Part 11

Ira gaped as Tawan pulled to a stop in Kalasin, Thailand. The quiet town, far from the noise and chaos of Bangkok, was bathed in the warm hues of the setting sun. The golden light stretched across the rice fields in the distance, casting long shadows over the small but lively streets. A few motorbikes zipped past, and the scent of grilled pork skewers from a street vendor filled the air.

Tawan turned off the engine in front of a wooden house, its dark teak walls polished with age. The second floor had intricate carvings along the balcony, and a long, shaded veranda wrapped around the front. It looked timeless, standing strong despite the years, a testament to the heritage of the town.

Ira looked around in disbelief. "You can't be serious."

Tawan tilted her head. "About what?"

Ira gestured at the house. "This is where we're staying?"

"Yes."

"No way." She waved her hand at the postcard-perfect setting. "This is some kind of deeply twisted, elaborate tease. The second I get out of this car, you're going to tell me I'm staying in a shack out back or something."

Tawan smirked. "No shack. But there is a rice barn."

Ira narrowed her eyes. "You're making fun of me."

Tawan shrugged as she grabbed the keys from the ignition. "Maybe a little."

Ira huffed, but her irritation faltered as she looked at the house again. The place had a comforting energy to it. It wasn't just a house—it was a home. She could almost hear laughter echoing from the wooden walls, see generations gathering in the open-air sala out front.

"This can't be where you grew up. It looks like something out of a historical drama," Ira said, crossing her arms. "Who actually lives in a house like this?"

Tawan slung her duffel bag over her shoulder. "Me. My family. My grandparents before them."

Ira stepped out of the car, her sandals crunching against the gravel driveway. She looked around the neighborhood. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that came from a slow, steady way of life. Nothing like the constant movement of Bangkok. A few neighbors peeked curiously from their porches, but no one approached.

She followed Tawan up the stairs to the house's raised platform, hesitating at the threshold. "Is your family going to mind me being here?"

"No." Tawan pushed the door open and gestured for her to step inside. The smell of aged wood and lemongrass from an unseen pot of tea filled the air. "They don't live here anymore. They're down by the market."

Ira frowned. "Then why are we here? I thought you were taking me somewhere nobody would expect me to be."

"I am." Tawan set their bags down near the doorway. "This house belongs to me. I inherited it when my grandfather passed. No one comes here anymore."

Ira glanced around. The interior was simple but welcoming. A large wooden altar in the corner held portraits of Tawan's ancestors, a few sticks of incense burning low in their holders. A handwoven mat covered the polished teak floor, and a few wooden chairs sat near the windows, where the evening breeze carried in the scent of jasmine.

Ira folded her arms. "So, let me get this straight. You dragged me all the way to the middle of nowhere, where nobody can find me, and locked me in a house that nobody ever visits?"

Tawan raised an eyebrow. "That was the idea."

Ira sighed. "This is officially my prison."

Tawan smirked. "Could be worse."

She turned to head upstairs. "Your room is this way."

Ira lingered in the living room, staring at the homey details. It was different from what she was used to, but strangely... calming.

Maybe, just maybe, hiding out in Kalasin wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

A large oil painting above the mantle caught Ira's attention.

It depicted a courtyard at night, illuminated by fairy lights hanging from the trees, with ivy creeping along an old brick wall. A couple sat closely on a bench, their blurred faces making them anonymous, but the intimacy between them was undeniable. The entire scene had an ethereal, dreamlike quality, the kind of warmth and longing that whispered of a love story untold. In the lower left corner, the initials T.L. were delicately woven into the paint.

Wisanu would love this.

On impulse, Ira reached for her phone to snap a picture of it, but as soon as her fingers touched the device, reality crashed down on her. It wasn't really her phone. And she wasn't allowed to text anyone.

With a sigh, she placed it back on the nearby table and continued wandering through Tawan's childhood home. It felt vaguely intrusive—like she was prying into something personal. But Wisanu always said that a person's home spoke volumes about them. Maybe this would finally give her some insight into what made Tawan so damn uptight.

The bookshelves lining the walls near the fireplace were overflowing with novels. Young adult fantasy. Mystery thrillers. She blinked. She hadn't expected that. Here and there, silver-framed photos stood on the shelves, simple and unembellished.

One frame caught her eye—a man with Tawan's sharp features and build, his arm wrapped around a woman with soft, kind eyes. Her gaze was full of warmth, locked onto her husband's with an intensity that made Ira's throat tighten.

