Ruhi pressed her palms together and bowed slightly. “Please, Mama,” she whispered, her voice trembling beneath the shrill honking of the departing bus. “I’ll send money every month. Just keep Aarav safe. He’s still so small. He needs someone who—”

Her words broke, strangled by the ache in her throat.

Her uncle looked at her for a long moment—a man who had once been all strength and certainty, now worn down by years of struggle. The lines on his face deepened as he sighed, rubbing his temples as though he could erase the helplessness etched there.

“You don’t need to do all this, bitiya,” he murmured. “There must be another way.”

Ruhi shook her head. “There isn’t,” she said, softly but with finality. Her eyes glistened, but she didn’t let the tears fall. “This is the only way left.”

She hitched the worn backpack higher on her shoulder—clutching it like armor, like the only thing keeping her from falling apart. Inside it were the fragments of everything she once called home: her NEET results—a dream she had nurtured until it crumbled; her mother’s faded red dupatta—still carrying the faint scent of jasmine and turmeric; Aarav’s neatly folded school fee receipts; and a thin, creased copy of the contract that sealed her fate.

A job in a foreign land. A promise that was never really a promise…. Only risk. Only survival.

But for Aarav’s future, Ruhi had already buried her pride—somewhere between the endless bills and Aarav’s education. The bus engine roared to life, drowning out her uncle’s final protest. She gave him a shaky smile, the kind that broke before it reached her eyes. Then she turned away—because if she looked back, even once, she knew she wouldn’t have the strength to leave.

As the bus pulled out of the dusty terminal, Ruhi pressed her forehead to the window. The world outside blurred—lights, shadows, and faces melting into one long goodbye, and just like that, the girl who once dreamt of saving lives began her journey to save just one.

Palermo Airport, Italy,

The wind was sharp… The language is sharper. Ruhi Rawat gripped the handle of her scuffed, second-hand suitcase, her fingers stiff from the cold. The air smelled of coffee, fuel, and something foreign—like she’d stepped into a life that wasn’t meant for her.

Announcements blared in Italian, echoing through the terminal—elegant, lilting sounds that made her feel small and misplaced. Neon signs flickered overhead, words she couldn’t read spinning past too quickly. Her chest tightened with every unfamiliar syllable.

She paused by a metal bench to steady her breath. That was when she saw him—tall, broad, and silent. A jagged scar cut from his chin to his collarbone, as if life had once tried to erase him and failed. He stood holding a whiteboard with stark, black letters:

R. Rawat – Colombo Estate.

That was her. She adjusted her scarf, walked toward him, and said softly, “I’m Ruhi Rawat.”

The man’s eyes flicked to her—cold, appraising. He muttered something in rapid Italian, his tone clipped and impatient. Before she could ask him to repeat it, he turned and started walking…. She followed.

The car was sleek and black, its interior smelling faintly of leather and smoke. Ruhi sat by the window, clutching her backpack as though it might protect her. Outside, Italy unfurled in muted colors—crumbling stone cottages, olive groves, narrow winding roads, and a sliver of ocean glinting in the distance. It was beautiful, yes…. But it didn’t feel like hers. The road turned sharply, and then she saw it.

The Colombo Estate.

Her breath caught. It rose against the horizon like something carved out of myth—marble columns, sprawling terraces, and iron gates topped with golden lions. Fountains shimmered in the courtyard, guarded by men with rifles slung casually across their chests.

It wasn’t a house. It was a fortress. The car stopped before the grand entrance—an archway so large she felt like a trespasser just standing before it. She stepped out, her sandals crunching against the gravel, and dragged her suitcase toward the massive doors.

Before she could knock, a guard stepped forward, blocking her path. His expression was unreadable, his voice brisk. “Chi sei?” (Who are you?)

“I… am Ruhi Rawat. Maid job. New,” she stammered, fumbling for the folded letter from her bag. She held it out with both hands.

The guard took it, scanned it, and let out a low scoff. “No.” He jabbed a finger toward the side of the mansion. “Servants, dietro (back.)”

Ruhi blinked, unsure. “I… sorry?”

He smirked. “You? Not this door. This door is for people who matter. Vai dietro. (Go behind.)”

The words hit harder than she expected. Heat rose to her face—shame, anger, and exhaustion all tangled together.

She gave a quick nod, lowering her gaze. “Okay. Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.

Dragging her suitcase, she circled the mansion, the gravel biting into her feet. Dust clung to her sandals, her breath coming in short bursts. The sun pressed hot against her neck, but she didn’t stop. By the time she reached the narrow servant’s entrance—a rusted iron gate tucked behind the rose bushes—she was trembling with fatigue.

Still, she paused, drew in a breath, and whispered to herself, “For Aarav.”

Then Ruhi Rawat pushed open the gate and stepped into a world where her name, her past, and her pride meant nothing at all.