HOLY—
How did they already know about the abduction? My eyes went full satellite dish mode, ready to pick up on alien signals.
But then... I remembered. Right. I wasn't just anyone. I was the president of a multinational company—aka, a walking headline. These people didn't need clues; they sniffed out chaos like bloodhounds in designer sneakers. Scandals, whispers, badly-timed coffee runs—they lived for it. They thrived on it. And I had just crash-landed into their gossip buffet like the main course.
The cameras kept clicking.
One guy adjusted his lens and whispered something to another. Another scribbled something in a notebook.
And now, more microphones were being shoved toward me with the desperation of people fighting over Black Friday toasters. I was now less human being, more unwilling press conference.
"Mr. Grewaal! Are you being targeted? Were they Russians? Or your ex?"
"Was this political?" another voice shouted from behind a camera the size of a small fridge.
"Sir, please. What do you want the public to know?"
At this point, I decided: screw it. I stood up sharply. Brushed off my pants like I hadn't just taken a nap on gravel. Adjusted my tie, combed my fingers through my hair—no mirror, but we're pretending—and threw on the best 'nothing to see here' face I could muster.
"Mr. Grewal! Just one more question—"
"Were you tortured?"
I gave them nothing. Not a word. Because anything I said would be turned into a hashtag by lunch.
The questions never stopped. They were thrown one after another as I treated them like a bad background noise and adjusted the cuff links.
"Are you secretly launching a survival reality show?"
"Is this how you usually arrive at press conferences?"
"Any political angles here? Was this orchestrated? A set-up? A power move? Mr. Grewal? Sir? Mister—"
What in the name of all things holy was I supposed to say? Hi, I'm the guy who got dragged across continents for a date so ridiculous it could've been a Netflix original, and then had to literally flee for my dignity and life just to make it here in one piece?
Yeah. That'd go over great on national television.
I could definitely go for an alternative but my brain had packed its bags and left the chat. The only thing pinging in my head was error, error, do not engage.
I needed air. Real, non-televised oxygen.
So instead, I turned on my heel as if I was auditioning for The Devil Wears Prada: Corporate CEO Edition and speed-walked toward the glass-paneled headquarters building behind me. It was ten feet away, but felt like the gates of Narnia. Or salvation. Or at least a place without mics being shoved into my literal mouth.
Naturally, they followed. Because of course, they were reporters. More like seagulls with press passes—once they smell chaos, they descend.
I picked up the pace. Just a little. Okay, I broke into a jog, my lungs shrieking and my brain hysterically chanting abort mission. The paparazzi jogged too, bless their soul-sucking dedication. Apparently embarrassment cardio was the hottest new thing in media circles.
So here I was. Again. Sprinting in a suit that probably cost more than the combined rent of everyone chasing me, while internally cursing:
WHAT THE FUCKKKKK!