A love too big for the small frame.

She'd seen Tan look at Wisanu like that.

No one had ever looked at her that way.

Her fingers ghosted over the frame, studying the woman's features. Tawan had her father's jawline, but her mother's full lips. She wondered if she'd inherited her mother's smile too. She wouldn't know. She'd never seen Tawan smile.

It was strange—her ever-serious, rigid warden had once been part of such a close, loving family. Somehow, she'd expected her to have sprung fully formed from a military base.

Another photo caught her eye. A young Tawan, in a crisp military uniform, standing straight-backed among a group of fellow officers. The Chinese flag was in the background.

Ira frowned. Chinese military?

Before she could linger on it, her gaze drifted to another framed memory—this one different.

Tawan, much younger, dressed in sports gear, holding a basketball under one arm, grinning with a group of teammates.

Ira's fingers trailed along the glass. The woman in this photo had her mother's smile.

A warmth bloomed in her chest before reality struck again.

Where had that smile gone?

Above her, the floorboards creaked as Tawan moved from room to room upstairs.

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

There was no laughter, no faint hum of a television, no music filling the space. Just the distant chirping of insects outside and the rustling of leaves.

It reminded Ira of an arena before a show—but without the anticipation.

All this silence made her ears buzz.

The heavy sound of boots thumping down the staircase pulled her out of her thoughts. Tawan walked into the living room, her focus glued to her phone. Her brows pinched together, jaw tight. Whatever she was reading, she clearly wasn't happy about it.

A knot twisted in Ira's stomach. "Is there news about the stalker?"

"No." Tawan tapped out a short message before glancing up. Her sharp gaze landed on Ira. "What are you doing?"

Something about the judgmental, clipped tone snapped the last fraying thread of Ira's patience.

"The last few days have been absolute hell," she said, voice shaking with frustration. "My house was invaded. A man is in the hospital because of me. I've had to cut my hair, change my identity, and disappear into the middle of nowhere. I think I've handled it all pretty damn well, all things considered. So, forgive me if I want to take five seconds to feel normal. Can you handle that? Can you pretend to be human for five seconds?"

Tawan exhaled slowly.

Ira didn't wait for a response. She pushed past her, heading toward what she assumed was the kitchen. "Is there anything to drink in here?"

A beat of silence. Then a flat, "I'm not sure."

She whipped around. "What do you mean you're not sure?"

Tawan crossed her arms. "I don't exactly stay here often."

Ira rolled her eyes and pushed open the kitchen door. It was spacious but minimalistic. A dark wood island sat in the center, surrounded by a few polished stools. A frosted glass door labeled "Pantry" stood to the side, and next to it, a doorway led into what looked like a small home office.

She pulled open the fridge. Completely empty.

She checked the cabinets. Empty.

She checked the pantry. Cleaning supplies huddled together in the corner, surrounded by empty shelves.

"When you say you live here, what do you mean by that? I mean, you do eat, right? You don't just plug in at night?"

"It's been a while." Tawan strode past her. "I'm going to get set up in the office. Make yourself at home, but stay inside. Please."

"This is hell, isn't it?" Ira slid onto one of the barstools, dejected and exhausted. "There's no food, so it must be hell."

"We ate on the plane." Tawan's stomach made a low grumbling noise.

"Aha!" Ira pointed an accusing finger at her. "You're hungry too. Admit it."

The expression on Tawan's face twisted through frustration and annoyance before settling on acceptance. "Fine. I'll head out for supplies first. What would you like me to pick up?"

Ira blinked. The question was simple, startlingly domestic, and almost kind.

It was way out of character for her warden.

She started to ask for her usual smoothie ingredients, then paused. It had been a hell of a month.

She wanted comfort food.

"I want the biggest bag of chips you can find. The plain kind, not the weird flavored kinds." She held out her hands to indicate the size she wanted. "Family size. Jumbo. Whatever."

"That's not food." Tawan paced back to the front door, her keys jingling.

"Look, Tawan." Ira followed, stopping long enough to toe off her shoes. "You've ripped me away from my family and my life, you've changed my hair and my name, and you've dumped me in the middle of nowhere. I'm not even allowed to do the one thing that makes me feel like me. I want. Some. Damn. Chips."

Tawan grunted as she stepped onto the porch, then turned back, maybe to argue.

"And Coke. With ice." Ira shut the door in her face, then leaned her forehead against it.

