It felt surreal. After five grueling years at Harvard, the dust from my flight had barely settled before I was speeding toward the family villa. I was back in India, armed with a degree in business and ready to claim my birthright: taking the reins of my father's billion-dollar business empire. However, the main office would have to wait. My parents, in a tradition they've upheld since I was a child, were currently on vacation with the Anderson family at the same family villa my father and his best friend, William Anderson, had purchased in their early teens. This estate, steeped in decades of shared history, has always been the unofficial gathering spot for our two families, who have genuinely acted as one whole unit since our parents were childhood friends. I genuinely respect Mr. and Mrs. Anderson; they treat me as if I were their own son. But there's a problem, a persistent, infuriating problem named Mohi Adani Anderson. While our parents share a beautiful friendship, Mohi and I have always been sworn enemies. We've had a fierce rivalry since we were old enough to comprehend competition. She was, and probably still is, a relentless challenge—an academic and competitive thorn in my side in every league, right up until I left for Harvard and she, not to be outdone, left for Oxford. Now, as I stepped out of the car and looked at the familiar, imposing structure, I knew one thing for certain: the first person I'd see would be the one person I absolutely hated to my guts. The real battle, I knew, was just beginning. The driver pulled away, and I took a deep, steadying breath, trying to flush the competitive irritation out of my system before I even crossed the threshold. The weight of five years abroad and the massive responsibility I was about to shoulder felt suddenly lighter as I approached the grand, familiar entrance of the villa. As I pushed the massive mahogany door open, the scent of fresh marigolds and my mother's favorite sandalwood incense immediately hit me—a smell that was purely home. Before I could take another step, I was engulfed in a warm, tight hug. It was Arya Adani Anderson, Mohi's mother. "Oh, my dear boy!" she exclaimed, pulling back to hold me at arm's length, her eyes crinkling with genuine affection. "Look at you! You've gone and become a man! When did you land? We weren't expecting you until tomorrow!" I smiled, a real, unforced smile that was only possible around her and Mr. Anderson. "Just got in, Aunty Arya. I finished up earlier than expected and just wanted to be home. You know Dad, he insisted I come straight here first." She tutted, shaking her head. "Of course, he did. Come, come, you must be famished. You look tired, my son. That Harvard schedule must have been brutal." She gently guided me further into the spacious, sunlit foyer. "Let me get you some nimbu paani and some of your favorite kanda bhajiya. You need proper Indian food, not those foreign sandwiches!" "You know me too well, Aunty," I laughed. "It's good to be back. How have you and Uncle William been? And where are the others?" I asked, already bracing myself for the inevitable. "Oh, we are wonderful, dear. William and your father are likely having some serious, world-dominating discussion in the study. Your mother is overseeing the gardener about her new rose bushes," she paused, her eyes twinkling mischievously, "and Mohi... well, you know Mohi. She's up in the library. She arrived from Oxford a week ago, actually. But don't you worry about her for now. Come, sit. Tell me everything about your flight." She patted my arm, her warmth a temporary, much-needed shield against the competitive storm I knew was brewing just a few rooms away.