A loud knock on the window next to the door made her heart jump.

"Lock the door." Tawan's command wasn't muffled at all by the glass between them.

Ira stuck her tongue out at her, then turned the lock.

"You stay in this house with the doors and windows locked. Don't open for anybody." Footsteps clomped down the front porch steps and faded into the distance.

Tawan's footsteps clomped down the front porch steps and faded into the distance.

Bored, Ira wandered upstairs.

Tawan had claimed the first bedroom near the stairs. At first, Ira assumed it was to keep her from sneaking out.

Then she realized it was Tawan's old room.

Sports memorabilia filled the space—trophies lined a shelf along one wall, a framed jersey with the number 23 hung on another, and a large poster near the window listed games and scores, key plays highlighted in red.

A big maroon and gold banner stretched across the far wall with the word Kalasin Boltz. Below it, bold stenciled letters read Liang 23.

Basketball.

Ira smirked. Her warden had been an athlete.

There was even a well-worn pair of sneakers tossed in the closet, along with a stack of old uniforms. Basketballs, Badminton bats, footballs, a battered folding chair—it was like stepping into a time capsule of teenage Tawan.

She walked over to the neatly made bed and trailed her fingers along the soft comforter. This didn't match the image she had of her ever-serious bodyguard.

The idea that Tawan Sirisopa Liang—ex-military, all-business, permanently grumpy Tawan—had once been a star athlete in a tiny town in Kalasin, Thailand, made her grin.

She turned toward the dresser, curiosity burning in her chest.

What kind of underwear did her warden wear?

Shame they were all empty.

She was tempted to take a peek inside her duffel bag, but stopped herself. It felt like crossing a line, somehow. Teenage Tawan was fair game. Adult Tawan didn't deserve to know she was curious.

The closet contained badminton bats, several basketballs, and a battered folding chair.

Tawan she knew had started here, in this room.

She wasn't quite sure what to make of that, so after a quick glimpse at the attached bathroom, she moved on to the bedroom across the hall. This one didn't have a bed or an attached bathroom. A beautifully carved teakwood table along one wall was covered with pottery jars, paintbrushes, and pigment trays. An easel stood near the window, holding a half-finished painting of nature outside. It was as if the artist had been interrupted and never came back. A layer of dust covered everything. It was the only room that didn't appear to have been cleaned.

She didn't have to look for a signature to know who the artist was. The vibrant colors and dreamy strokes matched the painting above the mantle downstairs.

Tawan's mother had been the painter.

The realization that her last work had been sitting here unfinished all this time tugged at the tiny broken pieces Ira had buried deep in her heart. The ones she never mentioned to anyone. Ever.

Dejected, she passed another bathroom, another small bedroom, and then ended at a large suite at the end of the hall, farthest from the stairs. Her bag waited for her on the bed.

It was clearly the primary bedroom. It had a large attached bathroom with a deep soaking tub and a walk-in shower. The closet was empty, but the bed was neatly made with a cotton blue phakhaoma blanket, and the nightstands featured hand-carved wooden lamps shaped like vines.

This had to have been Tawan's parents' room when she was growing up. Ira was a little surprised she'd been put here and not in a guest room—or in a closet.

It was actually really nice of her.

No. Most likely, Tawan had put her back here to keep her out of the way. That made more sense.

She went back downstairs, wandering through all the rooms: a formal sitting area, a cozy sala, a dining room with wooden benches instead of chairs, and a kitchen with polished takhian wood counters.

The covered back porch an old rattan rocking chair, and a long wooden bench that overlooked a wide grassy lawn. Instead of a pool, there was a simple brick patio with a large grill. A large stack of firewood sat beside it.

Her stomach growled as she eyed the setup. How long does it take to pick up groceries?

As if in answer to her question, lights streamed through the front windows.

She hurried to the front door, anticipation rising at the thought of Tawan finally returning with food. She yanked the door open.

"About time, I'm starving!"

Two surprised women stood on the front step, each holding a covered kra buang platter wrapped in pink plastic wrap.

One was a petite, round-faced brunette with an uncertain smile and a plate of kanom thuay. The other was a tall, elegant woman with a flawless full face of makeup and a tray of khanom mo kaeng.

"Oh shit," Ira blurted.

The taller woman gaped at her.

The petite one darted a glance at her friend, then back at Ira, her expression freezing somewhere between shock and complete panic.

Had they recognized her? Was that why they stared at her like that?

No, no way. I look completely different. Right?

"Uh...hi." Ira's heartbeat kicked up a notch.

She shouldn't have opened the door. She should have pretended nobody was home.

The lights were on, though. Obviously, someone was here.

Tawan's words echoed in her head. You stay in this house with the doors and windows locked.

She was going to kill her.

Ira had to get a grip. They were just neighbors, not stalkers. They were friendly women with trays of sweets. Stalkers didn't bring kanom thuay.

Did they?

She had a feeling the answer wouldn't matter to Tawan.

The awkward pause stretched into an uncomfortable, sweaty silence. Ira could handle this. She was used to interacting with strangers. She put on her best greet-the-fans smile.

"Can I, um, help you?"

The taller woman straightened her shoulders, clearly regaining her composure. Then, a wide crocodile smile lifted her cheeks.

"Sawasdee ka. I'm Ratchanee."

Ira relaxed a little. Ratchanee thought Ira should know who she was, not the other way around.

"Well, hello, Ratchanee Parry. Are those for sale? They look great." Ira eyed the platter of kanom thuay with interest. Maybe she was the local charity bake sale organizer? Or a representative from the temple?

"For sale?" Ratchanee's voice came out strangled.

The woman next to her made a high-pitched squeak.

Ratchanee cleared her throat, and her smile grew sharp around the edges. "We saw Tawan drive through town earlier and figured she was headed home."

The way she said Tawan tickled Ira's curiosity. It was intimate and possessive. She'd bet anything that Tawan and Ratchanee had some kind of history.

"Oh. Wow. That's, uh, nice." She wasn't sure what else she was supposed to say. The woman must have eagle eyes to spot someone inside a car going above the speed limit at sunset.

Talk about radar. Well, well, well. Wasn't this interesting?

"Anyway," Ratchanee continued in a loftier, devil-may-care tone, "we knew there wasn't any food in the house, so we thought we'd drop by with a little welcome home present. Is she here?"

Ratchanee craned her neck as if trying to see past Ira.

Ira wasn't used to being overlooked like that. It was an odd feeling. She was used to being the center of attention, not the one in the way.

It didn't feel great, she had to admit.

Somewhere, Kate was probably laughing her ass off without knowing why.

"Sorry, no." A wicked impulse seized her. "Tawnie's at the store. I'll be sure to tell her you stopped by though. Ratchanee, right? And..." Ira turned her attention to the smaller woman.

"Oh," the petite woman glanced at Ratchanee, "I'm Mali. We—"

"We're school friends of...Tawnie," Ratchanee interrupted, voice honey-thick with condescension. "Funny, she used to hate being called that."

Her words dripped with something territorial. Ira knew that tone. Her sister used it on overfamiliar strangers at events.

"You don't mind if we wait for her, do you? It's been so long since we've seen her."

And with that, Ratchanee brushed past Ira, tray of khanom mo kaeng in hand, walking down the hallway like she owned the place.

"I guess not," Ira muttered to her retreating back.

Mali hesitated, looking genuinely apologetic. "Do you mind if we drop these in the kitchen?"

"Would it matter if I did?" Ira grinned to soften the words. Whoever these two were, she was absolutely certain they weren't stalking her. Tawan, maybe—but not her. "I'm sure Tawnie would hate to miss seeing her friends. Come on in."

Mali flashed an awkward smile, then followed after Ratchanee.

Ira glanced at the street. No sign of life out there, so she shut the door and locked it before trailing after her visitors.

She couldn't wait to ask her warden about Ratchanee. High school sweethearts? Exes with unresolved feelings? A tragic romance with a bitter ending?

Oh, there's definitely a country song in the making.

She found Ratchanee rummaging through the cabinet while Mali hovered near the island, looking sheepish.

Ratchanee pulled out a stack of ceramic plates and set them down. "I'm sorry, I don't know where my manners went. I didn't catch your name."

"Oh." A disconnected feeling circled through Ira's mind. She hadn't had to introduce herself since she was a teenager. She was used to hearing her name screamed, chanted, or whispered wherever she went. It felt odd to have to tell someone her name. Well, her fake name, anyway.

"I'm Earn Phongphiphat."

Her transformation into a small-town girl hadn't felt real until she said her new name aloud to people she'd never met.

Now, there it was, out in the open.

She slid into the role she was supposed to play with a wicked grin.

"Tawnie's girlfriend."